by George Eliot
Chapter XXXVI
The Journey of Hope
A LONG, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from thefamiliar to the strange: that is a hard and dreary thing even to therich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when we are calledby duty, not urged by dread.
What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no longermelting into vague hopes, but pressed upon by the chill ofdefinite fear, repeating again and again the same small round ofmemories--shaping again and again the same childish, doubtful imagesof what was to come--seeing nothing in this wide world but the littlehistory of her own pleasures and pains; with so little money in herpocket, and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could affordalways to go in the coaches--and she felt sure she could not, for thejourney to Stoniton was more expensive than she had expected--it wasplain that she must trust to carriers' carts or slow waggons; and whata time it would be before she could get to the end of her journey! Theburly old coachman from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young womanamong the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit besidehim; and feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open thedialogue with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off thestones to the elaboration of one suitable in all respects. After manycuts with his whip and glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye,he lifted his lips above the edge of his wrapper and said, "He's prettynigh six foot, I'll be bound, isna he, now?"
"Who?" said Hetty, rather startled.
"Why, the sweetheart as you've left behind, or else him as you're goin'arter--which is it?"
Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought thiscoachman must know something about her. He must know Adam, and mighttell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to country people tobelieve that those who make a figure in their own parish are not knowneverywhere else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to understandthat chance words could happen to apply closely to her circumstances.She was too frightened to speak.
"Hegh, hegh!" said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not sogratifying as he had expected, "you munna take it too ser'ous; if he'sbehaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass as you can get a sweetheartany day."
Hetty's fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the coachmanmade no further allusion to her personal concerns; but it still had theeffect of preventing her from asking him what were the places on theroad to Windsor. She told him she was only going a little way out ofStoniton, and when she got down at the inn where the coach stopped, shehastened away with her basket to another part of the town. When shehad formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen anydifficulties except that of getting away, and after she had overcomethis by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meetingwith Arthur and the question how he would behave to her--not resting onany probable incidents of the journey. She was too entirely ignorantof traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her storeof money--her three guineas--in her pocket, she thought herself amplyprovided. It was not until she found how much it cost her to get toStoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journey, and then, forthe first time, she felt her ignorance as to the places that must bepassed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along thegrim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little inn,where she hoped to get a cheap lodging for the night. Here she askedthe landlord if he could tell her what places she must go to, to get toWindsor.
"Well, I can't rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it'swhere the king lives," was the answer. "Anyhow, you'd best go t' Ashbynext--that's south'ard. But there's as many places from here to Londonas there's houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I've never beenno traveller myself. But how comes a lone young woman like you to bethinking o' taking such a journey as that?"
"I'm going to my brother--he's a soldier at Windsor," said Hetty,frightened at the landlord's questioning look. "I can't afford to goby the coach; do you think there's a cart goes toward Ashby in themorning?"
"Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; butyou might run over the town before you found out. You'd best set off andwalk, and trust to summat overtaking you."
Every word sank like lead on Hetty's spirits; she saw the journeystretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get to Ashby seemed a hardthing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was nothingto the rest of the journey. But it must be done--she must get to Arthur.Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her!She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeingfamiliar faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whosefarthest journey had been to Rosseter on the pillion with her uncle;whose thoughts had always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure,because all the business of her life was managed for her--thiskittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any othergrief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girdedat by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way inloneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but atremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the first time, asshe lay down to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her homehad been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, thather quiet lot at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, with herlittle pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and nothing to hide fromany one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and findthat all the feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare.She thought of all she had left behind with yearning regret for her ownsake. Her own misery filled her heart--there was no room in it for otherpeople's sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been sotender and loving. The memory of that had still a charm for her, thoughit was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable.For Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future thana hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had nodelights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew noromances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are thesource of romance, so that well-read ladies may find it difficult tounderstand her state of mind. She was too ignorant of everything beyondthe simple notions and habits in which she had been brought up to haveany more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur wouldtake care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn. He wouldnot marry her and make her a lady; and apart from that she could thinkof nothing he could give towards which she looked with longing andambition.
