Chapter 3 - Page 2

feel.
But there was no deceiving her. At first she merely smiled to herself.
Then she scolded him sharply.

"Goodness, man, don't be so lachrymose."

That wounded him slightly, but still he continued to feign sickness.

"I wouldn't be such a mardy baby," said the wife shortly.

Then he was indignant, and cursed under his breath, like a boy.
He was forced to resume a normal tone, and to cease to whine.

Nevertheless, there was a state of peace in the house for some time.
Mrs. Morel was more tolerant of him, and he, depending on her almost
like a child, was rather happy. Neither knew that she was more tolerant
because she loved him less. Up till this time, in spite of all,
he had been her husband and her man. She had felt that, more or less,
what he did to himself he did to her. Her living depended on him.
There were many, many stages in the ebbing of her love for him,
but it was always ebbing.

Now, with the birth of this third baby, her self no longer set
towards him, helplessly, but was like a tide that scarcely rose,
standing off from him. After this she scarcely desired him.
And, standing more aloof from him, not feeling him so much part
of herself, but merely part of her circumstances, she did not mind
so much what he did, could leave him alone.

There was the halt, the wistfulness about the ensuing year,
which is like autumn in a man's life. His wife was casting him off,
half regretfully, but relentlessly; casting him off and turning
now for love and life to the children. Henceforward he was more
or less a husk. And he himself acquiesced, as so many men do,
yielding their place to their children.

During his recuperation, when it was really over between them,
both made an effort to come back somewhat to the old relationship
of the first months of their marriage. He sat at home and,
when the children were in bed, and she was sewing--she did all her
sewing by hand, made all shirts and children's clothing--he would
read to her from the newspaper, slowly pronouncing and delivering
the words like a man pitching quoits. Often she hurried him on,
giving him a phrase in anticipation. And then he took her words humbly.

The silences between them were peculiar. There would be
the swift, slight "cluck" of her needle, the sharp "pop" of his
lips as he let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars
as he spat in the fire. Then her thoughts turned to William.
Already he was getting a big boy. Already he was top of the class,
and the master said he was the smartest lad in the school.
She saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making the world glow
again for her.

And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing
to think about, would be