CHAPTER I

　　She said very little to her husband, but her manner hadchanged towards him. Something in her proud, honourable soulhad 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.

　　"You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked hernearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talkof opening a dancing-class over the Brick and Tile Inn at Bestwood.

　　"No--I never had the least inclination to," Mrs. Morel replied.

　　"Fancy! An' how funny as you should ha' married your Mester. You know he's quite a famous one for dancing."

　　"I didn't know he was famous," laughed Mrs. Morel.

　　"Yea, he is though! Why, he ran that dancing-class in the Miners'Arms club-room for over five year."

　　"Did he?"

　　"Yes, he did." The other woman was defiant. "An' it wasthronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAScarryin's-on, accordin' to all accounts."

　　This kind of thing was gall and bitterness to Mrs. Morel,and she had a fair share of it. The women did not spare her, at first;for she was superior, though she could not help it.

　　He began to be rather late in coming home.

　　"They're working very late now, aren't they?" she said to herwasher-woman.

　　"No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop tohave their pint at Ellen's, an' they get talkin', an' there you are! Dinner stone cold--an' it serves 'em right."

　　"But Mr. Morel does not take any drink."

　　The woman dropped the clothes, looked at Mrs. Morel, then wenton with her work, saying nothing.

　　Gertrude Morel was very ill when the boy was born. Morel was good to her, as good as gold. But she felt very lonely,miles away from her own people. She felt lonely with him now,and his presence only made it more intense.

　　The boy was small and frail at first, but he came on quickly. He was a beautiful child, with dark gold ringlets, and dark-blueeyes which changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother lovedhim passionately. He came just when her own bitterness ofdisillusion was hardest to bear; when her faith in life was shaken,and her soul felt dreary and lonely. She made much of the child,and the father was jealous.

　　At last Mrs. Morel despised her husband. She turned tothe child; she turned from the father. He had begun to neglect her;the novelty of his own home was gone. He had no grit, she saidbitterly to herself. What he felt just at the minute, that was all to him.He could not abide by anything. There was nothing at the backof all his show.

　　There began a battle between the husband and wife--a fearful,bloody battle that ended only with the death of one. She foughtto make him undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfillhis obligations. But he was too different from her. His naturewas purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face things. He could not endure it--itdrove him out of his mind.

　　While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had becomeso irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only togive a little trouble when the man began to bully. A little more,and the hard hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morelloathed her husband, loathed him for days; and he went out and drank;and she cared very little what he did. Only, on his return,she scathed him with her satire.

　　The estrangement between them caused him, knowingly or unknowingly,grossly to offend her where he would not have done.

　　William was only one year old, and his mother was proud of him,he was so pretty. She was not well off now, but her sisters keptthe boy in clothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with anostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twiningwisps of hair clustering round his head. Mrs. Morel lay listening,one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child downstairs. Then she dozed off. When she came downstairs, a great fire glowedin the grate, the room was hot, the breakfast was roughly laid,and seated in his armchair, against the chimney-piece, sat Morel,rather timid; and standing between his legs, the child--croppedlike a sheep, with such an odd round poll--looking wondering at her;and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad ofcrescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a marigold scattered in thereddening firelight.

　　Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She wentvery white, and was unable to speak.

　　"What dost think o' 'im?" Morel laughed uneasily.

　　She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward. Morel shrank back.

　　"I could kill you, I could!" she said. She choked with rage,her two fists uplifted.

　　"Yer non want ter make a wench on 'im," Morel said, in afrightened tone, bending his head to shield his eyes from hers. His attempt at laughter had vanished.

　　The mother looked down at the jagged, close-clipped head ofher child. She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondledhis head.

　　"Oh--my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke,and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulderand cried painfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry;whom it hurts as it hurts a man. It was like ripping somethingout of her, her sobbing.

　　Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands grippedtogether till the knuckles were white. He gazed in the fire,feeling almost stunned, as if he could not breathe.

　　Presently she came to an end, soothed the child and cleared awaythe breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls,spread upon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and putit at the back of the fire. She went about her work with closedmouth and very quiet. Morel was subdued. He crept about wretchedly,and his meals were a misery that day. She spoke to him civilly,and never alluded to what he had done. But he felt something finalhad happened.

　　Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hairwould have had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she evenbrought herself to say to her husband it was just as well he hadplayed barber when he did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that thatact had caused something momentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her life, as one in which she hadsuffered the most intensely.

　　This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side ofher love for Morel. Before, while she had striven against him bitterly,she had fretted after him, as if he had gone astray from her. Now she ceased to fret for his love: he was an outsider to her. This made life much more bearable.

　　Nevertheless, she still continued to strive with him. She stillhad her high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a religious instinct, and she was almost a fanaticwith him, because she loved him, or had loved him. If he sinned,she tortured him. If he drank, and lied, was often a poltroon,sometimes a knave, she wielded the lash unmercifully.

