and a swelling heart—must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a story, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!
Tom Pinch's situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult, by the fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin. Honourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all kinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in the village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these places he might have spoken freely. But no: at all such times she carefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could not be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little delicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled him out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of kindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never returned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom's cheek grew red with self-reproach, as he dismissed the thought.
All this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat among the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little inter- course with any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not wilful in other things, or troublesome, or morose: being never better pleased than when they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own amusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in whom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them. Unless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or eyes for anything that passed.
One day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree in the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by the imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr. Jonas, felt that a new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the expectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to see old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his seat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:
"When are you to be married?"
"Oh! dear Mr. Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I'm sure I don't know. Not yet awhile, I hope."
"You hope?" said the old man.
It was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled excessively.
"Come!" said the old man, with unusual kindness, "you are young, good-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to be, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart."
"I have not given it all away, I can tell you," said Merry, nodding her head shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.
"Have you parted with any of it?"
She threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.
Martin repeated his question.
"Lor, my dear Mr. Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you are."
"If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man whom I understand you are to marry, I am very odd," said Martin. "For that is certainly my wish."
