Лето
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MissHatchardwasstillaway;butevenhadshebeenatNorthDormershewasthelastpersontowhomCharitywouldhaveturned,sinceoneofthemotivesurginghertoflightwasthewishnottoseeLuciusHarney.TravellingbackfromNettleton,inthecrowdedbrightly-littrain,allexchangeofconfidencebetweenthemhadbeenimpossible;butduringtheirdrivefromHepburntoCrestonRivershehadgatheredfromHarney’ssnatchesofconsolatorytalk—againhamperedbythefreckledboy’spresence—thatheintendedtoseeherthenextday.Atthemomentshehadfoundavaguecomfortintheassurance;butinthedesolatelucidityofthehoursthatfollowedshehadcometoseetheimpossibilityofmeetinghimagain.Herdreamofcomradeshipwasover;andthesceneonthewharf—vileanddisgracefulasithadbeen—hadafterallshedthelightoftruthonherminuteofmadness.Itwasasifherguardian’swordshadstrippedherbareinthefaceofthegrinningcrowdandproclaimedtotheworldthesecretadmonitionsofherconscience.
Shedidnotthinkthesethingsoutclearly;shesimplyfollowedtheblindpropulsionofherwretchedness.Shedidnotwant,everagain,toseeanyoneshehadknown;aboveall,shedidnotwanttoseeHarney....
Sheclimbedthehill-pathbehindthehouseandstruckthroughthewoodsbyashort-cutleadingtotheCrestonroad.Alead-colouredskyhungheavilyoverthefields,andintheforestthemotionlessairwasstifling;butshepushedon,impatienttoreachtheroadwhichwastheshortestwaytotheMountain.
