by George Eliot
Chapter XXX
The Delivery of the Letter
THE next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of church,hoping for an invitation to go home with them. He had the letter inhis pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hettyalone. He could not see her face at church, for she had changed herseat, and when he came up to her to shake hands, her manner was doubtfuland constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she hadmet him since she had been aware that he had seen her with Arthur in theGrove.
"Come, you'll go on with us, Adam," Mr. Poyser said when they reachedthe turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam ventured tooffer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity oflingering behind a little, and then Adam said:
"Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you thisevening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I've something partic'lar to talk toyou about."
Hetty said, "Very well." She was really as anxious as Adam was that sheshould have some private talk with him. She wondered what he thought ofher and Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she hadno conception of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam.Her first feeling had been that Adam would be very angry with her, andperhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never entered her mindthat he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It was arelief to her that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted tospeak to her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was goinghome with them lest he should mean "to tell." But, now he wanted to talkto her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he meant todo. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not todo anything she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make himbelieve that she didn't care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thoughtthere was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she liked,she knew. Besides, she MUST go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest heruncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her of having some secretlover.
Hetty's little brain was busy with this combination as she hung onAdam's arm and said "yes" or "no" to some slight observations of hisabout the many hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds thisnext winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would hardly hold up tillmorning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue herthoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a youngman might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he wouldnevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about business thewhile; and, for his own part, he was curious to hear the most recentnews about the Chase Farm. So, through the rest of the walk, he claimedAdam's conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots andimagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked alongby the hedgerows on honest Adam's arm, quite as well as if she had beenan elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country beautyin clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is astonishing howclosely her mental processes may resemble those of a lady in societyand crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the problem ofcommitting indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps theresemblance was not much the less because Hetty felt very unhappy allthe while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to her--minglingwith the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fearthat the future might shape itself in some way quite unlike her dream.She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in theirlast meeting--"I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will seewhat can be done." She clung to the belief that he was so fond ofher, he would never be happy without her; and she still hugged hersecret--that a great gentleman loved her--with gratified pride, as asuperiority over all the girls she knew. But the uncertainty of thefuture, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began topress upon her like the invisible weight of air; she was alone on herlittle island of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown waterwhere Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now bylooking forward, but only by looking backward to build confidence onpast words and caresses. But occasionally, since Thursday evening, herdim anxieties had been almost lost behind the more definite fear thatAdam might betray what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his suddenproposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in anew way. She was eager not to lose this evening's opportunity; and aftertea, when the boys were going into the garden and Totty begged to gowith them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs. Poyser,"I'll go with her, Aunt."
It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too,and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the walk by thefilbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the largeunripe nuts to play at "cob-nut" with, and Totty was watching them witha puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a short time--hardly twomonths--since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as hestood by Hetty's side in this garden. The remembrance of that scene hadoften been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight throughthe apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It cameimportunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, buthe tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say morethan was needful for Hetty's sake.
"After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty," he began, "you won't thinkme making too free in what I'm going to say. If you was being courted byany man as 'ud make you his wife, and I'd known you was fond of him andmeant to have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you aboutit; but when I see you're being made love to by a gentleman as can nevermarry you, and doesna think o' marrying you, I feel bound t' interferefor you. I can't speak about it to them as are i' the place o' yourparents, for that might bring worse trouble than's needful."
Adam's words relieved one of Hetty's fears, but they also carried ameaning which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding. She was paleand trembling, and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if shehad dared to betray her feelings. But she was silent.
"You're so young, you know, Hetty," he went on, almost tenderly, "and y'haven't seen much o' what goes on in the world. It's right for me todo what I can to save you from getting into trouble for want o' yourknowing where you're being led to. If anybody besides me knew what Iknow about your meeting a gentleman and having fine presents from him,they'd speak light on you, and you'd lose your character. And besidesthat, you'll have to suffer in your feelings, wi' giving your love toa man as can never marry you, so as he might take care of you all yourlife."
Adam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from thefilbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand. Her little plans andpreconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill-learnt lesson,under the terrible agitation produced by Adam's words. There was a cruelforce in their calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush herflimsy hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them--she wanted to throwthem off with angry contradiction--but the determination to conceal whatshe felt still governed her. It was nothing more than a blind promptingnow, for she was unable to calculate the effect of her words.
