by George Eliot
Chapter XII
In the Wood
THAT same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about inhis dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person reflected inthe old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green pieceof tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to havebeen minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself,which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over hisshoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution.
"I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so," he said aloud."I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready byhalf-past eleven."
The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution,here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as hehurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar's Opera,"When the heart of a man is oppressed with care." Not an heroic strain;nevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards thestables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation wasnecessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quitegratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yetforfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his ownvirtues. No young man could confess his faults more candidly; candourwas one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man's candour be seenin all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he hadan agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generouskind--impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty,reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anythingmean, dastardly, or cruel. "No! I'm a devil of a fellow for gettingmyself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall onmy own shoulders." Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice inhobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict theirworst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudlyexpressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the schemeof things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besideshimself. He was nothing if not good-natured; and all his pictures ofthe future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of aprosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be themodel of an English gentleman--mansion in first-rate order, all eleganceand high taste--jolly housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire--purse opento all public objects--in short, everything as different as possiblefrom what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one ofthe first good actions he would perform in that future should be toincrease Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he mightkeep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for therector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affectionpartly filial, partly fraternal--fraternal enough to make him likeIrwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enoughto make him shrink strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation.
You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a good fellow"--all hiscollege friends thought him such. He couldn't bear to see any oneuncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods forany harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia herself hadthe benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore towards the wholesex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmlessand purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was aquestion that no one had yet decided against him; he was but twenty-one,you remember, and we don't inquire too closely into character in thecase of a handsome generous young fellow, who will have property enoughto support numerous peccadilloes--who, if he should unfortunatelybreak a man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension himhandsomely; or if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence for her,will make it up to her with expensive bon-bons, packed up and directedby his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analyticin such cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of aconfidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets abouta young man of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuitionwhich is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once thathe is "nice." The chances are that he will go through life withoutscandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse toinsure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes maketerribly evident some flaw in their construction that would never havebeen discoverable in smooth water; and many a "good fellow," through adisastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal.
But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguriesconcerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capableof a prudent resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear:Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray with perfectcomfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never get beyond thatborder-land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assaultsfrom the other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier ofVice, and wear her orders in his button-hole.
It was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly;everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is apleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel onone's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent ofthe stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be amongthe soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it someirritation to Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables;everything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfatherpersisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort oflever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire asuccession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whomhad lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch onArthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embittering; onecan put up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable madea scene of vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human fleshand blood can be expected to endure long together without danger ofmisanthropy.
Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that metArthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned forhim the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He couldnever speak quite patiently to the old blockhead.
"You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-pasteleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Doyou hear?"
"Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n," said old John very deliberately, followingthe young master into the stable. John considered a young master as thenatural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poorcontrivance for carrying on the world.
Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possibleto see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper beforebreakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, andturned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tinyspaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curledup on her back.
"Well, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll havea glorious canter this morning."
"Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be," said John.
"Not be? Why not?"
"Why, she's got lamed."
"Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?"
"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'emflung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near foreleg."
The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued.You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingledwith soothing "who-ho's" while the leg was examined; that John stoodby with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carvedcrab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassedthe iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went.
He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was notanother mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg andRattler. It was vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the wayfor a week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such acombination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a brokenarm
when every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himselfat Windsor--shut up with his grandfather, who had the same sort ofaffection for him as for his parchment deeds! And to be disgusted atevery turn with the management of the house and the estate! In suchcircumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off theirritation by some excess or other. "Salkeld would have drunk a bottleof port every day," he muttered to himself, "but I'm not well seasonedenough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gallopon Rattler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine."
Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he lunchedwith Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach the Chase againtill nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in thehousekeeper's room; and when she set out to go home, it would be hislazy time after dinner, so he should keep out of her way altogether.There really would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing,and it was worth dancing with a dozen ballroom belles only to look atHetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any morenotice of her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted;though Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so softand easily bruised; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cooland cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's case, itwas out of the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond forhimself with perfect confidence.
So the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping towards Norburne; and bygood fortune Halsell Common lay in his road and gave him some fineleaps for Rattler. Nothing like "taking" a few bushes and ditches forexorcising a demon and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, withtheir immense advantages in this way, have left so bad a reputation inhistory.
After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear that although Gawainewas at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcelycleared the last stroke of three when Arthur returned through theentrance-gates, got down from the panting Rattler, and went into thehouse to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been mensince his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and thengalloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favouritestratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp roundupon us at the moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own.
"The cap'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace," said Dalton thecoachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipeagainst the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler.
"An' I wish he'd get the devil to do's grooming for'n," growled John.
"Aye; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now," observedDalton--and the joke appeared to him so good that, being left alone uponthe scene, he continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouthin order to wink at an imaginary audience and shake luxuriously witha silent, ventral laughter, mentally rehearsing the dialogue from thebeginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' hall.
When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it wasinevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in theday should flash across his mind; but it was impossible for him nowto dwell on the remembrance--impossible to recall the feelings andreflections which had been decisive with him then, any more than torecall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when hefirst opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like anill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the force with which thistrivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous as hebrushed his hair--pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It wasbecause he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking ofit as if it were of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeingHetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was allIrwine's fault. "If Irwine had said nothing, I shouldn't have thoughthalf so much of Hetty as of Meg's lameness." However, it was just thesort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he would go and finishDr. Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-treeGrove--the way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm.So nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a merecircumstance of his walk, not its object.
Arthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chasethan might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warmafternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when he stood beforethe tall narrow gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood whichskirted one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, notbecause the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a woodof beeches and limes, with here and there a light silver-stemmedbirch--just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs: you see theirwhite sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behindthe smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquidlaughter--but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, theyvanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that theirvoice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose themselvesinto a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from the topmostbough. It was not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for youto tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged withfaint dashes of delicate moss--paths which look as if they were madeby the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside tolook at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs.
It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed,under an avenue of limes and beeches. It was a still afternoon--thegolden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, onlyglancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge offaintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in which destiny disguises her coldawful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downywings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled alongcarelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on the groundas meditative men are apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on thedistant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appearbefore long. Ah! There she comes. First a bright patch of colour, likea tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a roundhat on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almostfrightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a flutteredyet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had timeto think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feelfluttered too, be conscious of blushing too--in fact, look and feel asfoolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just whathe expected. Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden ageof childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each otherwith timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss,and toddled off to play together. Arthur would have gone home to hissilk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow, and both wouldhave slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardlyconscious of a yesterday.
Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side without giving a reason.They were alone together for the first time. What an overpoweringpresence that first privacy is! He actually dared not look at thislittle butter-maker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feetrested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs; she hadforgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of herlimbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, restingon a liquid bed and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams. It may seem acontradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and confidencefrom his timidity: it was an entirely different state of mind from whathe had expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was ofvague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for thethought that his previous debates and scruples were needless.
"You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase," hesaid at last, looking down at Hetty; "it is so much prettier as well asshorter than coming by either of the lodges."
"Yes, sir," Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice.She didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr. Arthur, andher very vanity made her more coy of speec
h.
"Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?"
"Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with MissDonnithorne."
"And she's teaching you something, is she?"
"Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and thestocking-mending--it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell it'sbeen mended; and she teaches me cutting-out too."
"What! are YOU going to be a lady's maid?"
"I should like to be one very much indeed." Hetty spoke more audiblynow, but still rather tremulously; she thought, perhaps she seemed asstupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her.
"I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?"
"She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because my auntcouldn't spare me; but the regular time is four, because that gives ustime before Miss Donnithorne's bell rings."
"Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you theHermitage. Did you ever see it?"
"No, sir."
"This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I'llshow it you some other time, if you'd like to see it."
"Yes, please, sir."
"Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you afraid tocome so lonely a road?"
"Oh no, sir, it's never late; I always set out by eight o'clock, andit's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if Ididn't get home before nine."
"Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?"
A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. "I'm sure he doesn't;I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him; I don't like him," she saidhastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast that before she haddone speaking a bright drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she feltashamed to death that she was crying, and for one long instant herhappiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her,and a gentle voice said, "Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn't meanto vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come,don't cry; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me."
Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, andwas stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty liftedher long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with asweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three momentswere while their eyes met and his arms touched her! Love is such asimple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a sweet girlof seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud firstopening her heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such youngunfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches thattouch softly and are at rest; they mingle as easily as two brookletsthat ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple withever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthurgazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to himwhat sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops and powder had beenin fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then thatHetty wanted those signs of high breeding.
But they started asunder with beating hearts: something had fallen onthe ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty's basket; all her littleworkwoman's matters were scattered on the path, some of them showinga capability of rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done inpicking up, and not a word was spoken; but when Arthur hung the basketover her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his lookand manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tonethat were almost chilling to her, "I have been hindering you; I must notkeep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye."
Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurriedback towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursueher way in a strange dream that seemed to have begun in bewilderingdelight and was now passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would hemeet her again as she came home? Why had he spoken almost as if he weredispleased with her? And then run away so suddenly? She cried, hardlyknowing why.
Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by amore distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood inthe heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammedit after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant corner, and thrustinghis right hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up anddown the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself onthe ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wishnot to abandon ourselves to feeling.
He was getting in love with Hetty--that was quite plain. He was readyto pitch everything else--no matter where--for the sake of surrenderinghimself to this delicious feeling which had just disclosed itself. Itwas no use blinking the fact now--they would get too fond of each other,if he went on taking notice of her--and what would come of it? He shouldhave to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would bemiserable. He MUST NOT see her alone again; he must keep out of her way.What a fool he was for coming back from Gawaine's!
He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of theafternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round theHermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as he leaned outand looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolutionsufficiently fixed: there was no need to debate with himself any longer.He had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he mightgive himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would be ifcircumstances were different--how pleasant it would have been to meether this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again andlook into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little thing werethinking of him too--twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes werewith the tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for aday with looking at them, and he MUST see her again--he must see her,simply to remove any false impression from her mind about his mannerto her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her--just toprevent her from going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes,that would be the best thing to do after all.
It was a long while--more than an hour before Arthur had brought hismeditations to this point; but once arrived there, he could stay nolonger at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement untilhe should see Hetty again. And it was already late enough to go anddress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six.
