Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter XIII

  Evening in the Wood

  IT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs.Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning--a fact which had twoconsequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to havetea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's maidwith so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best's conduct,and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as aninterlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presenceof mind than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in anoccasional "yes" or "no." She would have wanted to put on her hatearlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that sheusually set out about eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD go to the Groveagain expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Herlittle butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubiousexpectation. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-facedtimepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reasonfor its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret'spreoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked like anew flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat beforethe looking-glass.

  "That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe," was herinward comment. "The more's the pity. She'll get neither a place nora husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don't like suchpretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had beenso very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teachingher something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. Theyalways told me I was good-natured--and that's the truth, and to my hurttoo, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lordit over me in the housekeeper's room."

  Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which shehad to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardlyhave spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely underthe oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready tobe startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She thoughtnothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleysbetween the fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visiblethan it had been in the overpowering flood of noon: she thought ofnothing that was present. She only saw something that was possible: Mr.Arthur Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove.That was the foreground of Hetty's picture; behind it lay a bright hazysomething--days that were not to be as the other days of her life hadbeen. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might anytime take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was noknowing what would come, since this strange entrancing delight had come.If a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from someunknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot wasgoing to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joywould befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if she had ever seenone, I think the words would have been too hard for her; how then couldshe find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as thesweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated pasther as she walked by the gate.

  She is at another gate now--that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She entersthe wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, thefear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how drearyit was--the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into theunsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turningtowards the Hermitage, walking slowly--he is not there. She hates theleveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is not whatshe longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend inthe road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: herheart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one greatsob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down.

  She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, thatshe is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yardsfrom her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is theobject. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which hasbeen growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not,of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedlyfallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindnesswhich would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her fromrunning away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.

  If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it wouldhave been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wiselyas he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the endof the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rollingdown her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft,soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in herfoot?

  "Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in thewood? Don't be frightened--I'll take care of you now."

  Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy ormiserable. To be crying again--what did gentlemen think of girls whocried in that way? She felt unable even to say "no," but could only lookaway from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drophad fallen on her rose-coloured strings--she knew that quite well.

  "Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter.Come, tell me."

  Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, "I thought you wouldn'tcome," and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was toomuch: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovinglyin return.

  "You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won'tcry again, now I'm with you, will you?"

  Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not whathe meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it istightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to theround cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for along moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aughthe knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may beEros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche--it is all one.

  There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beatinghearts till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood.Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, forin their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.

  But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with thefountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his armfrom Hetty's waist, and said, "Here we are, almost at the end of theGrove. I wonder how late it is," he added, pulling out his watch."Twenty minutes past eight--but my watch is too fast. However, I'dbetter not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet,and get home safely. Good-bye."

  He took her hand, and looked at her half-sadly, half with a constrainedsmile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but hepatted her cheek and said "Good-bye" again. She was obliged to turn awayfrom him and go on.

  As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to puta wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitageagain; he remembered how he had debated with himself there beforedinner, and it had all come to nothing--worse than nothing. He walkedright on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely washaunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes--there wassomething enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knottedold oaks had no bending languor in them--the sight of them would givea man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings inthe fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilightdeepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare lookedblack as it darted across his path.

  He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: itwas as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to disputehis mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. Heno sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way tothe emotions which ha
d stolen over him to-day--of continuing to noticeHetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses ashe had been betrayed into already--than he refused to believe such afuture possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very differentaffair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that wasunderstood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious,there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spokenill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and thenthose excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as preciousas if they had the best blood in the land in their veins--he should hatehimself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to behis own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to berespected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his ownesteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches allthe rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position itwas too odious, too unlike him.

  And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond ofeach other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting,after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece.There must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish.

  And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went toGawaine's; and while he was there something had taken hold of him andmade him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his ownresolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm wouldget painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfortit would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulsemight seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there wasnothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong day. What couldhe do to secure himself from any more of this folly?

  There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine--tell himeverything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; thetemptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when onerepeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tellIrwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfastto-morrow.

  Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to thinkwhich of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thitheras he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tirehim, and there was no more need for him to think.