"You've no right to say as I love him," she said, faintly, butimpetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. She was verybeautiful in her paleness and agitation, with her dark childish eyesdilated and her breath shorter than usual. Adam's heart yearned over heras he looked at her. Ah, if he could but comfort her, and soothe her,and save her from this pain; if he had but some sort of strength thatwould enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would haverescued her body in the face of all danger!
"I doubt it must be so, Hetty," he said, tenderly; "for I canna believeyou'd let any man kiss you by yourselves, and give you a gold box withhis hair, and go a-walking i' the Grove to meet him, if you didna lovehim. I'm not blaming you, for I know it 'ud begin by little and little,till at last you'd not be able to throw it off. It's him I blame forstealing your love i' that way, when he knew he could never make youthe right amends. He's been trifling with you, and making a plaything ofyou, and caring nothing about you as
a man ought to care."
"Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you," Hetty burst out.Everything was forgotten but the pain and anger she felt at Adam'swords.
"Nay, Hetty," said Adam, "if he'd cared for you rightly, he'd neverha' behaved so. He told me himself he meant nothing by his kissing andpresents, and he wanted to make me believe as you thought light of 'emtoo. But I know better nor that. I can't help thinking as you've beentrusting to his loving you well enough to marry you, for all he's agentleman. And that's why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, forfear you should be deceiving yourself. It's never entered his head thethought o' marrying you."
"How do you know? How durst you say so?" said Hetty, pausing in her walkand trembling. The terrible decision of Adam's tone shook her with fear.She had no presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur wouldhave his reasons for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and lookwere enough to determine Adam: he must give her the letter.
"Perhaps you can't believe me, Hetty, because you think too well ofhim--because you think he loves you better than he does. But I've gota letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give you. I've notread the letter, but he says he's told you the truth in it. But beforeI give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don't let it take too muchhold on you. It wouldna ha' been good for you if he'd wanted to do sucha mad thing as marry you: it 'ud ha' led to no happiness i' th' end."
Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of aletter which Adam had not read. There would be something quite differentin it from what he thought.
Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while hesaid, in a tone of tender entreaty, "Don't you bear me ill will, Hetty,because I'm the means o' bringing you this pain. God knows I'd ha' bornea good deal worse for the sake o' sparing it you. And think--there'snobody but me knows about this, and I'll take care of you as if I wasyour brother. You're the same as ever to me, for I don't believe you'vedone any wrong knowingly."
Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it tillhe had done speaking. She took no notice of what he said--she had notlistened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket,without opening it, and then began to walk more quickly, as if shewanted to go in.
"You're in the right not to read it just yet," said Adam. "Read it whenyou're by yourself. But stay out a little bit longer, and let us callthe children: you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice ofit."
Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of rallyingher native powers of concealment, which had half given way under theshock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in her pocket: she wassure there was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to findTotty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who wasmaking a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripeapple that she had set her small teeth in.
"Hegh, Totty," said Adam, "come and ride on my shoulder--ever sohigh--you'll touch the tops o' the trees."
What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense ofbeing seized strongly and swung upward? I don't believe Ganymede criedwhen the eagle carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove'sshoulder at the end. Totty smiled down complacently from her secureheight, and pleasant was the sight to the mother's eyes, as she stood atthe house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden.
"Bless your sweet face, my pet," she said, the mother's strong lovefilling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty leaned forward and putout her arms. She had no eyes for Hetty at that moment, and only said,without looking at her, "You go and draw some ale, Hetty; the gells areboth at the cheese."
After the ale had been drawn and her uncle's pipe lighted, there wasTotty to be taken to bed, and brought down again in her night-gownbecause she would cry instead of going to sleep. Then there was supperto be got ready, and Hetty must be continually in the way to give help.Adam stayed till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected him to go, engaging herand her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake ofleaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he wanted to see hersafely through that evening, and he was delighted to find how muchself-command she showed. He knew she had not had time to read theletter, but he did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that theletter would contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for himto leave her--hard to think that he should not know for days how she wasbearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and all he could do wasto press her hand gently as he said "Good-bye," and hope she would takethat as a sign that if his love could ever be a refuge for her, it wasthere the same as ever. How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home,in devising pitying excuses for her folly, in referring all her weaknessto the sweet lovingness of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less andless inclination to admit that his conduct might be extenuated too! Hisexasperation at Hetty's suffering--and also at the sense that she waspossibly thrust for ever out of his own reach--deafened him to anyplea for the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery. Adam was aclear-sighted, fair-minded man--a fine fellow, indeed, morally as wellas physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever in love and jealous,he was at that moment not perfectly magnanimous. And I cannot pretendthat Adam, in these painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignationand loving pity. He was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his lovemade him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a ventin his feeling towards Arthur.
