Adam Bede
had examined the contents of Hetty’s pocket yesterday, and she and her
husband had discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautiful
things, with a stronger conviction than ever that Hetty had been
miserably deluded by the fine young officer.
“Well,” said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious trifles
before him, “we might take ’em to the jeweller’s shop, for there’s one
not far off; but Lord bless you, they wouldn’t give you a quarter o’
what the things are worth. And you wouldn’t like to part with ’em?” he
added, looking at her inquiringly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Hetty, hastily, “so as I can get money to go
back.”
“And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to sell
’em,” he went on, “for it isn’t usual for a young woman like you to
have fine jew’llery like that.”
The blood rushed to Hetty’s face with anger. “I belong to respectable
folks,” she said; “I’m not a thief.”
“No, that you aren’t, I’ll be bound,” said the landlady; “and you’d no
call to say that,” looking indignantly at her husband. “The things were
gev to her: that’s plain enough to be seen.”
“I didn’t mean as I thought so,” said the husband, apologetically, “but
I said it was what the jeweller might think, and so he wouldn’t be
offering much money for ’em.”
“Well,” said the wife, “suppose you were to advance some money on the
things yourself, and then if she liked to redeem ’em when she got home,
she could. But if we heard nothing from her after two months, we might
do as we liked with ’em.”
I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady had
no regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature in the
ultimate possession of the locket and ear-rings: indeed, the effect
they would have in that case on the mind of the grocer’s wife had
presented itself with remarkable vividness to her rapid imagination.
The landlord took up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a
meditative manner. He wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many
of your well-wishers would decline to make a little gain out of you?
Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, respects you
highly, and will really rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but
at the same time she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a
percentage as possible.
“How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?” said the
well-wisher, at length.
“Three guineas,” answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with,
for want of any other standard, and afraid of asking too much.
“Well, I’ve no objections to advance you three guineas,” said the
landlord; “and if you like to send it me back and get the jewellery
again, you can, you know. The Green Man isn’t going to run away.”
“Oh yes, I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me that,” said Hetty,
relieved at the thought that she would not have to go to the jeweller’s
and be stared at and questioned.
“But if you want the things again, you’ll write before long,” said the
landlady, “because when two months are up, we shall make up our minds
as you don’t want ’em.”
“Yes,” said Hetty indifferently.
The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. The
husband thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could make a
good thing of it by taking them to London and selling them. The wife
thought she would coax the good man into letting her keep them. And
they were accommodating Hetty, poor thing—a pretty, respectable-looking
young woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anything
for her food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at eleven o’clock
Hetty said “Good-bye” to them with the same quiet, resolute air she had
worn all the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty
miles back along the way she had come.
There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that the last
hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others than perfect
contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the
sense of dependence.
Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would make
life hateful to her; and no one, she said to herself, should ever know
her misery and humiliation. No; she would not confess even to Dinah.
She would wander out of sight, and drown herself where her body would
never be found, and no one should know what had become of her.
When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take cheap
rides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and on without distinct
purpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the way she had
come, though she was determined not to go back to her own country.
Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the grassy
Warwickshire fields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a
hiding-place even in this leafless season. She went more slowly than
she came, often getting over the stiles and sitting for hours under the
hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes; fancying
herself at the edge of a hidden pool, low down, like that in the
Scantlands; wondering if it were very painful to be drowned, and if
there would be anything worse after death than what she dreaded in
life. Religious doctrines had taken no hold on Hetty’s mind. She was
one of those numerous people who have had godfathers and godmothers,
learned their catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every
Sunday, and yet, for any practical result of strength in life, or trust
in death, have never appropriated a single Christian idea or Christian
feeling. You would misunderstand her thoughts during these wretched
days, if you imagined that they were influenced either by religious
fears or religious hopes.
She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had gone before
by mistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her former way
towards it—fields among which she thought she might find just the sort
of pool she had in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she
carried her basket; death seemed still a long way off, and life was so
strong in her. She craved food and rest—she hastened towards them at
the very moment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she
would leap towards death. It was already five days since she had left
Windsor, for she had wandered about, always avoiding speech or
questioning looks, and recovering her air of proud self-dependence
whenever she was under observation, choosing her decent lodging at
night, and dressing herself neatly in the morning, and setting off on
her way steadily, or remaining under shelter if it rained, as if she
had a happy life to cherish.
And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was sadly
different from that which had smiled at itself in the old specked
glass, or smiled at others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard
and even fierce look had come in the eyes, though their lashes were as
long as ever, and they had all their dark brightness. And the cheek was
never dimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting,
childish prettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from
it—the sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, with the
passionate, passionless lips.
At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a long
narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a pool in
that wood! It would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was
not a wood, only a wild brake, where there had once been gravel-pits,
leaving mounds and hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She
roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow
before she came to it, till her limbs were weary, and she sat down to
rest. The afternoon was far advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening,
as if the sun were setting behind it. After a little while Hetty
started up again, feeling that darkness would soon come on; and she
must put off finding the pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some
shelter for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and
might as well go in one direction as another, for aught she knew. She
walked through field after field, and no village, no house was in
sight; but _there_, at the corner of this pasture, there was a break in
the hedges; the land seemed to dip down a little, and two trees leaned
towards each other across the opening. Hetty’s heart gave a great beat
as she thought there must be a pool there. She walked towards it
heavily over the tufted grass, with pale lips and a sense of trembling.
It was as if the thing were come in spite of herself, instead of being
the object of her search.
There it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, no sound near.
She set down her basket, and then sank down herself on the grass,
trembling. The pool had its wintry depth now: by the time it got
shallow, as she remembered the pools did at Hayslope, in the summer, no
one could find out that it was her body. But then there was her
basket—she must hide that too. She must throw it into the water—make it
heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look about
for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid down beside
her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need to hurry—there
was all the night to drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the
basket. She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in her
basket—three, which she had supplied herself with at the place where
she ate her dinner. She took them out now and ate them eagerly, and
then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that
came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed
dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank
down on her knees. She was fast asleep.
When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was
frightened at this darkness—frightened at the long night before her. If
she _could_ but throw herself into the water! No, not yet. She began to
walk about that she might get warm again, as if she would have more
resolution then. Oh how long the time was in that darkness! The bright
hearth and the warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising and
lying down, the familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and
holidays with their simple joys of dress and feasting—all the sweets of
her young life rushed before her now, and she seemed to be stretching
her arms towards them across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she
thought of Arthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her cursing
would do. She wished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life
of shame that he dared not end by death.
The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude—out of all human
reach—became greater every long minute. It was almost as if she were
dead already, and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to
life again. But no: she was alive still; she had not taken the dreadful
leap. She felt a strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation:
wretchedness, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that she
was still in life—that she might yet know light and warmth again. She
walked backwards and forwards to warm herself, beginning to discern
something of the objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed to
the night—the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living
creature—perhaps a field-mouse—rushing across the grass. She no longer
felt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk back
across the field, and get over the stile; and then, in the very next
field, she thought she remembered there was a hovel of furze near a
sheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. She
could pass the night there, for that was what Alick did at Hayslope in
lambing-time. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a new