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Furies for being so uncommunicative。
“He is shooting in Yorkshire；” said Tom。 “Sent Loo a basket
half as big as a church； yesterday。”
“The kind of gentleman； now；” said Mrs Sparsit； sweetly；
“whom one might wager to be a good shot！”
“Crack；” said Tom。
He had long been a down…looking young fellow； but this
characteristic had so increased of late； that he never raised his
eyes to any face for three seconds together。 Mrs Sparsit
consequently had ample means of watching his looks； if she were
so inclined。
“Mr Harthouse is a great favourite of mine；” said Mrs Sparsit；
“as indeed he is of most people。 May we expect to see him again
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shortly； Mr Tom？”
“Why； I expect to see him tomorrow；” returned the whelp。
“Good news！” cried Mrs Sparsit； blandly。
“I have got an appointment with him to meet him in the
evening at the station here；” said Tom； “and I am going to dine
with him afterwards； I believe。 He is not coming down to the
country house for a week or so； being due somewhere else。 At
least； he says so； but I shouldn’t wonder if he was to stop here over
Sunday； and stray that way。”
“Which reminds me！” said Mrs Sparsit。 “Would you remember
a message to your sister； Mr Tom； if I was to charge you with
one？”
“Well？ I’ll try；” returned the reluctant whelp； “if it isn’t a long
un。”
“It is merely my respectful compliments；” said Mrs Sparsit；
“and I fear I may not trouble her with my society this week； being
still a little nervous； and better perhaps by my poor self。”
“Oh！ if that’s all；” observed Tom； “it wouldn’t much matter；
even if I was to forget it； for Loo’s not likely to think of you unless
she sees you。”
Having paid for his entertainment with this agreeable
compliment； he relapsed into a hangdog silence until Mrs Sparsit；
I must be off！” and went off。
Next day； Saturday； Mrs Sparsit sat at her window all day long：
looking at the customers coming and out； watching the postman；
keeping an eye on the general traffic of the street； revolving many
things in her mind； but； above all； keeping her attention on her
staircase。 The evening came； she put on her bonnet and shawl；
and went quietly out： having her reasons for hovering in a furtive
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way about the station by which a passenger would arrive from
Yorkshire； and for preferring to peep into it round pillars and
corners； and out of ladies’ waiting…room windows； to appearing in
its precincts openly。
Tom was in attendance； and loitered about until the expected
train came in。 It brought no Mr Harthouse。 Tom waited until the
crowd had dispersed； and the bustle was over； and then referred
to a posted list of strolled away idly； stopping in the street and
looking up it and down it； and lifting his hat off and putting it on
again； and yawning and stretching himself； and exhibiting all the
symptoms of mortal weariness to be expected in one who had still
to wait until the next train should come in； an hour and forty
minutes hence。
“This is a device to keep him out of the way；” said Mrs Sparsit；
starting from the dull office window whence she had watched him
last。 “Harthouse is with his sister now！”
It was the conception of an inspired moment； and she shot off
with her utmost swiftness to work it out。 The station for the
country house was at the opposite end of the town； the time was
short； the road not easy； but she was so quick on pouncing on a
disengaged coach； so quick in darting out of it； producing her
money； seizing her ticket； and diving into the train； that she was
borne along the arches spanning the land of coal…pits past and
present； as if she had been caught up in a cloud and whirled away。
All the journey； immovable in the air though never left behind；
plain to the dark eyes of her mind； as the electric wires which
ruled a colossal strip of music paper out of the evening sky； was
plain to the dark eyes of her body； Mrs Sparsit saw her staircase
with the figure coming down。 Very near the bottom now。 Upon the
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Hard Times 267
brink of the abyss。
An overcast September evening； just at nightfall； saw beneath
its drooping eyelid Mrs Sparsit glide out of her carriage； pass
down the wooden steps of the little station into a stony road； cross
it into a green lane； and become hidden in a summer…growth of
leaves and branches。 One or two late birds sleepily chirping in
their nests； and a bat heavily crossing and recrossing her； and the
reek of her own tread in the thick dust that felt like velvet； were all
Mrs Sparsit heard or saw until she very softly closed a gate。
She went up to the house； keeping within the shrubbery； and
went round it； peeping between the leaves at the lower windows。
Most of them were open； as they usually were in such warm
weather； but there were no lights yet； and all was silent。 She tried
the garden with no better effect。 She thought of the wood； and
stole towards it； heedless of long grass and briers： of worms； snails；
and slugs； and all the creeping things that be。 With her dark eyes
and her hook nose warily in advance of her； Mrs Sparsit softly
crushed her way through the thick undergrowth； so intent upon
her object that she probably would have done no less； if the wood
had been a wood of adders。
Hark！
The smaller birds might have tumbled out of their nests；
fascinated by the glittering of Mrs Sparsit’s eyes in the gloom； as
she stopped and listened。
Low voices close at hand。 His voice and hers。 The a