Adam Bede
might be worse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of
satisfying Adam, who _must_ be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If
he could have seen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a
thorny hedge of hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be
fatal. And yet, if he _could_ see her again, what good would it do?
Only cause him to suffer more from the sight of her distress and the
remembrance of it. Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives
to self-control.
A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination—the dread
lest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon that
dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them off
with the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the
future in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse.
Arthur told himself he did not deserve that things should turn out
badly. He had never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience
disapproved; he had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of
implicit confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at
bottom, Providence would not treat him harshly.
At all events, he couldn’t help what would come now: all he could do
was to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And he
persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open between
Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after
a while; and in that case there would have been no great harm done,
since it was still Adam’s ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure,
Adam was deceived—deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as
a deep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflection
that marred the consoling prospect. Arthur’s cheeks even burned in
mingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in
such a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure
Hetty: his first duty was to guard _her_. He would never have told or
acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was
to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had
excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses
but by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised a
solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur’s eyes as he
thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him to
write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and this last
thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could never
deliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left
himself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving
up Hetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set
off home again in a canter. The letter should be written the first
thing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business:
he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine
were coming to dinner, and by twelve o’clock the next day he should
have left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this
constant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to
rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that would
undo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every
slight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift
gallop.
“I thought they said th’ young mester war took ill last night,” said
sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants’ hall. “He’s
been ridin’ fit to split the mare i’ two this forenoon.”
“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the facetious coachman.
“Then I wish he war let blood for ’t, that’s all,” said John, grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been
relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learning
that he was gone out for a ride. At five o’clock he was punctually
there again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came
down with a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the
captain was too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to
say. The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again
before opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty.
On the inside of the cover Adam read:
“In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it
to you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hetty
or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not
taking a measure which may pain her more than mere silence.
“There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall
meet with better feelings some months hence.
“A.D.”
“Perhaps he’s i’ th’ right on ’t not to see me,” thought Adam. “It’s no
use meeting to say more hard words, and it’s no use meeting to shake
hands and say we’re friends again. We’re not friends, an’ it’s better
not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man’s duty, but, to my
thinking, that can only mean as you’re to give up all thoughts o’
taking revenge: it can never mean as you’re t’ have your old feelings
back again, for that’s not possible. He’s not the same man to me, and I
can’t _feel_ the same towards him. God help me! I don’t know whether I
feel the same towards anybody: I seem as if I’d been measuring my work
from a false line, and had got it all to measure over again.”
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed
Adam’s thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwing
the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to
hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way—to ascertain
as well as he could what was Hetty’s state of mind before he decided on
delivering the letter.
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 in his
pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hetty
alone. He could not see her face at church, for she had changed her
seat, and when he came up to her to shake hands, her manner was
doubtful and constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time
she had met him since she had been aware that he had seen her with
Arthur in the Grove.
“Come, you’ll go on with us, Adam,” Mr. Poyser said when they reached
the turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam ventured to
offer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity of
lingering behind a little, and then Adam said:
“Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you this
evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I’ve something partic’lar to talk to
you about.”
Hetty said, “Very well.” She was really as anxious as Adam was that she
should have some private talk with him. She wondered what he thought of
her and Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she had
no 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, and perhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never entered
her mind that he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It
was a relief to her that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted
to speak to _her_ alone; for she had trembled when she found he was
going home with them lest he should mean “to tell.” But, now he wanted
to talk to her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he
meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him
not to do anything she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even
make him believe that she didn’t care for Arthur; and as long as Adam
thought there 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 her uncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her of having some
secret lover.
Hetty’s little brain was busy with this combination as she hung on
Adam’s arm and said “yes” or “no” to some slight observations of his
about the many hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds this next
winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would hardly hold up till
morning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue
her thoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a
young man might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he
would nevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about business
the while; and, for his own part, he was curious to hear the most
recent news about the Chase Farm. So, through the rest of the walk, he
claimed Adam’s conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots
and imagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked
along by the hedgerows on honest Adam’s arm, quite as well as if she
had been an elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a
country beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is
astonishing how closely her mental processes may resemble those of a
lady in society and crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the
problem of committing indiscretions without compromising herself.
Perhaps the resemblance was not much the less because Hetty felt very
unhappy all the while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to
her—mingling with the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim
undefined fear that the future might shape itself in some way quite
unlike her dream. She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had
uttered in their last meeting—“I shall come again at Christmas, and
then we will see what can be done.” She clung to the belief that he was
so fond of her, he would never be happy without her; and she still
hugged her secret—that a great gentleman loved her—with gratified
pride, as a superiority over all the girls she knew. But the
uncertainty of the future, the possibilities to which she could give no
shape, began to press upon her like the invisible weight of air; she
was alone on her little island of dreams, and all around her was the
dark unknown water where Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation
of spirits now by looking forward, but only by looking backward to
build confidence on past words and caresses. But occasionally, since
Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been almost lost behind the
more definite fear that Adam might betray what he knew to her uncle and
aunt, and his sudden proposition to talk with her alone had set her
thoughts to work in a new way. She was eager not to lose this evening’s
opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into the garden
and Totty begged to go with 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 the
filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the large
unripe nuts to play at “cob-nut” with, and Totty was watching them with
a puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a short time—hardly two
months—since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as he
stood by Hetty’s side in this garden. The remembrance of that scene had
often been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight through the
apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty’s sweet blush. It came
importunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds,
but he tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say
more than was needful for Hetty’s sake.
“After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,” he began, “you won’t think