　　The pity was, she was too much his opposite. She could not becontent with the little he might be; she would have him the much thathe ought to be. So, in seeking to make him nobler than he could be,she destroyed him. She injured and hurt and scarred herself,but she lost none of her worth. She also had the children.

　　He drank rather heavily, though not more than many miners,and always beer, so that whilst his health was affected, it wasnever injured. The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat inthe Miners' Arms until turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday,and every Sunday evening. On Monday and Tuesday he had to get upand reluctantly leave towards ten o'clock. Sometimes he stayed at homeon Wednesday and Thursday evenings, or was only out for an hour. He practically never had to miss work owing to his drinking.

　　But although he was very steady at work, his wages fell off. He was blab-mouthed, a tongue-wagger. Authority was hateful to him,therefore he could only abuse the pit-managers. He would say,in the Palmerston:

　　"Th' gaffer come down to our stall this morning, an' 'e says,'You know, Walter, this 'ere'll not do. What about these props?' An' I says to him, 'Why, what art talkin' about? What d'stmean about th' props?' 'It'll never do, this 'ere,' 'e says. 'You'll be havin' th' roof in, one o' these days.' An' I says,'Tha'd better stan' on a bit o' clunch, then, an' hold it up wi'thy 'ead.' So 'e wor that mad, 'e cossed an' 'e swore, an't'other chaps they did laugh." Morel was a good mimic. He imitatedthe manager's fat, squeaky voice, with its attempt at good English.

　　"'I shan't have it, Walter. Who knows more about it, me or you?' So I says, 'I've niver fun out how much tha' knows, Alfred. It'll 'appen carry thee ter bed an' back."'

　　So Morel would go on to the amusement of his boon companions. And some of this would be true. The pit-manager was not aneducated man. He had been a boy along with Morel, so that,while the two disliked each other, they more or less took eachother for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth did not forgivethe butty these public-house sayings. Consequently, although Morelwas a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five pounds a weekwhen he married, he came gradually to have worse and worse stalls,where the coal was thin, and hard to get, and unprofitable.

　　Also, in summer, the pits are slack. Often, on bright sunnymornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelveo'clock. No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on thehillside look across as they shake the hearthrug against the fence,and count the wagons the engine is taking along the line up the valley. And the children, as they come from school at dinner-time, lookingdown the fields and seeing the wheels on the headstocks standing, say:

　　"Minton's knocked off. My dad'll be at home."

　　And there is a sort of shadow over all, women and childrenand men, because money will be short at the end of the week.

　　Morel was supposed to give his wife thirty shillings a week,to provide everything--rent, food, clothes, clubs, insurance, doctors. Occasionally, if he were flush, he gave her thirty-five. Butthese occasions by no means balanced those when he gave hertwenty-five. In winter, with a decent stall, the miner mightearn fifty or fifty-five shillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally, getting ridof his sovereign or thereabouts. And out of so much, he scarcelyspared the children an extra penny or bought them a pound of apples. It all went in drink. In the bad times, matters were more worrying,but he was not so often drunk, so that Mrs. Morel used to say:

　　"I'm not sure I wouldn't rather be short, for when he's flush,there isn't a minute of peace."

　　If he earned forty shillings he kept ten; from thirty-five hekept five; from thirty-two he kept four; from twenty-eight he kept three;from twenty-four he kept two; from twenty he kept one-and-six;from eighteen he kept a shilling; from sixteen he kept sixpence. He never saved a penny, and he gave his wife no opportunityof saving; instead, she had occasionally to pay his debts;not public-house debts, for those never were passed on to the women,but debts when he had bought a canary, or a fancy walking-stick.

　　At the wakes time Morel was working badly, and Mrs. Morel was trying to save against her confinement.So it galled her bitterly to think he should be outtaking his pleasure and spending money, whilst she remainedat home, harassed. There were two days' holiday. On the Tuesdaymorning Morel rose early. He was in good spirits. Quite early,before six o'clock, she heard him whistling away to himself downstairs. He had a pleasant way of whistling, lively and musical. He nearly always whistled hymns. He had been a choir-boy witha beautiful voice, and had taken solos in Southwell cathedral. His morning whistling alone betrayed it.

　　His wife lay listening to him tinkering away in the garden,his whistling ringing out as he sawed and hammered away. It alwaysgave her a sense of warmth and peace to hear him thus as she layin bed, the children not yet awake, in the bright early morning,happy in his man's fashion.

　　At nine o'clock, while the children with bare legs and feetwere sitting playing on the sofa, and the mother was washing up,he came in from his carpentry, his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoathanging open. He was still a good-looking man, with black,wavy hair, and a large black moustache. His face was perhaps toomuch inflamed, and there was about him a look almost of peevishness. But now he was jolly. He went straight to the sink where his wifewas washing up.

　　"What, are thee there!" he said boisterously. "Sluthe off an'let me wesh mysen."

　　"You may wait till I've finished," said his wife.

