But there were pressing reasons why she should not wait for him to make the advances which he would in ordinary circumstances have made after his sulkiness had abated.
All her fellow-servants and all the villagers, who were not members of the Hutchings family, were assured that he had murdered Lord Loudwater.
Three of the maids, who were jealous of her greater prettiness, had with ill-dissembled spitefulness congratulated her on having dismissed him before the murder; her mother had also congratulated her on that fact.
Elizabeth Twitcher was the last girl in the world to desert a man in misfortune, and, considering James Hutchings' temper, she could only consider the murder a misfortune.

Besides, she had been very fond of him; she was very fond of him still, and the fact that he was in great trouble was making him dearer to her.
Moreover, every one who spoke to her about him told her that he was looking miserable beyond words.

Her heart went out to him.
None the less, she did not go to see him without a struggle.

She felt that he ought to come to her.

However, her pride had been beaten in that struggle by her fondness and her pity--even more by her pity.
When she knocked at the door of his father's cottage James Hutchings himself opened it, and his harassed, hang-dog air settled in her mind for good and all the question of his guilt.