過去的“地獄街”被“河川區”取而代之，地獄街原是青山巷旁那條溪邊的一 片墻面凸凹不平的茅草屋，那裏住的是在兩個區以外小礦井裏工作的礦工們。小溪 從赤楊樹下流過，還沒有受到這些小礦井的污染。礦井的煤是使用毛驢吃力地拉着 吊車拉上地面的。鄉村裏到處都是這種礦井，有些礦井在查理二世時期就開始采掘 了。為數不多的幾個礦工和毛驢像螞蟻似的在地下打洞，在小麥地和草地上弄出奇 形怪狀的土堆，地面上塗成一塊塊的黑色。礦工們的茅屋成片成行到處都是，再加 上分佈在教區裏的零星的莊園和織襪工人的住房，這就形成了貝斯伍德村。
　　 大約六十年前，這裏突然發生了變化。小礦井被金融傢的大煤礦所排擠。後來， 在諾丁漢郡和德貝郡都發現了煤礦和鐵礦，便出現了卡斯特——魏特公司。帕爾莫 斯勳爵在一片歡呼中，正式為本公司坐落在深塢森林公園旁邊的第一傢煤礦的開張 剪了彩。
　　 大概就在這個時候，臭名昭著的地獄街被燒了個精光，連大堆的垃圾也化為灰 燼。
　　 卡斯特——魏特公司吉星高照，從賽爾貝到納塔爾河𠔌開採出一個又一個的新 礦，不久這裏就有六個新礦。一條鐵路從納塔爾開始，穿越森林中高高的砂岩，經 過破落了的卡爾特會修道院、羅賓漢泉和斯賓尼公園，到達米恩頓礦，一個座落在 小麥田裏的大礦。鐵路從米恩頓穿過𠔌地到達本剋爾煤山，然後嚮北通往可以俯瞰 剋瑞斯和德貝郡群山的貝加利和賽爾貝。這六個礦就如六枚黑色的釘子鑲嵌在田野 上，由一條彎彎麯麯的細鏈子般的鐵路串成一串。
　　 為了安置大批礦工，卡斯特——魏特公司蓋起了居民區，一個個大大的四合院 在貝斯伍德山腳下出現。後來，又在河川的地獄街上，建起了河川區。
　　 河川區包括六幢礦區住宅，分成兩排，就像六點骨牌似的，每幢有十二間房子。 這兩排住宅坐落在貝斯伍德那陡峭的山坡腳下，從閣樓窗口望去，正對着通往賽貝 爾的那座平緩的山坡。
　　 這些房子構造堅固、相當大方。靠近𠔌底的一排房子的背面種着櫻草和虎耳草， 上面一排房子的陽面種着美洲石竹，窗前的小門廳、閣樓上的天窗收拾得幹幹淨淨， 小水蠟籬笆修剪得整整齊齊。但是，這衹是外表，是礦工的傢眷們收拾幹淨不住人 的客廳的景象，臥室和廚房都在房屋的後面，對着另一排房子的背面能看到的衹是 一片雜亂的後院和垃圾堆。在兩排房屋中間，在兩行垃圾堆中間，有一條小巷是孩 子們玩耍，女人們聊天，男人們抽煙的場所。因此，在河川區，儘管那房子蓋得不 錯，看起來也很漂亮，可實際生活條件卻非常惡劣，因為人們生活不能沒有廚房， 但廚房面對的卻是塞滿垃圾的小巷。
　　 莫瑞爾太太並不急着要搬到河川區，她從貝斯伍德搬到山下這間房子時，這間 房已經蓋了十二年了，而且開始逐漸敗落。然而她不得不搬下來。她住在上面一排 房子的最後一間，因此衹有一傢鄰居，屋子的一邊比鄰居多了一個長條形花園。住 在這頭上的一間，她仿佛比那些住在“中間”房子裏的女人多了一種貴族氣派，因 為她每星期得付五先令六便士房租，而其他卻付五先令。不過，這種超人一等的優 越感對莫瑞爾太太來說，安慰不大。
　　 莫瑞爾太太三十一歲，結婚已經八年了。她身體玲瓏氣質柔弱，但舉止果斷。 然而她和河川區的女人們第一次接觸時，不由得有一點膽怯。她七月從山上搬下來， 大約九月就懷了第三個孩子。
　　 她的丈夫是個礦工。他們搬到新屋纔三個星期就逢着每年一度的假日。她知道， 莫瑞爾肯定會盡情歡度這個假日的。集市開始那天是個星期一，他一大早就出了門。 兩個孩子，威廉，這個七歲的男孩，吃完早飯就立即溜出傢逛集市去了，撇下衹有 五歲的安妮哭鬧了一早晨，她也想跟着去。莫瑞爾太太在幹活，她還和鄰居不太熟， 不知道應該把小姑娘托付給誰，因此，衹好答應安妮吃了午飯帶她去集市。
　　 威廉十二點半纔回傢，他是個非常好動的男孩，金色的頭髮，滿臉雀斑，帶幾 分丹麥人或挪威人的氣質。
　　 “媽媽，我可以吃飯了嗎？”他戴着帽子衝進屋，喊道：“別人說，一點半集 市就開始了。”
　　 “飯一做好你就可以吃了。”媽媽笑着回答。
　　 “飯還沒好嗎？”他嚷道，一雙藍眼睛氣衝衝地瞪着她，“我就要錯過時間了。”
　　 “誤不了。五分鐘就好，現在纔十二點半。”
　　 “他們就要開始了。”這個孩子半哭半叫着。
　　 “他們開場就要你的命啦，”母親說，“再說，現在纔十二點半，你還有整整 一個小時。”
　　 小男孩急急忙忙擺好桌子，三個人立即坐下。他們正吃着果醬布了，突然這孩 子跳下椅子，愣愣地站在那兒，遠處傳來了旋轉木馬開動聲和喇叭聲，他橫眉冷眼 地瞪着母親。
　　 “我早就告訴你了。”說着他奔嚮碗櫃，一把抓起帽子。
　　 “拿着你的布丁——現在纔一點過五分，你弄錯了——你還沒拿你的兩便士錢 呢。”母親連聲喊着。
　　 男孩極為失望地轉過身來，拿了兩便士錢一聲不吭地走了。
　　 “我要去，我要去。”安妮邊說邊哭了起來。
　　 “好，你去，你這個哭個不停的小傻瓜！”母親說。下午，莫瑞爾太太帶着女 兒，沿着高高的樹籬疲倦地爬上山坡。田裏的幹草都堆了起來，麥茬田裏牧放着牛 群，處處是溫暖平靜的氣氛。
　　 莫瑞爾太太不喜歡趕集市。那裏有兩套木馬：一套靠蒸汽發動，一套由小馬拉 着轉。三架手風琴在演奏，夾雜着槍彈零星的射擊聲，賣椰子的小販刺耳地尖叫聲， 投擲木人遊戲的攤主的高聲吆喝，以及擺西洋鏡小攤的女人的招呼聲。莫瑞爾太太 看到自己的兒子站在西洋鏡攤外面出神地看着，那西洋鏡裏正演着有名的華萊士獅 子的畫面，這衹獅子曾經咬死一個黑人和兩個白人。她沒管他，自己去給安妮買了 一些奶油糖。沒多久，小男孩異常興奮地來到媽媽跟前。
　　 “你從沒說過你要來——這兒是不是有很多好東西？——那衹獅子咬死了三個 人——我已經花光了我的兩便士——看！”
　　 他從口袋裏掏出兩衹蛋形杯子，上面有粉紅色薔蔽圖案。
　　 “我是從那個攤子上贏來的，他們在那兒打彈子遊戲。我打了兩回就得到了這 兩個杯子——半便士玩一回。看，杯子上有薔蔽花，我的這種。”
　　 她知道他是為她選的。
　　 “嘿！”她高興地說，“真漂亮。”
　　 母親來逛集市，威廉喜出望外，他領着她四處遊蕩，東瞧西瞅。在看西洋景時， 她把圖片的內容像講故事一樣講給他聽，他聽得都入了迷，纏着她不肯離去。他滿 懷着一個小男孩對母親的自豪，一直意氣昂揚地跟在她身邊。她戴着小黑帽，披着 鬥篷，嚮她所認識的婦女微笑示意，沒有人比她更像一位貴婦人了。她終於纍了， 對兒子說：
　　 “好了，你是現在就回去呢，還是再呆會兒？”
　　 “你這就要走啊？”他滿臉不高興地說道。
　　 “這就走，現在都四點了。”
　　 “你回去要幹嘛呀？”他抱怨道。
　　 “如果你不想回去，可以留下。”她說。
　　 她帶着她的小女兒慢慢地走了，兒子站在那裏翹首看着她，既捨不得放母親回 去，又不願離開集市。當她穿過星月酒館門前的空地時聽到男人們的叫喊聲，聞到 啤酒味兒，心想她丈夫可能在酒館裏，於是加快腳步走了。
　　 六點半，威廉回來了，疲憊不堪，臉色蒼白，多少還有幾分沮喪情緒。他心裏 感到一絲莫名其妙的痛苦，因為他沒陪母親一起回傢，她走了以後，他在集市上再 沒開心地玩過。
　　 “我爸爸回傢了嗎？”他問。
　　 “沒有。”母親回答。
　　 “他在星月酒館幫忙呢，我從窗子上那個黑鐵皮洞裏看到的，池的袖子捲得高 高的。”
　　 “嗯，”母親簡單的應了聲，“他沒錢，別人或多或少給他些錢，他就滿足了。”
　　 天開始暗下來，莫瑞爾太太沒法做針綫活了，她站起身走到門口，到處彌漫着 歡快的節日氣氛，這種氣氛最終還是感染了她，她情不自禁地走到旁邊的花園裏。 女人們從集市上回來了，孩子們有的抱着一隻緑腿的白羊羔，有的抱着一隻木馬。 偶爾，也有男人走過，手裏拿滿了東西。有時，也有好丈夫和全家人一起悠閑地走 過，但通常是女人和孩子們走在一起。暮色更濃了，那些在傢圍着白圍裙的主婦們， 端着胳膊，站在小巷盡頭聊天。
　　 莫瑞爾太太形單影衹，但她對此已經習慣了。她的兒子女兒都已在樓上睡了。 表面看來她的傢穩固可靠，可是，一想到將要出世的孩子，她便深感不快。這個世 界似乎是一個枯燥的地方，至少在威廉長大以前，她不會有別的期望。但是，對她 自己來說，衹能枯燥的忍耐下去——一直忍到孩子們長大。可是這麽多的孩子！她 養不起第三個孩子。她不想要這個孩子。當父親的在酒館裏眼務，自己醉醺醺的， 她看不起他，可又跟他聯繫在一起。她接受不了這個即將來臨的孩子，要不是為了 威廉和安妮，她早就厭倦了這種貧窮、醜惡的庸俗的生活。
　　 她走到宅前的花園裏，覺得身子沉重得邁不開步，可在屋裏又沒法呆下去。天 氣悶得讓人喘不過氣來。想想未來，展望前程，她覺得自己像是給人活埋了。
　　 宅前的花園是由水蠟樹圍起來的小塊方地。她站在那兒，盡力想把自己溶入花 香和即將逝去的美麗的暮色中。在園門對面，高高的樹籬下面，是上山的臺階。兩 旁是割過草的草坡沉浸在霞光中。天色變化迅速，霞光轉眼就在田野上消失，大地 和樹籬都沉浸在暮靄裏。夜幕降臨了，山頂亮起了一簇燈光，燈光處傳來散集的喧 嚷聲。
　　 樹籬下那條黑暗的小路上，男人們跌跌撞撞地往傢走。有一個小夥子從山頭陡 坡上衝下來，“嘭”跌倒在石階上，莫瑞爾大大打了個寒噤。小夥子駡駡咧咧地爬 起來，樣子可憐兮兮的，好象石階是故意傷害他。
　　 莫瑞爾太太折身回屋，心裏不知道這樣的生活能否有變化。但她現在已經認識 到這是不會改變的，她覺得她似乎離她的少女時代已經很遠很遠了，她簡直不敢相 信如今這個邁着沉重的步伐在河川區後園的女人，就是十年前在希爾尼斯大堤上腳 步輕快的那位少女。
　　 “這兒和我有什麽關係呢？”她自言自語“這兒的一切都和我有何相幹呢？甚 至這個即將來世的孩子和我又有何瓜葛呢？反正，沒人來體貼我。”
