Evening in the Wood
It happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs. Best,
the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning—a fact which had two
consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have
tea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady’s maid
with so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best’s
conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the
inferiority as an interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required
no more presence of mind than was demanded for using her needle, and
throwing in an occasional “yes” or “no.” She would have wanted to put
on her hat earlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne
that she usually set out about eight o’clock, and if he _should_ go to
the Grove again expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he
come? Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory
and dubious expectation. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned
brazen-faced timepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was
every reason for its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs.
Pomfret’s preoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what
looked like a new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on
her hat before the looking-glass.
“That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe,” was
her inward comment. “The more’s the pity. She’ll get neither a place
nor a husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don’t like
such pretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had
been so very pretty. However, she’s reason to be grateful to me for
teaching her something to get her bread with, better than farm-house
work. They always told me I was good-natured—and that’s the truth, and
to my hurt too, else there’s them in this house that wouldn’t be here
now to lord it over me in the housekeeper’s room.”
Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which
she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could
hardly have spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got
safely under the oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she
was as ready to be startled as the deer that leaped away at her
approach. She thought nothing of the evening light that lay gently in
the grassy alleys between the fern, and made the beauty of their living
green more visible than it had been in the overpowering flood of noon:
she thought of nothing that was present. She only saw something that
was possible: Mr. Arthur Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the
Fir-tree Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty’s picture; behind it
lay a bright hazy something—days that were not to be as the other days
of her life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god,
who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery
heaven. There was no knowing what would come, since this strange
entrancing delight had come. If a chest full of lace and satin and
jewels had been sent her from some unknown source, how could she but
have thought that her whole lot was going to change, and that to-morrow
some still more bewildering joy would befall her? Hetty had never read
a novel; if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have been
too hard for her; how then could she find a shape for her expectations?
They were as formless as the sweet languid odours of the garden at the
Chase, which had floated past her as she walked by the gate.
She is at another gate now—that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She enters
the wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes,
the fear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how
dreary it was—the thought of going out at the other end of the wood,
into the unsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the
first turning towards the Hermitage, walking slowly—he is not there.
She hates the leveret that runs across the path; she hates everything
that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is
coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is
beginning to cry: her heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her
eyes; she gives one great sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver,
and the tears roll down.
She doesn’t know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that
she is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few
yards from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is
the object. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which
has been growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst.
Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had
unguardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a
kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her
from running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.
If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it would
have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely
as he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end
of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling
down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft,
soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her
foot?
“Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the
wood? Don’t be frightened—I’ll take care of you now.”
Hetty was blushing so, she didn’t know whether she was happy or
miserable. To be crying again—what did gentlemen think of girls who
cried in that way? She felt unable even to say “no,” but could only
look away from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a
great drop had fallen on her rose-coloured strings—she knew that quite
well.
“Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what’s the matter.
Come, tell me.”
Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, “I thought you wouldn’t
come,” and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was
too much: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too
lovingly in return.
“You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won’t
cry again, now I’m with you, will you?”
Ah, he doesn’t know in the least what he is saying. This is not what he
meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it is
tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the
round cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a
long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for
aught he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he
may be Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche—it is all one.
There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating
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.