　　"Oh, mun I? An' what if I shonna?"

　　This good-humoured threat amused Mrs. Morel.

　　"Then you can go and wash yourself in the soft-water tub."

　　"Ha! I can' an' a', tha mucky little 'ussy."

　　With which he stood watching her a moment, then went awayto wait for her.

　　When he chose he could still make himself again a real gallant. Usually he preferred to go out with a scarf round his neck. Now, however, he made a toilet. There seemed so much gusto in the wayhe puffed and swilled as he washed himself, so much alacrity withwhich he hurried to the mirror in the kitchen, and, bending becauseit was too low for him, scrupulously parted his wet black hair,that it irritated Mrs. Morel. He put on a turn-down collar,a black bow, and wore his Sunday tail-coat. As such, he lookedspruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for makingthe most of his good looks would.

　　At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was Morel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kindof face that seems to lack eyelashes. He walked with a stiff,brittle dignity, as if his head were on a wooden spring. His naturewas cold and shrewd. Generous where he intended to be generous,he seemed to be very fond of Morel, and more or less to take chargeof him.

　　Mrs. Morel hated him. She had known his wife, who had diedof consumption, and who had, at the end, conceived such a violentdislike of her husband, that if he came into her room it causedher haemorrhage. None of which Jerry had seemed to mind. And nowhis eldest daughter, a girl of fifteen, kept a poor house for him,and looked after the two younger children.

　　"A mean, wizzen-hearted stick!" Mrs. Morel said of him.

　　"I've never known Jerry mean in MY life," protested Morel. "A opener-handed and more freer chap you couldn't find anywhere,accordin' to my knowledge."

　　"Open-handed to you," retorted Mrs. Morel. "But his fistis shut tight enough to his children, poor things."

　　"Poor things! And what for are they poor things, I shouldlike to know."

　　But Mrs. Morel would not be appeased on Jerry's score.

　　The subject of argument was seen, craning his thin neckover the scullery curtain. He caught Mrs. Morel's eye.

　　"Mornin', missis! Mester in?"

　　"Yes--he is."

　　Jerry entered unasked, and stood by the kitchen doorway. He was not invited to sit down, but stood there, coolly assertingthe rights of men and husbands.

　　"A nice day," he said to Mrs. Morel.

　　"Yes.

　　"Grand out this morning--grand for a walk."

　　"Do you mean YOU'RE going for a walk?" she asked.

　　"Yes. We mean walkin' to Nottingham," he replied.

　　"H'm!"

　　The two men greeted each other, both glad: Jerry, however,full of assurance, Morel rather subdued, afraid to seem too jubilant inpresence of his wife. But he laced his boots quickly, with spirit. They were going for a ten-mile walk across the fields to Nottingham. Climbing the hillside from the Bottoms, they mounted gaily intothe morning. At the Moon and Stars they had their first drink,then on to the Old Spot. Then a long five miles of drought to carrythem into Bulwell to a glorious pint of bitter. But they stayedin a field with some haymakers whose gallon bottle was full, so that,when they came in sight of the city, Morel was sleepy. The townspread upwards before them, smoking vaguely in the midday glare,fridging the crest away to the south with spires and factory bulksand chimneys. In the last field Morel lay down under an oak treeand slept soundly for over an hour. When he rose to go forward hefelt queer.

　　The two had dinner in the Meadows, with Jerry's sister,then repaired to the Punch Bowl, where they mixed in the excitementof pigeon-racing. Morel never in his life played cards, considering themas having some occult, malevolent power--"the devil's pictures,"he called them! But he was a master of skittles and of dominoes. He took a challenge from a Newark man, on skittles. All the men inthe old, long bar took sides, betting either one way or the other. Morel took off his coat. Jerry held the hat containing the money. The men at the tables watched. Some stood with their mugs intheir hands. Morel felt his big wooden ball carefully, then launched it. He played havoc among the nine-pins, and won half a crown,which restored him to solvency.

　　By seven o'clock the two were in good condition. They caughtthe 7.30 train home.

　　In the afternoon the Bottoms was intolerable. Every inhabitantremaining was out of doors. The women, in twos and threes,bareheaded and in white aprons, gossiped in the alley between the blocks. Men, having a rest between drinks, sat on their heels and talked. The place smelled stale; the slate roofs glistered in the arid heat.

　　Mrs. Morel took the little girl down to the brook in the meadows,which were not more than two hundred yards away. The water ranquickly over stones and broken pots. Mother and child leaned onthe rail of the old sheep-bridge, watching. Up at the dipping-hole,at the other end of the meadow, Mrs. Morel could see the nakedforms of boys flashing round the deep yellow water,or an occasional bright figure dart glittering over the blackishstagnant meadow. She knew William was at the dipping-hole,and it was the dread of her life lest he should get drowned. Annie played under the tall old hedge, picking up alder cones,that she called currants. The child required much attention,and the flies were teasing.

　　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.

© D. H. LAWRENCE

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