　　 有時，生活支配一個人，支配一個人的身軀，完成一個人的歷程，然而這不是 真正的生活，生活是任人自生自滅。
　　 “我等待”莫瑞爾太太喃喃自語——“我等啊等，可我等待的東西永遠不會來。”
　　 她收拾完去了廚房，點着了燈，添上火，找出第二天要洗的衣服先泡上，然後， 她坐下來做針綫活兒，一補就是好幾個小時，她的針在布料上有規律地閃着銀光。 偶爾，她嘆口氣放鬆一下自己，心裏一直盤算着，如何為孩子們節衣縮食。
　　 丈夫回來時，已經十一點半了。他那絡腮鬍子上部紅光滿面，嚮她輕輕地點了 點頭，一副志得意滿的神氣。
　　 “(嘔欠)，(嘔欠)，在等我，寶貝？我去幫安東尼幹活了，你知道他給了我多 少？一點也不多，衹有半剋朗錢……”
　　 “他認為其餘的都算作你的啤酒錢啦。”她簡短地答道。
　　 “我沒有——我沒有，你相信我吧，今天我衹喝了一點點，就一點兒。”他的 聲音溫和起來“看，我給你帶了一點白蘭地薑餅，還給孩子們帶了一個椰子。”他 把薑餅和一個毛茸茸的椰子放在桌子上，“嘿，這輩子你還從來沒有說過一聲‘謝 謝’呢，是麽？”
　　 仿佛為了表示歉意的回報，她拿起椰子搖了搖，看看它是否有椰子汁。
　　 “是好的，你放心好了，我是從比爾·霍金森那裏要來的。我說‘比爾，你吃 不了三個椰子吧？可以送一個給我的孩子吃？’‘行，沃爾特，’他說：‘你要哪 個就拿哪個吧。’我就拿了一個，還說了聲謝謝。我不想在他面前搖搖椰子看好不 好，不過他說，‘沃爾特，你最好看看這一個是不是好的。’所以，你看，我知道 這是一個好的。他是一個好人，比爾·霍金森真是一個好人。”
　　 “一個人喝醉時，他什麽都捨得給，你們倆都喝醉了。”莫瑞爾太太說。
　　 “嘿，你這個討厭的臭婆娘，我倒要問問誰喝醉了？”莫瑞爾說，他洋洋得意， 因為在星月酒館幫了一天忙，就不停地嗦叨着。
　　 莫瑞爾太太纍極了，也聽煩了他的廢話，趁他封爐的時候，溜上床睡覺去了。
　　 莫瑞爾太太出身於一個古老而體面的市民家庭，祖上曾與哈欽森上校共同作戰， 世世代代一直是公理會虔誠的教徒。有一年，諾丁漢很多花邊商破産的時候，她的 做花邊生意的祖父也破産了。她的父親，喬治·科珀德是個工程師——一個高大、 英俊、傲慢的人，他不但為自己的白皮膚、藍眼睛自豪，更以他的正直為榮。格特 魯德身材像母親一樣小，但她的高傲、倔強的性格卻來自科珀德傢族。
　　 喬治·科珀德為自己的貧窮而發愁。他後來在希爾尼斯修船廠當工程師頭領。 莫瑞爾太太——格特魯德——是他的二女兒。她像母親，也最愛母親，但她繼承了 科珀德傢族的藍眼睛寬額頭。她的眼睛明亮有神。她記得小時候她恨父親對溫柔、 幽默、善良的母親的那種盛氣凌人的態度；她記得自己跑遍希爾尼斯大堤去找船、 她記得自己去修船廠時，男人們都親熱地拍着她誇奬她，因為她雖是一位嬌嫩的女 孩，但她個性鮮明；她還記得那個私立學校的一位年邁女教師，後來還給她當助手。 她現在還保留着約翰·費爾德送給她的《聖經》。十九歲時，她常和約翰·費爾德 一塊兒從教堂回傢。他是一個富有商人的兒子，在倫敦上過大學，當時正準備投身 於商業。
　　 她甚至能回憶起那年九月一個星期天下午他倆坐在她父親住所後院的葡萄藤下 的每一個細節，陽光從葡萄葉的縫隙中射下來，在他倆身上投下美麗的圖案，有如 一條披肩。有些葉子完全黃了，就像一朵朵平展的金花。
　　 “坐着別動，”他喊道，“看你的頭髮，我不知道如何形容，它像黃金和紫鋼 一樣閃閃發光，像燒熔的銅一樣紅，太陽一照有如一根根金絲，他們竟然說你的頭 發是褐色的，你母親還說是灰色的呢。”
　　 她看着他閃光的眼睛，但她那平靜的表情卻沒有流露出內心的激動。
　　 “可是你說你不喜歡做生意。”她纏着他問。
　　 “我不喜歡，我恨做生意！”他激動地喊道。“你可能願意做一個牧師吧。” 她半懇求地說。
　　 “當然，我喜歡做一個牧師，我認為自己能做一個第一流的傳教士。”
　　 “那你為什麽不呢——為什麽不做牧師呢？”她的聲音充滿憤慨，“我要是一 個男子漢，沒有什麽可以阻止我。”她把頭擡得很高，他在她面前總是有些膽怯。
　　 “但是我父親非常固執，他决定讓我去做生意，要知道他是說到做到的。”
　　 “可是，你是一個男子漢嗎？”她叫了起來。
　　 “是個男子漢算什麽。”說完後，他無可奈何地皺着眉。
　　 如今她在河川區操持傢務，多少能體諒一點男子漢是怎麽回事，明白凡事不可 能樣樣順心。
　　 二十歲的時候，他身體不佳，便離開了希爾尼斯。父親已經退休回到了諾丁漢。 約翰·費爾德因為父親已經破産，衹得去諾伍德當了老師。一去兩年，沓無音訊。
　　 她便下决心去打聽一下，纔知道他和房東太太，一個四十多歲富有的寡婦結了 婚。
　　 莫瑞爾太太還保存着約翰·費爾德的那本《聖經》。她現在已經不相信他會— —唉，她相當明白他會是什麽樣的。她為了自己纔保存着他的《聖經》。把對他的 想念藏在心裏，三十五年了，直到她離世的那天，她也沒提起過他。
　　 二十三歲時，她在一次聖誕晚會上遇見了一個來自埃沃斯河𠔌的小夥子。莫瑞 爾當時二十七歲，體格強壯，身材挺拔，儀表堂堂，頭髮自然捲麯，烏黑發亮， 須濃密茂盛而且不加修飾，滿面紅光，嘴唇紅潤，又笑口常開，所以非常引人註目， 他的笑聲渾厚而響亮，與衆不同。格特魯德·科珀德盯着他，不知不覺入了迷。他 生氣勃勃，幽默詼諧，和什麽人都能愉快相處。她的父親也極富幽默感，但是有點 冷嘲熱諷。這個人不同：溫和、不咬文嚼字、熱心，近似嬉戲。
　　 她本人剛好相反。她生性好奇，接受能力強，愛聽別人說話，而且善於引導別 人談話。她喜歡思索，聰明穎悟，尤其喜歡和一些受過教育的人討論有關宗教、哲 學、方面的問題。遺憾的是這樣的機會並不多，因此她總是讓人們談他們自己 的事，她也自得其樂。
　　 她本人相當嬌小、柔弱，但天庭飽滿，褐色的捲發披肩，藍色的眼睛坦率、真 誠，像在探索什麽。她有雙科珀德傢人特有的美麗的手，她的衣服總是很淡雅，藏 青色的綢衣，配上一條奇特的扇貝形銀鏈，再別上一枚蠃旋狀的胸針，再簡潔不過。 她完美無暇，心地坦白，不乏赤子之心。
　　 沃爾特·莫瑞爾在她面前仿佛骨頭都酥了。在這個礦工眼裏，她是神秘的化身， 是奇妙的組合，是一個地道的淑女。她跟他說話時，她那純正的南方口音的英語使 他聽着感到很刺激。她看着他那優美的舞姿，好象是天生的舞星，他跳起來樂此不 疲，他的祖父是個法國難民，娶了一個英國酒吧女郎——如果這也算是婚姻的話。 格特魯德·科珀德看着這個年輕人跳舞，他的動作有點炫耀的感覺，很有魅力。他 那紅光滿面、黑發技散的頭，仿佛是插在身上的一朵花，而且對每一位舞伴都一樣 的嘻笑顔顔。她覺得他太棒了，她還從來沒有碰到誰能比得上他。對她來說，父親 就是所有男人的典範，然而，喬治·科珀德，愛讀神學，衹和聖保羅有共同思想， 他英俊而高傲，對人冷嘲熱諷，熱情，但好支配他人，他漠視所有的感官享受—— 他和那些礦工大相徑庭。格特魯德本人很蔑視跳舞，她對這種娛樂沒有一點興趣， 甚至從沒學過鄉村舞蹈。她是一個清教徒，和她的父親一樣，思想清高而古板。因 此，礦工生命的情欲之火不斷溢出溫柔的情感，就象蠟燭的火焰似的從他體內汩汩 流出，不像她的那股火受她的思想和精神的禁銅，噴發不出來。所以她對他有種新 奇的感覺。
　　 他走過來對她鞠了躬，一股暖流涌入她的身體，仿佛喝了仙酒。
　　 “一定要和我跳一麯。”他親熱地說。她告訴過他，自己不會跳舞。“不很容 易，我很想看你跳舞。”她看着他恭敬的樣子笑了。她笑得很美，這使他不禁心旌 搖曳。
　　 “不行，我不會跳舞。”她輕柔地說。她的聲音清脆得像鈴鐺一樣響亮。
　　 他下意識地坐到了她的身旁，恭敬地欠着身子，他常憑直覺行事。
　　 “但是你不應該放棄這支麯子。”她責怪着說。
　　 “不，我不想跳那支——那不是我想跳的。”
　　 “可剛纔你還請我跳呢。”
　　 他聽了大笑起來。
　　 “我從沒想到你還有這一手，你一下就把我繞的圈子拉直了。”
　　 這自是她輕快地笑了。
　　 “你看起來不像拉直的樣子。”她說。
　　 “我像條豬尾巴，不由自主地蜷縮起來。”他爽朗地笑着。
　　 “你是一個礦工！”她驚愕地喊道。
　　 “對，我十歲就開始下井了。”
　　 她又驚愕地看着他。
　　 “十歲時！那一定很辛苦吧？”她問道。
　　 “很快就習慣了：人像耗子一樣生活着，直到晚上纔溜出來看看動靜。”
　　 “那眼睛也瞎了。”她皺了皺眉。
　　 “像一隻地老鼠！”他笑道：“嗯，有些傢夥的確像地老鼠一樣到處轉。”他 閉上眼睛頭往前伸，模仿老鼠翹起鼻子到處聞，像在打探方向。“他們的確這麽做。” 他天真地堅持說。“你從來沒見過他們下井時的樣子？不過，什麽時候我帶你下去 一趟，讓你親眼看看。”
　　 她看着他，非常吃驚。一種全新的生活展現在她面前。她瞭解到了礦工的生活， 成千成百的礦工在地下辛勤地幹活，直到晚上纔出來。在她眼裏他似乎高尚起來， 他每天的生活都在冒險，他卻依然歡天喜地。她帶着感動和尊敬的神情看着他。
　　 “你不喜歡嗎？”他溫柔地問，“是的，那會弄髒你的。”
　　 她從來沒與方音很重的人談過話。
　　 來年的聖誕節他們結婚了，前三個月她幸福極了，她一直沉浸在這種幸福中有 半年時光。

