by George Eliot
Chapter XXXVIII
The Quest
THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as anyother days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at his dailywork. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least,perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, because there mightthen be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight hadpassed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not return;she must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any onecould have supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatientto see her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day(Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. Therewas no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light, andperhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive prettyearly at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day--Dinah too, if shewere coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would afford tolose his Monday for the sake of bringing her.
His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there onSaturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to come backwithout Hetty, for she had been quite too long away, considering thethings she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week wassurely enough for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs.Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could make herbelieve the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks atSnowfield. "Though," said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, "you mighttell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh toa shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off hernext Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange folks, andleave the children fatherless and motherless."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a manperfectly heart-whole, "it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking rarelynow, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, forshe'd help thee wi' the little uns: they took t' her wonderful."
So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the firstmile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Dinahmight come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the coldmorning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense ofSunday calm. It was the last morning in February, with a low grey sky,and a slight hoar-frost on the green border of the road and on the blackhedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down thehill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked insilence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.
"Good-bye, lad," said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder andlooking at him affectionately as they were about to part. "I wish theewast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am."
"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be an oldbachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children."
The'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward,mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was very fond ofhymns:
Dark and cheerless is the morn Unaccompanied by thee: Joyless is the day's return Till thy mercy's beams I see: Till thou inward light impart, Glad my eyes and warm my heart.
Visit, then, this soul of mine, Pierce the gloom of sin and grief-- Fill me, Radiancy Divine, Scatter all my unbelief. More and more thyself display, Shining to the perfect day.
Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne roadat sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tallbroad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firmas any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills asthey began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam's life had hisface been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; andthis freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical mindslike his, made him all the more observant of the objects round himand all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards hisown favourite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love--theknowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty,who was so soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morningair was to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-beingthat made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush ofmore intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images thanHetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness thatall this happiness was given to him--that this life of ours had suchsweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhapsrather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very closeto his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without theother. But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in thisway, busy thought would come back with the greater vigour; and thismorning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improvedthat were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing allthe benefits that might come from the exertions of a single countrygentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in hisown district.
It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that prettytown within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted. Afterthis, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no morewide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows,but greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismalwide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been andwere no longer. "A hungry land," said Adam to himself. "I'd rather gosouth'ard, where they say it's as flat as a table, than come to livehere; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be themost comfort to folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for shemust look as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in thedesert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat." And when at lasthe came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was"fellow to the country," though the stream through the valley where thegreat mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The townlay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adamdid not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to findDinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little way fromthe mill--an old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with alittle bit of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderlycouple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn wherethey were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be outon some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Hetty at home.Adam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by theroadside before him, there shone out in his face that involuntary smilewhich belongs to the expectation of a near joy.
He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door.It was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow palsied shake ofthe head.
"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam.
"Eh?...no," said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger witha wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "Will you please tocome in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself."Why, ye're brother to the young man as come afore, arena ye?"
"Yes," said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam.He told me to give his respects to you and your good master."
"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye feature him,on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My man isna come homefrom meeting."
Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman withquestions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in onecorner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his voiceand would come down them.
"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standingopposite to him. "An' you didn' know she was away from home, then?"
"No," said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing asit's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home, or gone alongwith Dinah?"
The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.
"Gone along wi' her?" she said. "Eh,
Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big townye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's people. She'sbeen gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for herjourney. You may see her room here," she went on, opening a door and notnoticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and followed her, anddarted an eager glance into the little room with its narrow bed, theportrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the largeBible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He couldnot speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; anundefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on thejourney. Still the old woman was so slow of speech and apprehension,that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all.
"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your owncountry o' purpose to see her?"
"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel," said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"
"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly. "Is itanybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"
"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday was afortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"
"Nay; I'n seen no young woman."
"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyesand dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? Youcouldn't forget her if you saw her."
"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--therecome nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till you come, forthe folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summatthe matter?"
The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But hewas not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly where he couldinquire about Hetty.
"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was afortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something has happenedto her. I can't stop. Good-bye."
He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to thegate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towardsthe town. He was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coachstopped.
No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accidenthappened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there was no coach totake him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn'tstay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam wasin great anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eagernessof a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pocketslooking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him backto Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart" this very evening. It was not fiveo'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to getto Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he reallywanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night; he should haveall Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attemptto eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale,declared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, itoccurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old womanwhere Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the HallFarm--he only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--thePoysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left anyaddress, and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could notrecall the name of the "blessed woman" who was Dinah's chief friend inthe Society at Leeds.
During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time forall the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope. In the veryfirst shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, thethought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but hetried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with modesof accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerablethought. Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance,got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and didnot want to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fenceof vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinctagonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking that shecould love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; andnow, in her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had runaway. And she was gone to him. The old indignation and jealousyrose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealingfalsely--had written to Hetty--had tempted her to come to him--beingunwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besideshimself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he hadgiven her directions how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew thatArthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt itat the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engagedto Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painfulretrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thinghadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought thatshe could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man whooffered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to blame her:she never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay withthat man who had selfishly played with her heart--had perhaps evendeliberately lured her away.
At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young womanas Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more than afortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that ina hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton coach that wentthrough Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went away with thehorses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight tothe house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was themost obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might beher destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chiefcoach-roads. She had been noticed here too, and was remembered to havesat on the box by the coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, foranother man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three orfour days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at theinn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken Adam must ofnecessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay, till eleven o'clock,when the coach started.
