It proved to be her
father's cart, and to contain Tom, who had been over to Thingleby
that morning to see what chance there was of getting any money out
of a blacksmith who was largely in Mr. Furze's debt. He saw there
was something wrong, and dismounted.
"Why, Miss Catharine, you are all wet! What is the matter?"
"I slipped down."
She could not tell the truth, although usually so straightforward.
Tom looked at her inquiringly as if he was not quite sure, but there
was something in her face which forbade further investigation.
"You've lost your shoes; you cannot walk home; will you let me give
you a lift to Chapel Farm?"
"They do not matter a straw: it is grass nearly the whole way."
"I'll fish them out, if you will show me where they are."
"Carried down by this time ever so far."
"But you will hurt your feet; it isn't all grass; you had better get
in."
She thought suddenly of the bargee again, and reflected that the
barge might still be moored where it was an hour ago.
"Very well, then, I will go."
She essayed to put her foot upon the step, but the mud on her
stocking was greasy, and she fell backwards. Tom caught her in his
arms, and a strange thrill passed through him when he felt that the
whole weight of her body rested on him. Many a man there is who can
call to mind, across forty years, a silly passage like this in his
life. His hair has whitened; all passion ought long ago to have
died out of him; thousands of events of infinitely greater
consequence have happened; he has read much in philosophy and
religion, and has forgotten it all, and a slip on the ice when
skating together, or a stumble on the stair, or the pressure of a
hand prolonged just for a second in parting, is felt with its
original intensity, and the thought of it drives warm blood once
more through the arteries.
Pages:
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53