Hard Times. Чарльз Диккенс

the outside of his home he gloomily passed to the inside, with suspended breath and with a slow footstep. He went up to his door, opened it, and so into the room.

      Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was there, sitting by the bed.

      She turned her head, and the light of her face shone in upon the midnight of his mind. She sat by the bed, watching and tending his wife. That is to say, he saw that some one lay there, and he knew too well it must be she; but Rachael’s hands had put a curtain up, so that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful garments were removed, and some of Rachael’s were in the room. Everything was in its place and order as he had always kept it, the little fire was newly trimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. It appeared to him that he saw all this in Rachael’s face, and looked at nothing besides. While looking at it, it was shut out from his view by the softened tears that filled his eyes; but not before he had seen how earnestly she looked at him, and how her own eyes were filled too.

      She turned again towards the bed, and satisfying herself that all was quiet there, spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice.

      ‘I am glad you have come at last, Stephen. You are very late.’

      ‘I ha’ been walking up an’ down.’

      ‘I thought so. But ’tis too bad a night for that. The rain falls very heavy, and the wind has risen.’

      The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Hark to the thundering in the chimney, and the surging noise! To have been out in such a wind, and not to have known it was blowing!

      ‘I have been here once before, to-day, Stephen. Landlady came round for me at dinner-time. There was some one here that needed looking to, she said. And ’deed she was right. All wandering and lost, Stephen. Wounded too, and bruised.’