　　"THE BOTTOMS" succeeded to "Hell Row". Hell Row was a block of thatched, bulging cottages that stood by the brookside on Greenhill Lane. There lived the colliers who worked in the little gin-pits two fields away. The brook ran under the alder trees, scarcely soiled by these small mines, whose coal was drawn to the surface by donkeys that plodded wearily in a circle round a gin. And all over the countryside were these same pits, some of which had been worked in the time of Charles II, the few colliers and the donkeys burrowing down like ants into the earth, making queer mounds and little black places among the corn-fields and the meadows. And the cottages of these coal-miners, in blocks and pairs here and there, together with odd farms and homes of the stockingers, straying over the parish, formed the village of Bestwood.
　　 Then, some sixty years ago, a sudden change took place. The gin-pits were elbowed aside by the large mines of the financiers. The coal and iron field of Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire was discovered. Carston, Waite and Co. appeared. Amid tremendous excitement, Lord Palmerston formally opened the company's first mine at Spinney Park, on the edge of Sherwood Forest.
　　 About this time the notorious Hell Row, which through growing old had acquired an evil reputation, was burned down, and much dirt was cleansed away.
　　 Carston, Waite & Co. found they had struck on a good thing, so, down the valleys of the brooks from Selby and Nuttall, new mines were sunk, until soon there were six pits working. From Nuttall, high up on the sandstone among the woods, the railway ran, past the ruined priory of the Carthusians and past Robin Hood's Well, down to Spinney Park, then on to Minton, a large mine among corn-fields; from Minton across the farmlands of the valleyside to Bunker's Hill, branching off there, and running north to Beggarlee and Selby, that looks over at Crich and the hills of Derbyshire: six mines like black studs on the countryside, linked by a loop of fine chain, the railway.
　　 To accommodate the regiments of miners, Carston, Waite and Co. built the Squares, great quadrangles of dwellings on the hillside of Bestwood, and then, in the brook valley, on the site of Hell Row, they erected the Bottoms.
　　 The Bottoms consisted of six blocks of miners' dwellings, two rows of three, like the dots on a blank-six domino, and twelve houses in a block. This double row of dwellings sat at the foot of the rather sharp slope from Bestwood, and looked out, from the attic windows at least, on the slow climb of the valley towards Selby.
　　 The houses themselves were substantial and very decent. One could walk all round, seeing little front gardens with auriculas and saxifrage in the shadow of the bottom block, sweet-williams and pinks in the sunny top block; seeing neat front windows, little porches, little privet hedges, and dormer windows for the attics. But that was outside; that was the view on to the uninhabited parlours of all the colliers' wives. The dwelling-room, the kitchen, was at the back of the house, facing inward between the blocks, looking at a scrubby back garden, and then at the ash-pits. And between the rows, between the long lines of ash-pits, went the alley, where the children played and the women gossiped and the men smoked. So, the actual conditions of living in the Bottoms, that was so well built and that looked so nice, were quite unsavoury because people must live in the kitchen, and the kitchens opened on to that nasty alley of ash-pits.
　　 Mrs. Morel was not anxious to move into the Bottoms, which was already twelve years old and on the downward path, when she descended to it from Bestwood. But it was the best she could do. Moreover, she had an end house in one of the top blocks, and thus had only one neighbour; on the other side an extra strip of garden. And, having an end house, she enjoyed a kind of aristocracy among the other women of the "between" houses, because her rent was five shillings and sixpence instead of five shillings a week. But this superiority in station was not much consolation to Mrs. Morel.
