Bradshaw say?"
Mrs. Coleman covered her face in her hands. Zachariah felt no pity.
His anger was roused. He was able to say hard things at times, and
there was even a touch of brutality in him.
"Whose fault is it that I do not talk to you? When did I ever get
any help from you? What do you understand about what concerns me,
and when have you ever tried to understand anything? Your home is no
home to me. My life is blasted, and it might have been different.
The meeting shall not be here, and I will do as I please."
He went out of the room in a rage, and downstairs into the street,
going straight to his work. It is a terrible moment when the first
bitter quarrel takes place, and when hatred, even if it be hatred for
the moment only first finds expression. That moment can never be
recalled! Is it ever really forgotten, or really forgiven? Some of
us can call to mind a word, just one word, spoken, twenty, thirty,
forty, fifty years ago, which rings in our ears even to-day as
distinctly as when it was uttered, and forces the blood into the head
as it did then. When Zachariah returned that night he and his wife
spoke to each other as if nothing had happened, but they spoke only
about indifferent things.
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