“Now listen to me, if it’s no taking up your time,” said Farfrae, “just as I listened to you. Don’t go. Stay at home.”
“But I can do nothing else, man!” said Henchard scornfully. “The little money I have will just keep body and soul together for a few weeks, and no more. I have not felt inclined to go back to journey-work yet; but I can’t stay doing nothing, and my best chance is elsewhere.”
“No; but what I propose is this—if ye will listen. Come and live in your old house. We can spare some rooms very well—I am sure my wife would not mind it at all—until there’s an opening for ye.”
Henchard started. Probably the picture drawn by the unsuspecting Donald of himself under the same roof with Lucetta was too striking to be received with equanimity. “No, no,” he said gruffly; “we should quarrel.”
“You should hae a part to yourself,” said Farfrae; “and nobody to interfere wi’ you. It will be a deal healthier than down there by the river where you live now.”
Still Henchard refused. “You don’t know what you ask,” he said. “However, I can do no less than thank ’ee.”
They walked into the town together side by side, as they had done when Henchard persuaded the young Scotchman to remain. “Will you come in and have some supper?” said Farfrae when they reached the middle of the town, where their paths diverged right and left.
“No, no.”
“By-the-bye, I had nearly forgot. I bought a good deal of your furniture.
“So I have heard.”