　　 She was thirty-one years old, and had been married eight years. A rather small woman, of delicate mould but resolute bearing, she shrank a little from the first contact with the Bottoms women. She came down in the July, and in the September expected her third baby.
　　 Her husband was a miner. They had only been in their new home three weeks when the wakes, or fair, began. Morel, she knew, was sure to make a holiday of it. He went off early on the Monday morning, the day of the fair. The two children were highly excited. William, a boy of seven, fled off immediately after breakfast, to prowl round the wakes ground, leaving Annie, who was only five, to whine all morning to go also. Mrs. Morel did her work. She scarcely knew her neighbours yet, and knew no one with whom to trust the little girl. So she promised to take her to the wakes after dinner.
　　 William appeared at half-past twelve. He was a very active lad, fair-haired, freckled, with a touch of the Dane or Norwegian about him.
　　 "Can I have my dinner, mother?" he cried, rushing in with his cap on. "'Cause it begins at half-past one, the man says so."
　　 "You can have your dinner as soon as it's done," replied the mother.
　　 "Isn't it done?" he cried, his blue eyes staring at her in indignation. "Then I'm goin' be-out it."
　　 "You'll do nothing of the sort. It will be done in five minutes. It is only half-past twelve."
　　 "They'll be beginnin'," the boy half cried, half shouted.
　　 "You won't die if they do," said the mother. "Besides, it's only half-past twelve, so you've a full hour."
　　 The lad began hastily to lay the table, and directly the three sat down. They were eating batter-pudding and jam, when the boy jumped off his chair and stood perfectly stiff. Some distance away could be heard the first small braying of a merry-go-round, and the tooting of a horn. His face quivered as he looked at his mother.
　　 "I told you!" he said, running to the dresser for his cap.
　　 "Take your pudding in your hand--and it's only five past one, so you were wrong--you haven't got your twopence," cried the mother in a breath.
　　 The boy came back, bitterly disappointed, for his twopence, then went off without a word.
　　 "I want to go, I want to go," said Annie, beginning to cry.
　　 "Well, and you shall go, whining, wizzening little stick!" said the mother. And later in the afternoon she trudged up the hill under the tall hedge with her child. The hay was gathered from the fields, and cattle were turned on to the eddish. It was warm, peaceful.
　　 Mrs. Morel did not like the wakes. There were two sets of horses, one going by steam, one pulled round by a pony; three organs were grinding, and there came odd cracks of pistol-shots, fearful screeching of the cocoanut man's rattle, shouts of the Aunt Sally man, screeches from the peep-show lady. The mother perceived her son gazing enraptured outside the Lion Wallace booth, at the pictures of this famous lion that had killed a negro and maimed for life two white men. She left him alone, and went to get Annie a spin of toffee. Presently the lad stood in front of her, wildly excited.
　　 "You never said you was coming--isn't the' a lot of things?- that lion's killed three men-l've spent my tuppence-an' look here."
　　 He pulled from his pocket two egg-cups, with pink moss-roses on them.
　　 "I got these from that stall where y'ave ter get them marbles in them holes. An' I got these two in two goes-'aepenny a go-they've got moss-roses on, look here. I wanted these."
　　 She knew he wanted them for her.
　　 "H'm!" she said, pleased. "They ARE pretty!"
　　 "Shall you carry 'em, 'cause I'm frightened o' breakin' 'em?"
　　 He was tipful of excitement now she had come, led her about the ground, showed her everything. Then, at the peep-show, she explained the pictures, in a sort of story, to which he listened as if spellbound. He would not leave her. All the time he stuck close to her, bristling with a small boy's pride of her. For no other woman looked such a lady as she did, in her little black bonnet and her cloak. She smiled when she saw women she knew. When she was tired she said to her son:
　　 "Well, are you coming now, or later?"
　　 "Are you goin' a'ready?" he cried, his face full of reproach.
　　 "Already? It is past four, I know."
　　 "What are you goin' a'ready for?" he lamented.
　　 "You needn't come if you don't want," she said.
　　 And she went slowly away with her little girl, whilst her son stood watching her, cut to the heart to let her go, and yet unable to leave the wakes. As she crossed the open ground in front of the Moon and Stars she heard men shouting, and smelled the beer, and hurried a little, thinking her husband was probably in the bar.
　　 At about half-past six her son came home, tired now, rather pale, and somewhat wretched. He was miserable, though he did not know it, because he had let her go alone. Since she had gone, he had not enjoyed his wakes.
　　 "Has my dad been?" he asked.
　　 "No," said the mother.
　　 "He's helping to wait at the Moon and Stars. I seed him through that black tin stuff wi' holes in, on the window, wi' his sleeves rolled up."
　　 "Ha!" exclaimed the mother shortly. "He's got no money. An' he'll be satisfied if he gets his 'lowance, whether they give him more or not."
　　 When the light was fading, and Mrs. Morel could see no more to sew, she rose and went to the door. Everywhere was the sound of excitement, the restlessness of the holiday, that at last infected her. She went out into the side garden. Women were coming home from the wakes, the children hugging a white lamb with green legs, or a wooden horse. Occasionally a man lurched past, almost as full as he could carry. Sometimes a good husband came along with his family, peacefully. But usually the women and children were alone. The stay-at-home mothers stood gossiping at the corners of the alley, as the twilight sank, folding their arms under their white aprons.
　　 Mrs. Morel was alone, but she was used to it. Her son and her little girl slept upstairs; so, it seemed, her home was there behind her, fixed and stable. But she felt wretched with the coming child. The world seemed a dreary place, where nothing else would happen for her--at least until William grew up. But for herself, nothing but this dreary endurance--till the children grew up. And the children! She could not afford to have this third. She did not want it. The father was serving beer in a public house, swilling himself drunk. She despised him, and was tied to him. This coming child was too much for her. If it were not for William and Annie, she was sick of it, the struggle with poverty and ugliness and meanness.
　　 She went into the front garden, feeling too heavy to take herself out, yet unable to stay indoors. The heat suffocated her. And looking ahead, the prospect of her life made her feel as if she were buried alive.
　　 The front garden was a small square with a privet hedge. There she stood, trying to soothe herself with the scent of flowers and the fading, beautiful evening. Opposite her small gate was the stile that led uphill, under the tall hedge between the burning glow of the cut pastures. The sky overhead throbbed and pulsed with light. The glow sank quickly off the field; the earth and the hedges smoked dusk. As it grew dark, a ruddy glare came out on the hilltop, and out of the glare the diminished commotion of the fair.
　　 Sometimes, down the trough of darkness formed by the path under the hedges, men came lurching home. One young man lapsed into a run down the steep bit that ended the hill, and went with a crash into the stile. Mrs. Morel shuddered. He picked himself up, swearing viciously, rather pathetically, as if he thought the stile had wanted to hurt him.
　　 She went indoors, wondering if things were never going to alter. She was beginning by now to realise that they would not. She seemed so far away from her girlhood, she wondered if it were the same person walking heavily up the back garden at the Bottoms as had run so lightly up the breakwater at Sheerness ten years before.
　　 "What have I to do with it?" she said to herself. "What have I to do with all this? Even the child I am going to have! It doesn't seem as if I were taken into account."
　　 Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.
　　 "I wait," Mrs. Morel said to herself--"I wait, and what I wait for can never come."
　　 Then she straightened the kitchen, lit the lamp, mended the fire, looked out the washing for the next day, and put it to soak. After which she sat down to her sewing. Through the long hours her needle flashed regularly through the stuff. Occasionally she sighed, moving to relieve herself. And all the time she was thinking how to make the most of what she had, for the children's sakes.
　　 At half-past eleven her husband came. His cheeks were very red and very shiny above his black moustache. His head nodded slightly. He was pleased with himself.
　　 "Oh! Oh! waitin' for me, lass? I've bin 'elpin' Anthony, an' what's think he's gen me? Nowt b'r a lousy hae'f-crown, an' that's ivry penny---"
　　 "He thinks you've made the rest up in beer," she said shortly.
　　 "An' I 'aven't--that I 'aven't. You b'lieve me, I've 'ad very little this day, I have an' all." His voice went tender. "Here, an' I browt thee a bit o' brandysnap, an' a cocoanut for th' children." He laid the gingerbread and the cocoanut, a hairy object, on the table. "Nay, tha niver said thankyer for nowt i' thy life, did ter?"
　　 As a compromise, she picked up the cocoanut and shook it, to see if it had any milk.
　　 "It's a good 'un, you may back yer life o' that. I got it fra' Bill Hodgkisson. 'Bill,' I says, 'tha non wants them three nuts, does ter? Arena ter for gi'ein' me one for my bit of a lad an' wench?' 'I ham, Walter, my lad,' 'e says; 'ta'e which on 'em ter's a mind.' An' so I took one, an' thanked 'im. I didn't like ter shake it afore 'is eyes, but 'e says, 'Tha'd better ma'e sure it's a good un, Walt.' An' so, yer see, I knowed it was. He's a nice chap, is Bill Hodgkisson, e's a nice chap!"
