She could no
longer bear to be shut up in herself; she must see somebody, get
near to somebody, talk to somebody; her secret would choke her
otherwise, would swell and break her heart; and who was there to
think of but Tom--and Mary Marston?
She had never once gone to the oak again, but she had not
altogether avoided a certain little cobwebbed gable-window in the
garret, from which it was visible; neither had she withheld her
hands from cleaning a pane in that window, that through it she
might see the oak; and there, more than once or twice, now
thickening the huge limb, now spotting the grass beneath it, she
had descried a dark object, which could be nothing else than Tom
Helmer on the watch for herself. He must surely be her friend,
she reasoned, or how would he care, day after day, to climb a
tree to look if she were coming--she who was the veriest nobody
in all other eyes but his? It was so good of Tom! She
_would_ call him Tom; everybody else called him Tom, and why
shouldn't she--to herself, when nobody was near? As to Mary
Marston, she treated her like a child! When she told her that she
had met Tom at Durnmelling, and how kind he had been, she looked
as grave as if it had been wicked to be civil to him; and told
her in return how he and his mother were always quarreling: that
must be his mother's fault, she was sure-it could not be Tom's;
any one might see that at a glance! His mother must be something
like her aunt! But, after that, how could she tell Mary any more?
It would not be fair to Tom, for, like the rest, she would
certainly begin to abuse him.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114