"I have but lately come in from there. It
is so very good of 'ee, Elizabeth, to come and tell me. You must be
so tired out, too, with sitting up. Now do you bide here with me this
morning. You can go and rest in the other room; and I will call 'ee when
breakfast is ready."
To please him, and herself--for his recent kindliness was winning a
surprised gratitude from the lonely girl--she did as he bade her, and
lay down on a sort of couch which Henchard had rigged up out of a
settle in the adjoining room. She could hear him moving about in his
preparations; but her mind ran most strongly on Lucetta, whose death
in such fulness of life and amid such cheerful hopes of maternity was
appallingly unexpected. Presently she fell asleep.
Meanwhile her stepfather in the outer room had set the breakfast in
readiness; but finding that she dozed he would not call her; he
waited on, looking into the fire and keeping the kettle boiling with
house-wifely care, as if it were an honour to have her in his house. In
truth, a great change had come over him with regard to her, and he was
developing the dream of a future lit by her filial presence, as though
that way alone could happiness lie.
He was disturbed by another knock at the door, and rose to open it,
rather deprecating a call from anybody just then.
Pages:
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417