　　 "A man will part with anything so long as he's drunk, and you're drunk along with him," said Mrs. Morel.
　　 "Eh, tha mucky little 'ussy, who's drunk, I sh'd like ter know?" said Morel. He was extraordinarily pleased with himself, because of his day's helping to wait in the Moon and Stars. He chattered on.
　　 Mrs. Morel, very tired, and sick of his babble, went to bed as quickly as possible, while he raked the fire.
　　 Mrs. Morel came of a good old burgher family, famous independents who had fought with Colonel Hutchinson, and who remained stout Congregationalists. Her grandfather had gone bankrupt in the lace-market at a time when so many lace-manufacturers were ruined in Nottingham. Her father, George Coppard, was an engineer--a large, handsome, haughty man, proud of his fair skin and blue eyes, but more proud still of his integrity. Gertrude resembled her mother in her small build. But her temper, proud and unyielding, she had from the Coppards.
　　 George Coppard was bitterly galled by his own poverty. He became foreman of the engineers in the dockyard at Sheerness. Mrs. Morel--Gertrude--was the second daughter. She favoured her mother, loved her mother best of all; but she had the Coppards' clear, defiant blue eyes and their broad brow. She remembered to have hated her father's overbearing manner towards her gentle, humorous, kindly-souled mother. She remembered running over the breakwater at Sheerness and finding the boat. She remembered to have been petted and flattered by all the men when she had gone to the dockyard, for she was a delicate, rather proud child. She remembered the funny old mistress, whose assistant she had become, whom she had loved to help in the private school. And she still had the Bible that John Field had given her. She used to walk home from chapel with John Field when she was nineteen. He was the son of a well-to-do tradesman, had been to college in London, and was to devote himself to business.
　　 She could always recall in detail a September Sunday afternoon, when they had sat under the vine at the back of her father's house. The sun came through the chinks of the vine-leaves and made beautiful patterns, like a lace scarf, falling on her and on him. Some of the leaves were clean yellow, like yellow flat flowers.
　　 "Now sit still," he had cried. "Now your hair, I don't know what it IS like! It's as bright as copper and gold, as red as burnt copper, and it has gold threads where the sun shines on it. Fancy their saying it's brown. Your mother calls it mouse-colour."
　　 She had met his brilliant eyes, but her clear face scarcely showed the elation which rose within her.
　　 "But you say you don't like business," she pursued.
　　 "I don't. I hate it!" he cried hotly.
　　 "And you would like to go into the ministry," she half implored.
　　 "I should. I should love it, if I thought I could make a first-rate preacher."
　　 "Then why don't you--why DON'T you?" Her voice rang with defiance. "If I were a man, nothing would stop me."
　　 She held her head erect. He was rather timid before her.
　　 "But my father's so stiff-necked. He means to put me into the business, and I know he'll do it."
　　 "But if you're a MAN?" she had cried.
　　 "Being a man isn't everything," he replied, frowning with puzzled helplessness.
　　 Now, as she moved about her work at the Bottoms, with some experience of what being a man meant, she knew that it was NOT everything.
　　 At twenty, owing to her health, she had left Sheerness. Her father had retired home to Nottingham. John Field's father had been ruined; the son had gone as a teacher in Norwood. She did not hear of him until, two years later, she made determined inquiry. He had married his landlady, a woman of forty, a widow with property.
　　 And still Mrs. Morel preserved John Field's Bible. She did not now believe him to be--- Well, she understood pretty well what he might or might not have been. So she preserved his Bible, and kept his memory intact in her heart, for her own sake. To her dying day, for thirty-five years, she did not speak of him.
　　 When she was twenty-three years old, she met, at a Christmas party, a young man from the Erewash Valley. Morel was then twenty-seven years old. He was well set-up, erect, and very smart. He had wavy black hair that shone again, and a vigorous black beard that had never been shaved. His cheeks were ruddy, and his red, moist mouth was noticeable because he laughed so often and so heartily. He had that rare thing, a rich, ringing laugh. Gertrude Coppard had watched him, fascinated. He was so full of colour and animation, his voice ran so easily into comic grotesque, he was so ready and so pleasant with everybody. Her own father had a rich fund of humour, but it was satiric. This man's was different: soft, non-intellectual, warm, a kind of gambolling.
