Adam Bede
Chapter XXXV
The Hidden Dread
IT was a busy time for Adam--the time between the beginning of Novemberand the beginning of February, and he could see little of Hetty, excepton Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him nearerand nearer to March, when they were to be married, and all the littlepreparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress towards thelonged-for day. Two new rooms had been "run up" to the old house, forhis mother and Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth had criedso piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he had gone to Hettyand asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with hismother's ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hettysaid, "Yes; I'd as soon she lived with us as not." Hetty's mind wasoppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth'sways; she could not care about them. So Adam was consoled for thedisappointment he had felt when Seth had come back from his visit toSnowfield and said "it was no use--Dinah's heart wasna turned towardsmarrying." For when he told his mother that Hetty was willing theyshould all live together and there was no more need of them to think ofparting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had heard her speakin since it had been settled that he was to be married, "Eh, my lad,I'll be as still as th' ould tabby, an' ne'er want to do aught butth' offal work, as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part theplatters an' things, as ha' stood on the shelf together sin' afore theewast born."
There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam's sunshine:Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his anxious, tenderquestions, she replied with an assurance that she was quite contentedand wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was morelively than usual. It might be that she was a little overdone with workand anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken anothercold, which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confinedher to her room all through January. Hetty had to manage everythingdownstairs, and half-supply Molly's place too, while that good damselwaited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely intoher new functions, working with a grave steadiness which was new in her,that Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show him what agood housekeeper he would have; but he "doubted the lass was o'erdoingit--she must have a bit o' rest when her aunt could come downstairs."
This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser's coming downstairs happened in theearly part of February, when some mild weather thawed the last patch ofsnow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt camedown, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things whichwere wanting, and which Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for neglecting,observing that she supposed "it was because they were not for th'outside, else she'd ha' bought 'em fast enough."
It was about ten o'clock when Hetty set off, and the slight hoar-frostthat had whitened the hedges in the early morning had disappeared asthe sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February days have a strongercharm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likesto pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at thepatient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think thatthe beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just thesame: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves onthe trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! Andthe dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branchesis beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives orrides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought sowhen, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked to melike our English Loamshire--the rich land tilled with just as much care,the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadows--I havecome on something by the roadside which has reminded me that I am notin Loamshire: an image of a great agony--the agony of the Cross. It hasstood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshineby the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook wasgurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this world whoknew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this image of agonywould seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this joyousnature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, oramong the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, theremight be a human heart beating heavily with anguish--perhaps a youngblooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from swift-advancingshame, understanding no more of this life of ours than a foolish lostlamb wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath,yet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness.
Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind theblossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you cameclose to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your earwith a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion has much sorrow init: no wonder he needs a suffering God.
Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand, isturning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston road, but not thatshe may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and thinkwith hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun isshining; and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been forsomething at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wants tobe out of the high-road, that she may walk slowly and not care how herface looks, as she dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gateshe can get into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her greatdark eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who isdesolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave tenderman. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept away inthe weary night, before she went to sleep. At the next stile the pathwaybranches off: there are two roads before her--one along by the hedgerow,which will by and by lead her into the road again, the other acrossthe fields, which will take her much farther out of the way into theScantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see nobody. She choosesthis and begins to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thoughtof an object towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is inthe Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, andshe leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is aclump of trees on the low ground, and she is making her way towards it.No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark shrouded pool, so full withthe wintry rains that the under boughs of the elder-bushes lie lowbeneath the water. She sits down on the grassy bank, against thestooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She hasthought of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just goneby, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps her hands roundher knees, and leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying toguess what sort of bed it would make for her young round limbs.
No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and ifshe had, they might find her--they might find out why she had drownedherself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go away, go wherethey can't find her.
After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after herbetrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hopethat something would happen to set her free from her terror; but shecould wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been concentratedon the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistibledread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of hermiserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurredto her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her that wouldshelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbourswho once more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Herimagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could donothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something elsewould happen--something must happen--to set her free from this dread. Inyoung, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind trust insome unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe thata great wretchedness will actually befall them as to believe that theywill die.
But now necessity was pressing hard upon her--now the tim
e of hermarriage was close at hand--she could no longer rest in this blindtrust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyescould detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world,of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur athought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now, sounable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwingherself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride. Asshe sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope thathe would receive her tenderly--that he would care for her and think forher--was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the momentindifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothingbut the scheme by which she should get away.
She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about thecoming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty hadread this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, "I wish Dinah 'ud comeagain now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt when you're gone. Whatdo you think, my wench, o' going to see her as soon as you can be sparedand persuading her to come back wi' you? You might happen persuade herwi' telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o' not beingable to come." Hetty had not liked the thought of going to Snowfield,and felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, "It's so far off,Uncle." But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretextfor going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again that sheshould like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. Andthen, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would askfor the coach that would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was atWindsor, and she would go to him.
As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from thegrassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way toTreddleston, for she must buy the wedding things she had come out for,though she would never want them. She must be careful not to raise anysuspicion that she was going to run away.
Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go andsee Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding. The soonershe went the better, since the weather was pleasant now; and Adam, whenhe came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, hewould make time to go with her to Treddleston and see her safe into theStoniton coach.
"I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty," he said, thenext morning, leaning in at the coach door; "but you won't stay muchbeyond a week--the time 'ull seem long."
He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers in itsgrasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence--she was usedto it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no other lovethan her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she gave him the lastlook.
"God bless her for loving me," said Adam, as he went on his way to workagain, with Gyp at his heels.
But Hetty's tears were not for Adam--not for the anguish that would comeupon him when he found she was gone from him for ever. They were for themisery of her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender manwho offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helplesssuppliant, on the man who would think it a misfortune that she wasobliged to cling to him.
At three o'clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to takeher, they said, to Leicester--part of the long, long way to Windsor--shefelt dimly that she might be travelling all this weary journey towardsthe beginning of new misery.
Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If hedid not mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to be good toher.
Book Five