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George Eliot ElecBook Classics
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Adam Bede 178
Chapter XIII
Evening in the Wood
t happened that Mrs。 Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with
Mrs。 Best； the housekeeper； on this Thursday morning—a fact
I
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
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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
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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
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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
George Eliot