Adam Bede
hearts 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,
for in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.
But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the
fountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his arm
from Hetty’s waist, and said, “Here we are, almost at the end of the
Grove. I wonder how late it is,” he added, pulling out his watch.
“Twenty minutes past eight—but my watch is too fast. However, I’d
better 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 constrained
smile. Hetty’s eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but he
patted her cheek and said “Good-bye” again. She was obliged to turn
away from him and go on.
As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put
a wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the
Hermitage again; he remembered how he had debated with himself there
before dinner, and it had all come to nothing—worse than nothing. He
walked right on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which
surely was haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth
limes—there was something enervating in the very sight of them; but the
strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in them—the sight of
them would give a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow
openings in the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the
twilight deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare
looked black as it darted across his path.
He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it
was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute
his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He
no sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way to
the emotions which had stolen over him to-day—of continuing to notice
Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as
he had been betrayed into already—than he refused to believe such a
future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very different
affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that was
understood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious,
there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be
spoken ill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him;
and then those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was
as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their veins—he
should hate himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate
that was to be his own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked,
above all, to be respected. He could no more believe that he should so
fall in his own esteem than that he should break both his legs and go
on crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn’t imagine himself in
that position; it was too odious, too unlike him.
And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of
each 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 to
Gawaine’s; and while he was there something had taken hold of him and
made him gallop back. It seemed he couldn’t quite depend on his own
resolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm would
get painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort
it would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse
might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there was
nothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong day. What could
he do to secure himself from any more of this folly?
There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine—tell him
everything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; the
temptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one
repeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tell
Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after
breakfast to-morrow.
Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think
which of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk
thither as he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had
enough to tire him, and there was no more need for him to think.
Chapter XIV
The Return Home
While that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in
the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining
her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they
mounted the opposite slope.
“Eh, I’m loath to see the last on her,” she said to Adam, as they
turned into the house again. “I’d ha’ been willin’ t’ ha’ her about me
till I died and went to lie by my old man. She’d make it easier
dyin’—she spakes so gentle an’ moves about so still. I could be fast
sure that pictur’ was drawed for her i’ thy new Bible—th’ angel
a-sittin’ on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha’in a
daughter like that; but nobody ne’er marries them as is good for
aught.”
“Well, Mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a daughter; for Seth’s got
a liking for her, and I hope she’ll get a liking for Seth in time.”
“Where’s th’ use o’ talkin’ a-that’n? She caresna for Seth. She’s goin’
away twenty mile aff. How’s she to get a likin’ for him, I’d like to
know? No more nor the cake ’ull come wi’out the leaven. Thy figurin’
books might ha’ tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee
mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does.”
“Nay, Mother,” said Adam, laughing, “the figures tell us a fine deal,
and we couldn’t go far without ’em, but they don’t tell us about
folks’s feelings. It’s a nicer job to calculate _them_. But Seth’s as
good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o’ sense, and
good-looking too; and he’s got the same way o’ thinking as Dinah. He
deserves to win her, though there’s no denying she’s a rare bit o’
workmanship. You don’t see such women turned off the wheel every day.”
“Eh, thee’t allays stick up for thy brother. Thee’st been just the
same, e’er sin’ ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays for
halving iverything wi’ him. But what’s Seth got to do with marryin’, as
is on’y three-an’-twenty? He’d more need to learn an’ lay by sixpence.
An’ as for his desarving her—she’s two ’ear older nor Seth: she’s
pretty near as old as thee. But that’s the way; folks mun allays choose
by contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork—a bit o’ good
meat wi’ a bit o’ offal.”
To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might be
receive a temporary charm from comparison with what is; and since Adam
did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on
that score—as peevish as she would have been if he _had_ wanted to
marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership
as effectually as by marrying Hetty.
It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talking
in this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached the
turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and
Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them to
come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their
walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to
Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and
shook hands; Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone.
“Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear,” she said, as
she reached Hetty, “but he’s very full of trouble to-night.”
Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what
had been said; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling
self-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah’s calm pitying face, with
its open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets
of its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with all the
world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how
was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind
word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready
to take Totty off her hands—little tiresome Totty, that was made such a
pet of by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all?
Dinah had never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty
during her whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great
deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn’t mind that much, for she never
listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty’s
cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a
riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in the same way as one might
imagine a little perching bird that could only flutter from bough to
bough, to look at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark;
but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to
know what was meant by the pictures in the Pilgrim’s Progress, or in
the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a
Sunday.
Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm.
“You look very happy to-night, dear child,” she said. “I shall think of
you often when I’m at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is
now. It’s a strange thing—sometimes when I’m quite alone, sitting in my
room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I’ve
seen and known, if it’s only been for a few days, are brought before
me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer
than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them.
And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as if
it was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and
resting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel
sure you will come before me.”
She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing.
“It has been a very precious time to me,” Dinah went on, “last night
and to-day—seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so
tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling
me what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his
brother; it’s wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has,
and how he’s ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And
I’m sure he has a loving spirit too. I’ve noticed it often among my own
people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often the
gentlest to the women and children; and it’s pretty to see ’em carrying
the little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the
babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be
so with Adam Bede. Don’t you think so, Hetty?”
“Yes,” said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while in
the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was
assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would
not have been time to say much more, for they were now at the
yard-gate.
The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint
struggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a sound
to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was
about twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost,
and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with
the black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling-to of the gate
disturbed them and set them barking, like good officials, before they