At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had drivenHetty would not be in the town again till night. When he did come heremembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke addressed to her,quoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency thathe thought there was something more than common, because Hetty had notlaughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done atthe inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part ofthe next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the townfrom which a coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did notstart from Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--andthen in walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines ofroad, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No,she was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adamwas to go home and carry the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As towhat he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutionsamidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within himwhile he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of ArthurDonnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity forit: it was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosuremight be an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been homeand done what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, hewould start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road,he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and make himself certainhow far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thoughtoccurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would beuseless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur.It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mindabout Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that she hadgone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps thereason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthuruncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to sucha step, after that l
etter written in August. There were but twoalternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again andenticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriagewith himself because she found, after all, she could not love him wellenough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if she retracted.
With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur,the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved tobe almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would nottell the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or hisintention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that hehad traced her as far as possible.
It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reachedTreddleston and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and alsoto encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself withoutundressing on a bed at the "Waggon Overthrown," and slept hard from pureweariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five o'clock heset out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept akey of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let himself in;and he wished to enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxiousto avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, andasking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gentlyalong the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but, as heexpected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsidedwhen he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence, andin his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his bodyagainst his master's legs.
Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He threwhimself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the signs of workaround him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in themagain, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wrong with hismaster, laid his rough grey head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his browsto look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had beenconstantly among strange people and in strange places, having noassociations with the details of his daily life, and now that by thelight of this new morning he was come back to his home and surroundedby the familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, thereality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon himwith a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers,which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's use, when his homeshould be hers.
Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp'sbark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressinghimself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother: he would comehome to-day, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly byto-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday thanhe had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was thegreatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he hadno hope left that she would ever love him well enough to marry him; buthe had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend andbrother than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always nearher, instead of living so far off!
He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitcheninto the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood still inthe doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seatedlistlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almostlike a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant what themarks meant--not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up athim without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himselftrembling so that speech did not come readily.
"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting down onthe bench beside Adam, "what is it?"
Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress thesigns of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at this firstapproach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed.
Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections oftheir boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.
"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when Adamraised his head and was recovering himself.
"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been toSnowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was afortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where she wentafter she got to Stoniton."
Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that couldsuggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.
"Hast any notion what she's done it for?" he said, at last.
"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it camenigh--that must be it," said Adam. He had determined to mention nofurther reason.
"I hear Mother stirring," said Seth. "Must we tell her?"
"No, not yet," said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hairfrom his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. "I can't have her toldyet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I've been tothe village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, andthee must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody is to know anythingabout. I'll go and wash myself now." Adam moved towards the door of theworkshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth'seyes with a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all the money outo' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll bethine, to take care o' Mother with."
Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secretunder all this. "Brother," he said, faintly--he never called Adam"Brother" except in solemn moments--"I don't believe you'll do anythingas you can't ask God's blessing on."
"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what'sa man's duty."
The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she wouldonly distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half ofirrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as shehad always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness andself-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--he told her when shecame down--had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason and abad headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for hispaleness and heavy eyes.
He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to hisbusiness for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged togo on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; forhe wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when thechildren and servants would be in the house-place, and there must beexclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty.He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard atthe village, and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It wasan immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr.Poyser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of goingto the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with asense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master'seye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a usefulcompanion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught sight ofAdam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.
"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and notbrought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"
"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate thathe wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.
"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye lookbad. Is there anything happened?"
"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hettyat Snowfield."
Mr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment."Not find her? What's happened to her?" he said, his thoughts flying atonce to bodily accident.
"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never wentto Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't learn nothingof her after she got down from the Stoniton coach."
"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still, sopuzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as atrouble by him.
"She must ha' done," said Ad
am. "She didn't like our marriage when itcame to the point--that must be it. She'd mistook her feelings."
Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rootingup the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing. His usualslowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful. Atlast he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, "Then she didna deservet' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault myself, for she was my niece, andI was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye,lad--the more's the pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt."
Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for alittle while, went on, "I'll be bound she's gone after trying to get alady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago, andwanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd thought better on her"--he added,shaking his head slowly and sadly--"I'd thought better on her, nor tolook for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been gotready."
Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr.Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. Hehad no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to Arthur.
"It was better it should be so," he said, as quietly as he could, "ifshe felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away before thanrepent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back, asshe may do if she finds it hard to get on away from home."
"I canna look on her as I've done before," said Martin decisively."She's acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I'll not turn my back onher: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've knowed on her.It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come backwi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit."
"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, andI couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction where she is at Leeds,else I should ha' brought it you."
"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser,indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n."
"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser," said Adam, "for I've a deal to seeto."
"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis whenI go home. It's a hard job."
"But," said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quietfor a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's no knowinghow things may turn out."
"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why the matchis broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands wi' me,lad: I wish I could make thee amends."
There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment whichcaused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken fashion.Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the two honest mengrasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding.
There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Sethto go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that AdamBede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journey--and to say asmuch, and no more, to any one else who made inquiries about him. If thePoysers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would inferthat he was gone in search of Hetty.
He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now theimpulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr. Irwine,and make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force which belongsto a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey--adifficult one--by sea--and no soul would know where he was gone. Ifanything happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matterconcerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling whichmade Adam shrink from telling anything which was her secret must giveway before the need there was that she should have some one else besideshimself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity.Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, Adamfelt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's interest calledon him to speak.
"I must do it," said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spreadthemselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon him inan instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering; "it's the rightthing. I can't stand alone in this way any longer."
