Chapter 8
Tom dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars,and then fell into a moody jog.He crossed a small“branch”two or three times,because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit.
Half an hour later he was disappearing behind the Douglas mansion on the summit of Cardiff Hill,and the schoolhouse was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him.He entered a dense wood,picked his pathless way to the center of it,and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak.
There was not even a zephyr stirring;the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds;nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a woodpecker,and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more profound.The boy's soul was steeped in melancholy;
his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings.He sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands,meditating.
It seemed to him that life was but a trouble,at best,and he more than half envied Jimmy Hodges,so lately released;it must be very peaceful,he thought,to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever,with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave,and nothing to bother and grieve about,ever any more.If he only had a clean Sunday-school record he could be willing to go,and be clone with it all.
Now as to this girl.What had he done?Nothing.He had meant the best in the world,and been treated like a dog—like a very dog.She would be sorry some day—maybe when it was too late.Ah,if he could only die temporarily!
But the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.Tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again.
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