The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and breadfor her breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards Ashby, under aleaden-coloured sky, with a narrowing streak of yellow, like a departinghope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at thelength and difficulty of her journey, she was most of all afraid ofspending her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have to askpeople's charity; for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud naturebut of a proud class--the class that pays the most poor-rates, andmost shudders at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had not yetoccurred to her that she might get money for her locket and earringswhich she carried with her, and she applied all her small arithmeticand knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many rideswere contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which hada melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the otherbright-flaming coin.
For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely, alwaysfixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush at the most distantvisible point in the road as a goal, and feeling a faint joy when shehad reached it. But when she came to the fourth milestone, the first shehad happened to notice among the long grass by the roadside, and readthat she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage sank.She had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and almost hungryagain in the keen morning air; for though Hetty was accustomed to muchmovement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks whichproduced quite a different sort of fatigue from that of househ
oldactivity. As she was looking at the milestone she felt some dropsfalling on her face--it was beginning to rain. Here was a new troublewhich had not entered into her sad thoughts before, and quite weigheddown by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat down on the step ofa stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of hardship is likethe first taste of bitter food--it seems for a moment unbearable; yet,if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take another biteand find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her burst ofweeping, she rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and shemust try to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter.Presently, as she walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavywheels behind her; a covered waggon was coming, creeping slowly alongwith a slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She waitedfor it, thinking that if the waggoner were not a very sour-looking man,she would ask him to take her up. As the waggon approached her, thedriver had fallen behind, but there was something in the front of thebig vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her lifeshe would not have noticed it, but now, the new susceptibility thatsuffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress herstrongly. It was only a small white-and-liver-coloured spaniel whichsat on the front ledge of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and anincessant trembling in the body, such as you may have seen in some ofthese small creatures. Hetty cared little for animals, as you know,but at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid creature had somefellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the reason, shewas less doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came forward--alarge ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf ormantle.
"Could you take me up in your waggon, if you're going towards Ashby?"said Hetty. "I'll pay you for it."
"Aw," said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which belongsto heavy faces, "I can take y' up fawst enough wi'out bein' paid for'tif you dooant mind lyin' a bit closish a-top o' the wool-packs. Where doyou coom from? And what do you want at Ashby?"
"I come from Stoniton. I'm going a long way--to Windsor."
"What! Arter some service, or what?"
"Going to my brother--he's a soldier there."
"Well, I'm going no furder nor Leicester--and fur enough too--but I'lltake you, if you dooant mind being a bit long on the road. Th' hosseswooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they feel the little doog there, asI puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He war lost, I b'lieve, an's beenall of a tremble iver sin'. Come, gi' us your basket an' come behind andlet me put y' in."
To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the curtains of theawning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty now, and she half-sleptaway the hours till the driver came to ask her if she wanted to get downand have "some victual"; he himself was going to eat his dinner at this"public." Late at night they reached Leicester, and so this second dayof Hetty's journey was past. She had spent no money except what shehad paid for her food, but she felt that this slow journeying would beintolerable for her another day, and in the morning she found her wayto a coach-office to ask about the road to Windsor, and see if it wouldcost her too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! Thedistance was too great--the coaches were too dear--she must give themup; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty anxiousface, wrote down for her the names of the chief places she must passthrough. This was the only comfort she got in Leicester, for the menstared at her as she went along the street, and for the first time inher life Hetty wished no one would look at her. She set out walkingagain; but this day she was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken bya carrier's cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of areturn chaise, with a drunken postilion--who frightened her by drivinglike Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her,twisting himself backwards on his saddle--she was before night in theheart of woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles fromWindsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard workfor her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to Stratford-on-Avon,finding Stratford set down in her list of places, and then she was toldshe had come a long way out of the right road. It was not till the fifthday that she got to Stony Stratford. That seems but a slight journey asyou look at the map, or remember your own pleasant travels to and fromthe meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty!It seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, and hedgerows, anddotted houses, and villages, and market-towns--all so much alike to herindifferent eyes--must have no end, and she must go on wandering amongthem for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for some cart to come, andthen finding the cart went only a little way--a very little way--to themiller's a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public houses,where she must go to get food and ask questions, because there werealways men lounging there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Herbody was very weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; theyhad made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dreadshe had gone through at home. When at last she reached Stony Stratford,her impatience and weariness had become too strong for her economicalcaution she determined to take the coach for the rest of the way,though it should cost her all her remaining money. She would neednothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare forthe last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at thesign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o'clock in the middle of theseventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged herto "remember him." She put her hand in her pocket and took out theshilling, but the tears came with the sense of exhaustion and thethought that she was giving away her last means of getting food, whichshe really required before she could go in search of Arthur. As sheheld out the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled eyes to thecoachman's face and said, "Can you give me back sixpence?"