　　 She herself was opposite. She had a curious, receptive mind which found much pleasure and amusement in listening to other folk. She was clever in leading folk to talk. She loved ideas, and was considered very intellectual. What she liked most of all was an argument on religion or philosophy or politics with some educated man. This she did not often enjoy. So she always had people tell her about themselves, finding her pleasure so.

　　他簽約保證永不沾酒，並帶上禁酒會的藍緞帶招搖過市。她原以為他倆住的是 他自己的房子。房子雖小，但比較方便，房裏的陳設實惠耐用又美觀大方，這與她 踏實的性格相投。她與周圍的女人們不大來往，因此，莫瑞爾的母親和姐妹們常取 笑她的小姐派頭。但是，她衹要和丈夫在一起，什麽也就不在乎了。
　　 有時候，她厭倦了卿卿我我的蜜語，努力嘗試着跟他正兒八經地聊聊，當然他 衹是在用心的聽着，卻聽不懂。這使她那想彼此加深理解的希望破滅了，她有點害 怕。有時候，他一到晚上就坐立不安，她明白，對他來說守着她不是他生活的全部， 索性病痛快快地讓他去幹些零活。
　　 他聰明手巧，擅長修修補補。因此，她就說：
　　 “我真喜歡你母親的那個火撥子——小巧好使。”
　　 “真的嗎？寶貝？嗯，那是我做的，我可以再做一個。”
　　 “什麽！哇，那是鋼的。”
　　 “鋼的又怎麽了，我一定會做一把，即使不完全一樣，也差不離兒的。”
　　 她不在乎亂七八糟，叮叮咣咣，因為他正忙得不亦樂乎。
　　 但到婚後第七個月的一天，她在刷掃他的那件禮服時，發覺他胸前的口袋裏有 幾張紙。出於一種好奇心，她拿出了那幾張紙。他很少穿這件結婚時穿的禮服，所 以，以前並未註意這些紙片，原來是房子傢具的帳單，至今尚未付清。
　　 “看，”在他吃完晚飯，洗完澡之後，她纔說：“我在你的婚禮服裏發現了這 些帳單，你還沒有還清嗎？”
　　 “沒有，我還沒來得及呢。”
　　 “但是，你告訴我所有的帳都已付清。那我最好星期六去諾丁漢把帳付清了。 我不想坐在別人的椅上、別人的桌子旁吃飯。”
　　 他沒有吭氣。
　　 “你能把你的存折給我嗎？”
　　 “可以，頂什麽用呢！”
　　 “我覺得……”她欲說又止。他曾經給她說過，他還有一筆存款。可是，現在 她意識到再問也沒用。於是，她衹好又悲涼又憤怒地呆呆地坐在那裏。
　　 第二天，她去見他們的母親。
　　 “你給沃爾特買過傢具嗎？”她問道。
　　 “是啊，我買過。”老太太冷淡地回答。
　　 “他給你多少錢去買傢具？”
　　 老太太被兒媳婦的問話激怒了。
　　 “既然這麽關心，我就告訴你，八十鎊！”她回答道。
　　 “八十鎊！可是還有四十二英鎊還沒有付呢！”
　　 “這不是我的問題。”
　　 “可是，錢到哪兒去了？”
　　 “我想你會找到所有的帳單的。你一看就知道了——他除了欠我十鎊外，還有 我這兒辦婚禮花去的六鎊。”
　　 “六鎊！”格特魯德·莫瑞爾重複了一句她覺得這話太無恥，她父親為她辦婚 禮花掉了一大筆錢，然而，沃爾特父親還讓兒子付六鎊的酒席錢。
　　 “他買房子花了多少錢？”她問道。
　　 “他的房子——哪兒的房子？”
　　 格特魯德·莫瑞爾的嘴唇都發白了。他曾告訴她，他住的房子和旁邊的那間房 子，都是他自己的。
　　 “我以為我們住的房子——”她欲言又止。
　　 “那是我的房子，那兩間，”婆婆說：“收費並不高，我衹需要能夠抵押利息 就行了。”
　　 格特魯德臉色蒼白，一言不發地坐在那兒，神情簡直跟她父親一模一樣。
　　 “那麽說，我們應該給你付房租。”她冷冷地說。
　　 “沃爾特是在給我付房租。”婆婆回答。
　　 “多少租金？”格特魯德問。
　　 “每周六先令。”婆婆回答。
　　 可房子不值這個價錢。格特魯德昂起頭，直直地瞅着她。
　　 “你很幸運，”老太太諷刺地說：“花錢用費都由丈夫操心，自己衹大手大腳 地用。”
　　 小媳婦保持沉默。
　　 她對丈夫沒說什麽，但她對他的態度變了，她那高傲、正直的心靈，變得冷如 寒冰，硬似磐石。
　　 轉眼到了十月，她一心想着聖誕節。兩年前的聖誕節，她遇見了他，去年聖誕 節，她嫁給了他，今年聖誕節她將給他生孩子。
　　 “你不去跳舞嗎，太太？”她隔壁的一個鄰居問她。十月裏，在貝斯伍德“磚 瓦酒店”裏大傢議論紛紛，說要舉辦一個舞蹈班。
　　 “不，我從來沒有想跳舞的欲望。”莫瑞爾太太回答。
　　 “真怪！你嫁給你丈夫可真有意思。你知道他是一個非常有名的舞棍。”
　　 “我可不知道他這麽有名。”莫瑞爾太太笑着回答。
　　 “嗬，他纔有名呢！(嘔欠)，他主持礦工俱樂部的跳舞班都有五年多了。”
　　 “是麽？”“是的。”另一名婦女也帶着蔑視的神情說，“那兒每星期二、四、 六都擠滿了人，據說還有醜態百出的事。”
　　 莫瑞爾太太對這類事情又氣又恨，女人們卿卿喳喳地傷害她，因為她不願入鄉 隨俗。其實她並不想這樣，天性使然。
　　 他開始很晚纔回傢。
　　 “他們現在下班很晚嗎？”她問洗衣女工。
　　 “不比往常晚。他們在艾倫酒店喝酒聊天，就這麽回事！晚飯都涼了——他們 活該！”
　　 “但是莫瑞爾先生已經戒酒了。”
　　 這位女工放下衣服，看看莫瑞爾太太，然後一言不發地繼續的活。
　　 格特魯德·莫瑞爾生兒子時病得很厲害，莫瑞爾對她體貼入微。不過她還是覺 得遠離娘傢，備感孤獨。現在，即使和他在一起依然寂寞，甚至，他的出現衹能讓 她更寂寞。
　　 兒子剛出生時又小又弱，但長得很快。他是個漂亮的孩子，金黃色的捲發，一 雙深藍淺灰相間的眼睛，母親深愛着他。在她幻想破滅，傷心欲絶，對生活的信念 開始動搖，靈魂寂寞而孤獨時，他來到世上。所以，她對兒子傾註了所有的熱情， 連做父親的都妒嫉了。
　　 莫瑞爾夫人終於看不起她的丈夫了。她的心從父親身上轉到兒子身上。他開始 忽視她，小家庭的新奇感也早已消失。她傷心地暗自數落着丈夫，他沒有毅力，缺 乏恆心，凡事衹求一時痛快，金玉其外，敗絮其中。
　　 一場可怕、殘忍，你死我活的鬥爭開始在夫妻之間展開。她努力迫使他明白自 己的責任，履行自己的義務。儘管他跟她天性殊異，他衹註重純感官上的享受，她 卻硬要他講道德，信宗教。她努力讓他面對現實，他受不了——這簡直讓他發瘋。
　　 孩子還很小的時候，父親的脾氣就變得急躁易怒，令人難以信賴。孩子稍微有 一點吵鬧聲，他就蠻橫地嚇唬他，再敢鬧，那雙礦工的拳頭就朝孩子身上打去。然 後，莫瑞爾太太就一連幾天生丈夫的氣。他呢，就出去喝酒。她對他幹些什麽漠不 關心，衹是，等他回傢時，就諷刺奚落他。
　　 他們之間感情的疏遠，使他有意無意地粗魯地冒犯她，而以前他卻不是這樣。
　　 威廉剛一歲時，就很漂亮，做母親的為此而自豪。她那時生活睏難，她的姐妹 們包了孩子的衣服。兒子滿頭捲發，身着白衣，頭戴白帽，帽子上還飾有一根駝鳥 羽毛。母親滿心歡喜。一個星期天的早晨，莫瑞爾太太躺在床上聽見父子倆在樓下 閑聊。不一會，她睡着了。當她下樓時，爐火旺盛，屋裏很熱，早餐亂七八糟地擺 着，莫瑞爾坐在靠壁爐的扶手椅上，有點怯懦，夾在他兩腿中間的孩子——頭髮理 得像剛剪了毛的羊一樣難看——正莫名其妙地看着她。爐邊地毯上鋪着一張報紙， 上面堆着一堆月牙形的捲發，紅紅的火光一照，像金盞草的花瓣一樣。
　　 莫瑞爾太太一動不動地站着，這哪兒像她的長子。她臉色蒼白，話也說不出來。
　　 “剃得怎樣？”莫瑞爾尷尬地笑着。
　　 她舉起緊握的雙拳，走上前來，莫瑞爾往後退了退。
　　 “我想殺了你！”她高舉雙拳喊着，氣得說不出話來。
　　 “你不想把他打扮成女孩子吧！”莫瑞爾低着頭，逃避她的眼神，膽怯地說， 臉上努力擠出的一絲笑意消失了。
　　 母親低頭看着兒子那長短不齊的禿頭，伸出手疼愛地撫摸着他。
　　 “(嘔欠)，我的孩子！”她顫聲說，嘴唇發抖臉色變了，她一把抱住孩子，把 臉埋在孩子的肩上痛苦地哭了。她是個不輕易掉淚的女人，哭對她的傷害不亞於對 男人的傷害。她撕裂肺腑般地哭泣着。莫瑞爾雙肘支在膝蓋上坐着，緊握雙手，指 關節都發白了。他呆呆地盯着火，好象被人打了一棒，連呼吸都不敢呼吸。
　　 一會兒，她哭完了，哄住孩子，收拾了飯桌，她沒管那張撒滿捲發的、攤在爐 邊地毯上的報紙。最後，她的丈夫把報紙收拾起來，放在爐子後面。她閉着嘴默默 地的活。莫瑞爾服服貼貼，整天垂頭喪氣，不思茶飯。她對他說話容客氣氣， 從不提他幹的那件事，但他覺得他倆的感情徹底破裂了。
　　 過後，她覺得當時她太傻了，孩子的頭髮遲早都得剪。最後，她竟然對丈夫說 他剪頭髮就像理發師似的。不過她明白，莫瑞爾也清楚這件事在她靈魂深處産生的 重大影響，她一生都不會忘記那個場面，這是讓她感到最痛苦的一件事。
　　 男人的這個魯莽行為好象一桿矛一樣刺破了她對莫瑞爾的愛心。以前，她苦苦 地跟他爭吵，為他的離心離德而煩惱。現在她不再為他的愛煩惱了，他對她來說是 個局外人，這樣反而使她容易忍受一些。
　　 然而，她仍然跟他不懈地爭執着。她繼承了世世代代清教徒的高尚和道德感。 這已經成為一種宗教本能。她因為愛他，或者說愛過他，在和他相處時她幾乎成了 一個狂熱的信徒。如果他有過失。她就折磨他；如果他喝醉了或說了謊，她就毫不 客氣地駡他是懶漢，駡他是惡棍。
　　 遺憾的是，她和他水火不容。她對他所做的一切都不能滿意，她認為他應該做 的更多更好。她竭力要他成為一個高尚的人，這個要求超越他所能及的水平，因此， 反而毀了他，也傷害了自己。但她沒有放棄自己的價值標準，孩子敬愛她。
