"Folk in her way say
many and many a strange thing; and th' best way is never to mind
them. Now you take your mother home, Jem, and stay by her till old
Alice is gone, and trust me for seeing after Mary."
Jem felt how right Job was, and could not resist what he knew to be
his duty, but I cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he was
as he stood at the door to take a last fond, lingering look at Mary.
He saw her sitting up in bed, her golden hair, dimmed with her one
day's illness, floating behind her, her head bound round with wetted
cloths, her features all agitated, even to distortion, with the
pangs of her anxiety.
Her lover's eyes filled with tears. He could not hope. The
elasticity of his heart had been crushed out of him by early
sorrows; and now, especially, the dark side of everything seemed to
be presented to him. What if she died, just when he knew the
treasure, the untold treasure he possessed in her love! What if
(worse than death) she remained a poor gibbering maniac all her life
long (and mad people do live to be old sometimes, even under all the
pressure of their burden), terror-distracted as she was now, and no
one able to comfort her!
"Jem," said Job, partly guessing the other's feelings by his own.
Pages:
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680