The Hidden Dread
It was a busy time for Adam—the time between the beginning of November
and the beginning of February, and he could see little of Hetty, except
on Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him
nearer and nearer to March, when they were to be married, and all the
little preparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress
towards the longed-for day. Two new rooms had been “run up” to the old
house, for his mother and Seth were to live with them after all.
Lisbeth had cried so piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he
had gone to Hetty and asked her if, for the love of him, she would put
up with his mother’s ways and consent to live with her. To his great
delight, Hetty said, “Yes; I’d as soon she lived with us as not.”
Hetty’s mind was oppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than
poor Lisbeth’s ways; she could not care about them. So Adam was
consoled for the disappointment he had felt when Seth had come back
from his visit to Snowfield and said “it was no use—Dinah’s heart wasna
turned towards marrying.” For when he told his mother that Hetty was
willing they should all live together and there was no more need of
them to think of parting, she said, in a more contented tone than he
had heard her speak in 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 but th’ offal work, as _she_ wonna like t’ do. An’
then we needna part the platters an’ things, as ha’ stood on the shelf
together sin’ afore thee wast born.”
There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam’s sunshine:
Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his anxious, tender
questions, she replied with an assurance that she was quite contented
and wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was more
lively than usual. It might be that she was a little overdone with work
and anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken another
cold, which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confined
her to her room all through January. Hetty had to manage everything
downstairs, and half-supply Molly’s place too, while that good damsel
waited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely
into her 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 a good housekeeper he would have; but he “doubted the lass was
o’erdoing it—she must have a bit o’ rest when her aunt could come
downstairs.”
This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser’s coming downstairs happened in the
early part of February, when some mild weather thawed the last patch of
snow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt
came down, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things
which were 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-frost
that had whitened the hedges in the early morning had disappeared as
the sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February days have a stronger
charm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likes to
pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at the
patient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that
the beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the
same: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on
the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And
the dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches
is beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or
rides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so
when, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked to
me like our English Loamshire—the rich land tilled with just as much
care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadows—I
have come on something by the roadside which has reminded me that I am
not in Loamshire: an image of a great agony—the agony of the Cross. It
has stood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad
sunshine by the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear
brook was gurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this
world who knew nothing of the story of man’s life upon it, this image
of agony would seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this
joyous nature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms,
or among the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood,
there might be a human heart beating heavily with anguish—perhaps a
young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from
swift-advancing shame, understanding no more of this life of ours than
a foolish lost lamb 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 the
blossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you came
close to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your ear
with a despairing human sob. No wonder man’s religion has much sorrow
in it: no wonder he needs a suffering God.
Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand,
is turning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston road, but not
that she may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and think
with hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is
shining; and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been for
something at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wants to
be out of the high-road, that she may walk slowly and not care how her
face looks, as she dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gate
she can get into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her
great dark eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who
is desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave
tender man. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept
away in the weary night, before she went to sleep. At the next stile
the pathway branches 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 across the fields, which will take her much farther out of the
way into the Scantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see
nobody. She chooses this and begins to walk a little faster, as if she
had suddenly thought of an object towards which it was worth while to
hasten. Soon she is in the Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes
gradually downwards, and she leaves the level ground to follow the
slope. Farther on there is a clump 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 with the wintry rains that the under boughs
of the elder-bushes lie low beneath the water. She sits down on the
grassy bank, against the stooping stem of the great oak that hangs over
the dark pool. She has thought of this pool often in the nights of the
month that has just gone by, and now at last she is come to see it. She
clasps her hands round her knees, and leans forward, and looks
earnestly at it, as if trying to guess 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 if she
had, they might find her—they might find out why she had drowned
herself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go away, go where
they can’t find her.
After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after her
betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hope
that something would happen to set her free from her terror; but she
could wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been concentrated
on the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistible
dread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her
miserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had
occurred to her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her that
would shelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and
neighbours who once more made all her world, now her airy dream had
vanished. Her imagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he
could do nothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something
else would happen—something _must_ happen—to set her free from this
dread. In young, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this
blind trust in some unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to
believe that a great wretchedness will actually befall them as to
believe that they will die.
But now necessity was pressing hard upon her—now the time of her
marriage was close at hand—she could no longer rest in this blind
trust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyes
could detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world,
of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a
thought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now,
so unable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of
throwing herself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her
pride. As she sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the
hope that he would receive her tenderly—that he would care for her and
think for her—was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the
moment indifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of
nothing but the scheme by which she should get away.
She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about the
coming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty had
read this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, “I wish Dinah ’ud
come again now, for she’d be a comfort to your aunt when you’re gone.
What do you think, my wench, o’ going to see her as soon as you can be
spared and persuading her to come back wi’ you? You might happen
persuade her wi’ telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes
o’ not being able 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 pretext for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home
again that she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week
or ten days. And then, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her,
she would ask for the coach that would take her on the way to Windsor.
Arthur was at Windsor, and she would go to him.
As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from the
grassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way to
Treddleston, 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 any
suspicion that she was going to run away.
Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go and
see Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding. The
sooner she went the better, since the weather was pleasant now; and
Adam, when he came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off
to-morrow, he would make time to go with her to Treddleston and see her
safe into the Stoniton coach.
“I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty,” he said, the
next morning, leaning in at the coach door; “but you won’t stay much
beyond a week—the time ’ull seem long.”
He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers in its
grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence—she was used to
it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no other love
than her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she gave him the last
look.
“God bless her for loving me,” said Adam, as he went on his way to work
again, with Gyp at his heels.
But Hetty’s tears were not for Adam—not for the anguish that would come
upon him when he found she was gone from him for ever. They were for
the misery of her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender
man who offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor
helpless suppliant, on the man who would think it a misfortune that she
was obliged to cling to him.
At three o’clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to take
her, they said, to Leicester—part of the long, long way to Windsor—she
felt dimly that she might be travelling all this weary journey towards
the beginning of new misery.
Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If he
did not mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to be good to
her.
Book Fifth