"Her head was allays likely to be turned," he thought, "when agentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, and his white hands,and that way o' talking gentlefolks have, came about her, making up toher in a bold way, as a man couldn't do that was only her equal; andit's much if she'll ever like a common man now." He could not helpdrawing his own hands out of his pocket and looking at them--at the hardpalms and the broken finger-nails. "I'm a roughish fellow, altogether; Idon't know, now I come to think on't, what there is much for a woman tolike about me; and yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, ifI hadn't set my heart on her. But it's little matter what other womenthink about me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me, perhaps,as likely as any other man--there's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid of,if he hadn't come between us; but now I shall belike be hateful to herbecause I'm so different to him. And yet there's no telling--she mayturn round the other way, when she finds he's made light of her all thewhile. She may come to feel the vally of a man as 'ud be thankful to bebound to her all his life. But I must put up with it whichever way itis--I've only to be thankful it's been no worse. I am not th' only manthat's got to do without much happiness i' this life. There's many agood bit o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that'senough for us: we shouldn't know better how things ought to be than Hedoes, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling. But it 'ud ha'gone near to spoil my work for me, if I'd seen her brought to sorrow andshame, and through the man as I've always been proud to think on. SinceI've been spared that, I've no right to grumble. When a man's got hislimbs whole, he can bear a smart cut or two."
As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections, heperceived a man walking along the field before him. He knew it was Seth,returning from an evening preaching, and made haste to overtake him.
"I thought thee'dst be at home before me," he said, as Seth turned roundto wait for him, "for I'm later than usual to-night."
"Well, I'm later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with JohnBarnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of perfection,and I'd a question to ask him about his experience. It's one o' themsubjects that lead you further than y' expect--they don't lie along thestraight road."
They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam was notinclined to enter into the subtleties of religious experience, but hewas inclined to interchange a word or two of brotherly affection andconfidence with Seth. That was a rare impulse in him, much as thebrothers loved each other. They hardly ever spoke of personal matters,or uttered more than an allusion to their f
amily troubles. Adam wasby nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certaintimidity towards his more practical brother.
"Seth, lad," Adam said, putting his arm on his brother's shoulder, "hastheard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?"
"Yes," said Seth. "She told me I might write her word after a while, howwe went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to hera fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment, andhow Mother was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at thepost at Treddles'on, I found a letter from her. I think thee'dst perhapslike to read it, but I didna say anything about it because thee'stseemed so full of other things. It's quite easy t' read--she writeswonderful for a woman."
Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, whosaid, as he took it, "Aye, lad, I've got a tough load to carry justnow--thee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit silenter and crustier norusual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we shallstick together to the last."
"I take nought ill o' thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means ifthee't a bit short wi' me now and then."
"There's Mother opening the door to look out for us," said Adam, as theymounted the slope. "She's been sitting i' the dark as usual. Well, Gyp,well, art glad to see me?"
Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heardthe welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp's joyfulbark.
"Eh, my lads! Th' hours war ne'er so long sin' I war born as they'n beenthis blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha' been doin' till thistime?"
"Thee shouldstna sit i' the dark, Mother," said Adam; "that makes thetime seem longer."
"Eh, what am I to do wi' burnin' candle of a Sunday, when there's on'yme an' it's sin to do a bit o' knittin'? The daylight's long enoughfor me to stare i' the booke as I canna read. It 'ud be a fine way o'shortenin' the time, to make it waste the good candle. But which onyou's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I shouldthink, seein' what time o' night it is."
"I'm hungry, Mother," said Seth, seating himself at the little table,which had been spread ever since it was light.