　　 他喝酒雖然很兇，但比不上其他礦工厲害，而且總是喝啤酒。儘管對健康有一 定的影響，但沒有多大的傷害。周末是他舉杯暢飲的時候。每逢星期五、星期六、 星期天晚上，他都在礦工酒館坐到關門。星期一和星期二他不得不在10點左右極不 情願地離開酒館。星期三、星期四晚上，他呆在傢裏，或衹出去一個小時。實際上， 他從來沒有因為喝酒而誤了工作。
　　 儘管他工作踏實，但他的工資卻不增反降。因為他多嘴多舌，愛說閑話，目無 上級，謾駡礦井工頭。他在帕馬斯頓酒會上說：“工頭今天早晨下到我們坑道裏來 了，他說：‘你知道，沃爾特，這不行，這些支柱是怎麽回事？’‘這樣决不行，’ 他說，‘總有一天會冒頂的。’我說：‘那你最好站在土堆上，用你的腦袋把它頂 起來吧。’他氣瘋了，不停地駡人，別的人都大笑起來。”莫瑞爾很善於模仿，他 努力用標標準準的英語模仿工頭的短促刺耳的聲音。
　　 “我不能容忍這些的，沃爾特。我倆誰更在行？”我說：“我從未發現你懂得 很多，艾弗德，還不如哄着你上床呢！”
　　 莫瑞爾口若懸河地說着，酒友們興高彩烈。不過他的話也是真實，這個礦井工 頭是一位沒受過教育的人，曾是和莫瑞爾一類的人，因此，儘管兩個人素不相和， 但或多或少能容忍一些。不過，艾弗德·查爾斯沃斯對莫瑞爾在酒店中嘲笑自己， 一直耿耿於懷。因此，儘管莫瑞爾是一個很能吃苦的礦工，他結婚那時，一星期還 能掙5英鎊，可現在他被分派到更雜更貧的礦井裏，那裏煤層很薄，而且難采，所以 無法賺錢。
　　 而且，夏天，礦井生意處於談季。男人們常常在10點、11點、12點就排着隊回 傢了，這時太陽還正高呢，沒有空卡車停在礦井口等着裝煤。山坡上的婦女們在籬 笆旁一邊拍打着地毯一邊朝這兒張望，數着火車頭拖進山𠔌的車皮有多少。孩子們， 放學回傢往下望見煤田上吊車輪子停着，就說：
　　 “敏頓關門了，我爸爸回傢了。”
　　 似乎有一種陰影籠罩着婦女、小孩和男人，因為這個星期末又缺錢花了。
　　 莫瑞爾本應該每星期給他的妻子30先令，來支付各種東西——房租、食物、衣 服、俱樂部會費、保險費、醫療費等等，偶爾，如果他比較寬裕，他就給她35先令。 但是，這種情形遠不及他給她25先令的次數多。鼕天，在煤多的礦井裏，他每星期 就能掙50或55先令。這時他就高興極了，星期五、六和星期天，他會像貴族一樣大 大方方地花掉一個金鎊左右。儘管這樣，他很少多給孩子們分一個便士或給他們買 一鎊蘋果，錢都用來喝酒了。在煤礦疲軟的時候，生活艱難，但他倒不會經常地喝 醉，因此莫瑞爾太太常說：
　　 “我說不準我是不是寧願錢少點，他稍微寬裕一點，就沒有一刻的安寧了。”
　　 如果他掙了40先令，就會留10先令，掙35就留5，掙32就留4，掙28就留3，掙2 4就留2，掙20先令就留1先令6便士，掙18先令就留1先令，掙16就留6便士。他從來 沒存過1便士，也不給妻子存錢的機會，相反，她偶爾還替他還帳，不是酒帳，因為 那種帳從不讓女人還，而是那些買了一隻金絲雀或一根奇特的手杖而欠的帳。
　　 節日期間，莫瑞爾入不敷出，莫瑞爾太太因為要坐月子，盡量地省錢。她一想 到他在外面尋歡作樂，揮霍無度，而她卻呆在傢裏發愁，便備覺凄涼。節日有兩天。 星期二早晨莫瑞爾起得很早，他興致很高。六點以前，她就聽到他吹着哨下樓去了。 他吹得非常流暢，活潑而動聽。他吹的幾乎都是聖麯。他曾是唱詩班一員，嗓音純 正，還在薩斯威大教堂獨唱過。他早晨的口哨聲就顯示出他的功夫。
　　 妻子躺在床上，聽着他在花園裏叮當叮當，口哨聲伴隨他鋸鋸錘錘聲。在晴朗 的早晨，孩子們還在夢鄉，聽他那男子漢的快樂聲，她躲在床上，體驗到一種溫暖、 安寧的感覺。
　　 九點鐘，孩子們光腿赤腳地坐在沙發上玩，母親在廚房裏洗洗涮涮。他拿着工 具走進來，袖子捲得高高的，背心往上翻着。他仍然是一個英俊的男人，黑色波浪 式捲發，黑黑的大鬍子。他的臉也許太紅了，這使他看上去有點暴躁。但是此刻他 興致勃勃，他徑直走到妻子洗涮的水槽邊。
　　 “啊，你在這兒！”他興高彩烈地說，“走開，讓我洗澡。”
　　 “你應該等我洗完。”妻子說。
　　 “(嘔欠)，要我等？如果我不呢？”
　　 這種幽默的恐嚇逗樂了莫瑞爾太太。
　　 “那你就去洗澡盆裏洗吧。”
　　 “哈，行，你這個煩人的傢夥。”
　　 然後，他站在那裏看了她一陣子纔走開。
　　 他用心收拾一下，還是英俊瀟灑的男子。通常他喜歡在脖子上圍一塊圍巾出去， 可是現在，他得好好洗一下。他嘩嘩啦啦地洗臉，擤鼻子，又火急火燎地去廚房照 照鏡子。鏡子太低，他彎下腰，仔細地分他那又黑又濕的頭髮，這情景激怒了莫瑞 爾太太。他身穿翻領襯衫，打上黑領結，外面套上他的燕尾禮服，看起來風度瀟灑， 而且他那愛顯示自己英俊瀟灑的本能掩飾了他衣着的寒磣。
　　 九點半時，傑裏·帕迪來叫他的同伴。傑裏是莫瑞爾的知心朋友，但莫瑞爾太 太不喜歡他。他又瘦又高，一張狐狸般姦詐的臉，一雙仿佛沒長眼睫毛的眼睛。他 走起路來昂首挺胸，很有氣魄，好象腦袋安在一根木頭般僵硬的彈簧上。他也挺大 方的，他似乎很喜歡莫瑞爾，並且或多或少地有點照顧他。
　　 莫瑞爾太太恨他。她認識他那個死於肺病的妻子，在她離開人世時也對她的丈 夫恨透了。他一進屋子就氣得她吐血，傑裏對這些似乎都漠不關心。如今，15歲的 大女兒照料着這個貧窮的傢，照看着兩個弟妹。
　　 “一個吝嗇、沒心肝的傢夥！”莫瑞爾太太說他。
　　 “我一輩子都沒發現傑裏小氣，”莫瑞爾反駁，“據我所知，你在哪兒都找不 到一個比他更大方的人了。”
　　 “對你大方，”莫瑞爾太太回答，“可他對他那幾個可憐的孩子，就手攥得緊 緊的。”
　　 “可憐的孩子！我不知道，他們怎麽可憐啦？”
　　 但是，莫瑞爾太太一提到傑裏就不能平靜。
　　 被議論的這個人，忽然把他的細脖子從洗滌間窗簾外伸進來，看了看莫瑞爾太 太。
　　 “早上好，太太。先生在傢嗎？”
　　 “嗯——在傢。”
　　 傑裏徑自走進來，站在廚房門口。沒有人讓他坐，衹好站在那裏，表現出一副 男子漢大丈夫特有的冷靜。
　　 “天色不錯。”他對莫瑞爾太太說。
　　 “嗯。”
　　 “早晨外面真好，散散步。”
　　 “你們要去散步嗎？”她問。
　　 “對，我們打算散步去諾丁漢。”他回答道。
　　 “嗯，”
　　 兩個男子互相招呼着，都很高興。傑裏是洋洋自得，莫瑞爾卻很一副自我抑製 的神情，害怕在妻子面前顯示出喜氣洋洋的樣子。但是，他精神抖擻迅速地係着靴 子。他們將步行十裏路，穿過田野去諾丁漢。他們從河川區爬上山坡，興趣盎然地 在朝陽下前進。在星月酒館他們幹了第一杯酒，然後又到“老地點”酒館。接着他 們準備滴酒不沾步行五裏到布爾維爾，再美美喝上一品脫。但是，在途經田野休息 時，遇到幾個曬幹草的人，帶着滿滿一加侖酒。於是，等他們看到布爾維爾城時， 莫瑞爾已經渴得昏昏欲睡了。城市出現在他們眼前，正午的陽光下，朦朦朧朧仿佛 籠罩了層煙霧。在它往南方的山脊上，到處是房屋的尖頂和的工廠和林立的煙 囪。在最後一片田地裏，莫瑞爾躺倒在一棵棕樹下，打着呼嚕睡了一個多小時。當 他爬起來準備繼續趕路時，感覺到頭腦昏昏沉沉的。
　　 他們兩個和傑裏的姐姐在草場飯店用過餐後，去了“碰池波爾”酒館，那裏熱 鬧非凡，人們正在玩“飛鴿”遊戲，他們也跟着玩。莫瑞爾認為牌有股邪氣，稱它 是“惡魔照片”，因此他從不玩牌。不過，他可是玩九柱戲和多米諾骨牌的好手。 他接受了一個從紐沃剋來人賭九柱戲的挑戰；所有在這個長方形酒館裏的人全下了 註，分成了兩方。莫瑞爾脫去上衣，傑裏手裏拿着裝錢的帽子。其他人都在桌子旁 觀看，有些手裏拿着酒杯站着。莫瑞爾小心地摸了一下他的大木球，然後擲了出來。 九根柱子倒了，他贏到半剋朗，又有錢付債了。
　　 到了晚上7點，這兩人才心滿意足地踏上了七點半回傢的火車。
　　 下午，河川街真是難以忍受。每個人都呆在傢門外。女人們不戴頭巾，係着圍 裙，三兩成群地在兩排房子中間的小徑上聊天。男人們蹲在地上談論着，準備休息 一會再喝。這地方空氣污濁，石屋頂被曬得發光。
　　 莫瑞爾太太領着小女兒來到離傢不過二百英尺的草地上。走近小溪邊，溪水在 石頭和破罐上飛流而過。母親和孩子斜靠在古老的羊橋的欄桿上眺望着。莫瑞爾太 太看見，在草地的另一邊的一個小坑裏，幾個沒穿衣服的男孩子在溪水邊奔跑。她 知道威廉也在這裏，她擔心威廉會掉進水裏淹死。安妮在高高的舊村籬下玩耍，撿 着她稱之為葡萄幹的槍果子。這個孩子更需要註意，而且蒼蠅在嗡嗡叫着戲弄人。
　　 7點鐘她安頓孩子們到床上睡覺，然後，她幹了一會活兒。
　　 沃爾特·莫瑞爾和傑裏到達貝斯伍德，他們頓覺如釋重負般的輕鬆，不用再坐 火車了，痛痛快快地結束這愉快的一天。他們帶着凱旋者的得意踏進了納爾遜酒館。
　　 第二天是工作日，想到這個，男人們便覺得掃興。而且，他們大多已經花光了 錢，有的人已經悶悶不樂地往傢走，準備為明天而睡覺。莫瑞爾太太呆在屋子裏， 聽着他們鬱悶的歌聲。九點過去了，10點了，那“一對”仍沒有回來。不知在哪一 傢門口，一個男人拖長調子大聲唱道：“引導我們，仁慈的光輝。”每次聽到這些 醉鬼們亂七八糟地唱贊美詩，她總覺得像受了侮辱。
　　 “好象‘蓋娜維吾’之類的小麯還不過癮。”她說道。
　　 廚房裏滿是熬香草和蛇麻子的香味，爐子鐵架上支着一個黑色大湯鍋。莫瑞爾 太太拿來一個大砂鍋，往裏倒了點白糖，然後用盡全身的力氣端起鍋，把湯倒進去。
　　 正在這時，莫瑞爾進來了。他在納爾遜酒店裏倒是很快活，可在回來的路上就 變得煩躁起來。他頭昏腦熱地在田野睡了一覺，醒來就覺得煩躁不安，渾身疼痛， 他還沒有完全恢復過來。在走近傢門時，他心裏很有點內疚。他沒有意識到自己在 生氣，但當他試圖打開花園門卻沒打開時，他就踢踢踹踹地把門閂都踢斷了。進屋 的時候正好莫瑞爾太太倒大湯鍋裏的香草汁。他搖搖晃晃地碰到桌子上，那滾開的 湯搖晃了起來，莫瑞爾太太嚇了一跳。
　　 “老天！”她喊道：“喝得醉醺醺地回來了！”

　　In her person she was rather small and delicate, with a large brow, and dropping bunches of brown silk curls. Her blue eyes were very straight, honest, and searching. She had the beautiful hands of the Coppards. Her dress was always subdued. She wore dark blue silk, with a peculiar silver chain of silver scallops. This, and a heavy brooch of twisted gold, was her only ornament. She was still perfectly intact, deeply religious, and full of beautiful candour.
