That he could still argue the point with her showed the inner vulnerableness, the inner need of her affection and of peace with her, which he still felt, far as certain new habits were beginning to sweep him from her.

“It’s Westall or Jenkins (Jenkins was the village policeman) havin’ the law on yer, Jim,” she said with emphasis, putting down a cup and looking at him—­it’s the thought of that makes me cold in my back.  None o’ my people was ever in prison—­an’ if it ’appened to you I should just die of shame!”

“Then yer’d better take and read them papers there as she brought,” he said impatiently, first jerking his finger over his shoulder in the direction of Mellor to indicate Miss Boyce, and then pointing to a heap of newspapers which lay on the floor in a corner, “they’d tell yer summat about the shame o’ makin’ them game-laws—­not o’ breakin’ ov ‘em.  But I’m sick o’ this!  Where’s them chillen?  Why do yer let that boy out so late?”

And opening the door he stood on the threshold looking up and down the village street, while Minta once more gave up the struggle, dried her eyes, and told herself to be cheerful.  But it was hard.  She was far better born and better educated than her husband.  Her father had been a small master chair-maker in Wycombe, and her mother, a lackadaisical silly woman, had given her her “fine” name by way of additional proof that she and her children were something out of the common.  Moreover, she had the conforming law-abiding instincts of the well-treated domestic servant, who has lived on kindly terms with the gentry and shared their standards.  And for years after their marriage Hurd had allowed her to govern him.  He had been so patient, so hard-working, such a kind husband and father, so full of a dumb wish to show her he was grateful to her for marrying such a fellow as he.  The quarrel with Westall seemed to have sunk out of his mind.  He never spoke to or of him.  Low wages, the burden of quick-coming children, the bad sanitary conditions of their wretched cottage, and poor health, had made their lives one long and sordid struggle.  But for years he had borne his load with extraordinary patience.  He and his could just exist, and the man who had been in youth the lonely victim of his neighbours’ scorn had found a woman to give him all herself and children to love.  Hence years of submission, a hidden flowering time for both of them.

Till that last awful winter!—­the winter before Richard Boyce’s succession to Mellor—­when the farmers had been mostly ruined, and half the able-bodied men of Mellor had tramped “up into the smoke,” as the village put it, in search of London work—­then, out of actual sheer starvation—­that very rare excuse of the poacher!—­Hurd had gone one night and snared a hare on the Mellor land.  Would the wife and mother ever forget the pure animal satisfaction of that meal, or the fearful joy of the next night, when he got three shillings from a local publican for a hare and two rabbits?