Hence when,
instead of scribbling, like the Princess Ida,--
"In such a hand as when a field of corn
Bows all its ears before the roaring East,"
Elizabeth-Jane produced a line of chain-shot and sand-bags, he reddened
in angry shame for her, and, peremptorily saying, "Never mind--I'll
finish it," dismissed her there and then.
Her considerate disposition became a pitfall to her now. She was, it
must be admitted, sometimes provokingly and unnecessarily willing to
saddle herself with manual labours. She would go to the kitchen instead
of ringing, "Not to make Phoebe come up twice." She went down on
her knees, shovel in hand, when the cat overturned the coal-scuttle;
moreover, she would persistently thank the parlour-maid for everything,
till one day, as soon as the girl was gone from the room, Henchard broke
out with, "Good God, why dostn't leave off thanking that girl as if she
were a goddess-born! Don't I pay her a dozen pound a year to do things
for 'ee?" Elizabeth shrank so visibly at the exclamation that he became
sorry a few minutes after, and said that he did not mean to be rough.
These domestic exhibitions were the small protruding needlerocks which
suggested rather than revealed what was underneath. But his passion had
less terror for her than his coldness. The increasing frequency of the
latter mood told her the sad news that he disliked her with a growing
dislike.
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