　　 Walter Morel seemed melted away before her. She was to the miner that thing of mystery and fascination, a lady. When she spoke to him, it was with a southern pronunciation and a purity of English which thrilled him to hear. She watched him. He danced well, as if it were natural and joyous in him to dance. His grandfather was a French refugee who had married an English barmaid--if it had been a marriage. Gertrude Coppard watched the young miner as he danced, a certain subtle exultation like glamour in his movement, and his face the flower of his body, ruddy, with tumbled black hair, and laughing alike whatever partner he bowed above. She thought him rather wonderful, never having met anyone like him. Her father was to her the type of all men. And George Coppard, proud in his bearing, handsome, and rather bitter; who preferred theology in reading, and who drew near in sympathy only to one man, the Apostle Paul; who was harsh in government, and in familiarity ironic; who ignored all sensuous pleasure:--he was very different from the miner. Gertrude herself was rather contemptuous of dancing; she had not the slightest inclination towards that accomplishment, and had never learned even a Roger de Coverley. She was puritan, like her father, high-minded, and really stern. Therefore the dusky, golden softness of this man's sensuous flame of life, that flowed off his flesh like the flame from a candle, not baffled and gripped into incandescence by thought and spirit as her life was, seemed to her something wonderful, beyond her.
　　 He came and bowed above her. A warmth radiated through her as if she had drunk wine.
　　 "Now do come and have this one wi' me," he said caressively. "It's easy, you know. I'm pining to see you dance."
　　 She had told him before she could not dance. She glanced at his humility and smiled. Her smile was very beautiful. It moved the man so that he forgot everything.
　　 "No, I won't dance," she said softly. Her words came clean and ringing.
　　 Not knowing what he was doing--he often did the right thing by instinct--he sat beside her, inclining reverentially.
　　 "But you mustn't miss your dance," she reproved.
　　 "Nay, I don't want to dance that--it's not one as I care about."
　　 "Yet you invited me to it."
　　 He laughed very heartily at this.
　　 "I never thought o' that. Tha'rt not long in taking the curl out of me."
　　 It was her turn to laugh quickly.
　　 "You don't look as if you'd come much uncurled," she said.
　　 "I'm like a pig's tail, I curl because I canna help it," he laughed, rather boisterously.
　　 "And you are a miner!" she exclaimed in surprise.
　　 "Yes. I went down when I was ten."
　　 She looked at him in wondering dismay.
　　 "When you were ten! And wasn't it very hard?" she asked.
　　 "You soon get used to it. You live like th' mice, an' you pop out at night to see what's going on."
　　 "It makes me feel blind," she frowned.
　　 "Like a moudiwarp!" he laughed. "Yi, an' there's some chaps as does go round like moudiwarps." He thrust his face forward in the blind, snout-like way of a mole, seeming to sniff and peer for direction. "They dun though!" he protested naively. "Tha niver seed such a way they get in. But tha mun let me ta'e thee down some time, an' tha can see for thysen."
　　 She looked at him, startled. This was a new tract of life suddenly opened before her. She realised the life of the miners, hundreds of them toiling below earth and coming up at evening. He seemed to her noble. He risked his life daily, and with gaiety. She looked at him, with a touch of appeal in her pure humility.
　　 "Shouldn't ter like it?" he asked tenderly. "'Appen not, it 'ud dirty thee."
　　 She had never been "thee'd" and "thou'd" before.
　　 The next Christmas they were married, and for three months she was perfectly happy: for six months she was very happy.
　　 He had signed the pledge, and wore the blue ribbon of a tee-totaller: he was nothing if not showy. They lived, she thought, in his own house. It was small, but convenient enough, and quite nicely furnished, with solid, worthy stuff that suited her honest soul. The women, her neighbours, were rather foreign to her, and Morel's mother and sisters were apt to sneer at her ladylike ways. But she could perfectly well live by herself, so long as she had her husband close.
　　 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.
　　 "You don't dance yourself, do you, missis?" asked her nearest neighbour, in October, when there was great talk of 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 was thronged every Tuesday, and Thursday, an' Sat'day--an' there WAS carryin'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 her washer-woman.
　　 "No later than they allers do, I don't think. But they stop to have 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 went on 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-blue eyes which changed gradually to a clear grey. His mother loved him passionately. He came just when her own bitterness of disillusion 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 to the 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 said bitterly 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 back of 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 fought to make him undertake his own responsibilities, to make him fulfill his obligations. But he was too different from her. His nature was purely sensuous, and she strove to make him moral, religious. She tried to force him to face things. He could not endure it--it drove him out of his mind.
　　 While the baby was still tiny, the father's temper had become so irritable that it was not to be trusted. The child had only to give a little trouble when the man began to bully. A little more, and the hard hands of the collier hit the baby. Then Mrs. Morel loathed 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 kept the boy in clothes. Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps 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 glowed in 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--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round poll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a marigold scattered in the reddening firelight.
　　 Mrs. Morel stood still. It was her first baby. She went very 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 a frightened 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 of her child. She put her hands on his hair, and stroked and fondled his head.
　　 "Oh--my boy!" she faltered. Her lip trembled, her face broke, and, snatching up the child, she buried her face in his shoulder and cried painfully. She was one of those women who cannot cry; whom it hurts as it hurts a man. It was like ripping something out of her, her sobbing.
　　 Morel sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands gripped together 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 away the breakfast-table. She left the newspaper, littered with curls, spread upon the hearthrug. At last her husband gathered it up and put it at the back of the fire. She went about her work with closed mouth 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 final had happened.
　　 Afterwards she said she had been silly, that the boy's hair would have had to be cut, sooner or later. In the end, she even brought herself to say to her husband it was just as well he had played barber when he did. But she knew, and Morel knew, that that act had caused something momentous to take place in her soul. She remembered the scene all her life, as one in which she had suffered the most intensely.
　　 This act of masculine clumsiness was the spear through the side of her 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 still had her high moral sense, inherited from generations of Puritans. It was now a religious instinct, and she was almost a fanatic with 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 be content with the little he might be; she would have him the much that he 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 was never injured. The week-end was his chief carouse. He sat in the Miners' Arms until turning-out time every Friday, every Saturday, and every Sunday evening. On Monday and Tuesday he had to get up and reluctantly leave towards ten o'clock. Sometimes he stayed at home on 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'st mean 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 imitated the 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 an educated man. He had been a boy along with Morel, so that, while the two disliked each other, they more or less took each other for granted. But Alfred Charlesworth did not forgive the butty these public-house sayings. Consequently, although Morel was a good miner, sometimes earning as much as five pounds a week when 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 sunny mornings, the men are seen trooping home again at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock. No empty trucks stand at the pit-mouth. The women on the hillside 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, looking down 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 children and 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. But these occasions by no means balanced those when he gave her twenty-five. In winter, with a decent stall, the miner might earn fifty or fifty-five shillings a week. Then he was happy. On Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday, he spent royally, getting rid of his sovereign or thereabouts. And out of so much, he scarcely spared 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."