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 contented1 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 overdone2 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 entirely3 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 housekeeper4 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 thawed5 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 furrow6, 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 grassy7 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 sormething 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 brook8 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 joyous9 nature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or among the golden corn, or under the shrouding10 boughs11 of the wood, there might be a human heart beating heavily with anguish12 — 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 orchards13; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled14 for your ear with a despairing human sob15. No wonder man’s religion has much sorrow in it: no wonder he needs a suffering God.
Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet16, 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 enjoyment17 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 shudders18. 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 desolate19, 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 shrouded20 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 downwards21, and she leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is a clump22 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 watery23 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 dread24, some weeks after her betrothal25 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 concealment26, and she had shrunk with irresistible27 dread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her miserable28 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 soothe29 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 prospect30 of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool and shuddered31 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 lulling32 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 longing33 to see Dinah, so she only said, “It’s so far off, Uncle.” But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext34 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 determined35 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 tomorrow, 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 beld 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 undone36 and known no other love than her quiet liking37 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 misery38 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 suppliant39, 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.
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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overdone
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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shrouding
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| n.覆盖v.隐瞒( shroud的现在分词 )；保密 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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