"No, no," he said, gruffly, "never mind--put the shilling up again."
The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to witness thisscene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding served to keep hisgood nature, as well as his person, in high condition. And that lovelytearful face of Hetty's would have found out the sensitive fibre in mostmen.
"Come, young woman, come in," he said, "and have adrop o' something;you're pretty well knocked up, I can see that."
He took her into the bar and said to his wife, "Here, missis, take thisyoung woman into the parlour; she's a little overcome"--for Hetty'stears were falling fast. They were merely hysterical tears: she thoughtshe had no reason for weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weakand tired to help it. She was at Windsor at last, not far from Arthur.
She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat and beer thatthe landlady brought her, and for some minutes she forgot everythingelse in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger and recoveringfrom exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and lookedat her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and hercurls had fallen down. Her face was all the more touching in itsyouth and beauty because of its weary look, and the good woman's eyespresently wandered to her figure, which in her hurried dressing on herjourney she had taken no pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eyedetects what the familiar unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed.
"Why, you're not very fit for travelling," she said, glancing while shespoke at Hetty's ringless hand. "Have you come far?"
"Yes," said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more self-command,and feeling the better for the food she had taken. "I've come a goodlong way, and it's very tiring. But I'm better now. Could you tell mewhich way to go to this place?" Here Hetty took from her pocket a bitof paper: it was the end of Arthur's letter on which he had written hisaddress.
While she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to lookat her as earnestly as his wife had done. He took up the piece of paperwhich Hetty handed across the table, and read the address.
"Why, what do you want at this house?" he said. It is in the nature ofinnkeepers and all men who have no pressing business of
their own to askas many questions as possible before giving any information.
"I want to see a gentleman as is there," said Hetty.
"But there's no gentleman there," returned the landlord. "It's shutup--been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman is it you want? PerhapsI can let you know where to find him."
"It's Captain Donnithorne," said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginningto beat painfully at this disappointment of her hope that she shouldfind Arthur at once.
"Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit," said the landlord, slowly. "Was hein the Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer with a fairish skin andreddish whiskers--and had a servant by the name o' Pym?"
"Oh yes," said Hetty; "you know him--where is he?"
"A fine sight o' miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia's gone toIreland; it's been gone this fortnight."
"Look there! She's fainting," said the landlady, hastening to supportHetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked like abeautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress.
"Here's a bad business, I suspect," said the landlord, as he brought insome water.
"Ah, it's plain enough what sort of business it is," said the wife."She's not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that. She looks likea respectable country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judgeby her tongue. She talks something like that ostler we had that comefrom the north. He was as honest a fellow as we ever had about thehouse--they're all honest folks in the north."
"I never saw a prettier young woman in my life," said the husband."She's like a pictur in a shop-winder. It goes to one's 'eart to look ather."
"It 'ud have been a good deal better for her if she'd been uglier andhad more conduct," said the landlady, who on any charitable constructionmust have been supposed to have more "conduct" than beauty. "But she'scoming to again. Fetch a drop more water."