"I've had my supper," said Adam. "Here, Gyp," he added, taking some coldpotato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked uptowards him.
"Thee needstna be gi'in' th' dog," said Lisbeth; "I'n fed him wella'ready. I'm not like to forget him, I reckon, when he's all o' thee Ican get sight on."
"Come, then, Gyp," said Adam, "we'll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I'mvery tired."
"What ails him, dost know?" Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was goneupstairs. "He's like as if he was struck for death this day or two--he'sso cast down. I found him i' the shop this forenoon, arter thee wastgone, a-sittin' an' doin' nothin'--not so much as a booke afore him."
"He's a deal o' work upon him just now, Mother," said Seth, "and I thinkhe's a bit troubled in his mind. Don't you take notice of it, because ithurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don'tsay anything to vex him."
"Eh, what dost talk o' my vexin' him? An' what am I like to be but kind?I'll ma' him a kettle-cake for breakfast i' the mornin'."
Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah's letter by the light of his dipcandle.
DEAR BROTHER SETH--Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of itat the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the carriage, thisbeing a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that havefallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to layby money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many inpresent need of all things, would be a want of trust like the layingup of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think meslow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldlygood that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bearhim is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he usesthem as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to a place ofpower and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his parent and hisyounger brother.
"My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be nearher in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I often bearher in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim lightas I did with her, and we held one another's hands, and I spoke thewords of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time,isn't it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is alittle wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward lightshines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divinestrength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and itis as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. Forthen, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sinI have beheld and been ready to weep over--yea, all the anguish of thechildren of men, which sometimes wraps me round like sudden darkness--Ican bear with a willing pain, as if I was sharing the Redeemer's cross.For I feel it, I feel it--infinite love is suffering too--yea, in thefulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns, it mourns; and that is ablind self-seeking which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewiththe whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not trueblessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in theworld: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw itoff. It is not the spirit only that tells me this--I see it in the wholework and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not theMan of Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? Andis He not one with the Infinite Love itself--as our love is one with oursorrow?
"These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seenwith new clearness the meaning of those words, 'If any man love me, lethim take up my cross.' I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant thetroubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. Butsurely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was thesin and sorrow of this world--that was what lay heavy on his heart--andthat is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we must drinkof with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is onewith his sorrow.
"In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. Ihave had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands havebeen turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so thatI feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What you sayabout staying in your own country with your mother and brother shows methat you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clearshowing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying afalse offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindleit. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes thinkI cling too much to my life among the people here, and should berebellious if I was called away.
"I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the HallFarm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt's desire, after I cameback from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. Myaunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house issufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to herand her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh--yea, and toall in that house. I am carried away to them continually in my sleep,and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the thought of themis borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is darkto me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be taught. You saythey are all well.
"We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be,not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are desirousto have me for a short space among them, when I have a door opened meagain to leave Snowfield.
"Farewell, dear brother--and yet not farewell. For those children ofGod whom it has been granted to see each other face to face, and tohold communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both cannever more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their soulsare enlarged for evermore by that union, and they bear one another aboutin their thoughts continually
as it were a new strength.--Your faithfulSister and fellow-worker in Christ,
"DINAH MORRIS."
"I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen movesslow. And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is in my mind.Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twicewhen we parted."
Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his headresting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came upstairs.
"Hast read the letter?" said Seth.
"Yes," said Adam. "I don't know what I should ha' thought of her and herletter if I'd never seen her: I daresay I should ha' thought a preachingwoman hateful. But she's one as makes everything seem right she saysand does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read theletter. It's wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. She'dmake thee rare and happy, Seth; she's just the woman for thee."
"It's no use thinking o' that," said Seth, despondingly. "She spoke sofirm, and she's not the woman to say one thing and mean another."
"Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love bydegrees--the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I'd have thee go andsee her by and by: I'd make it convenient for thee to be away threeor four days, and it 'ud be no walk for thee--only between twenty andthirty mile."
"I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna bedispleased with me for going," said Seth.
"She'll be none displeased," said Adam emphatically, getting up andthrowing off his coat. "It might be a great happiness to us all if she'dhave thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so contentedto be with her."
"Aye," said Seth, rather timidly, "and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too; shethinks a deal about her."
Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but "good-night" passedbetween them.
