Chapter XII
In the Wood
THAT same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about
in his dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person
reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a
dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her
maidens, who ought to have been minding the infant Moses, he was
holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time his valet
was tying the black silk sling over his shoulder, had issued in a
distinct practical resolution.
"I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so," he said
aloud. "I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning;
so be ready by half-past eleven."
The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this
resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the
corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite song
from the Beggar's Opera, "When the heart of a man is oppressed
with care." Not an heroic strain; nevertheless Arthur felt
himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables to give his
orders about the horses. His own approbation was necessary to
him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite
gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had
never yet forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable
reliance on his own virtues. No young man could confess his
faults more candidly; candour was one of his favourite virtues;
and how can a man's candour be seen in all its lustre unless he
has a few failings to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence
that his faults were all of a generous kind--impetuous, warm-
blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not
possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anything mean, dastardly, or
cruel. "No! I'm a devil of a fellow for getting myself into a
hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on my own
shoulders." Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice in
hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict
their worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his
loudly expressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency
in the scheme of things that Arthur had ever brought any one into
trouble besides himself. He was nothing if not good-natured; and
all his pictures of the future, when he should come into the
estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring
their landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman--
mansion in first-rate order, all elegance and high taste--jolly
housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire--purse open to all public
objects--in short, everything as different as possible from what
was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the
first good actions he would perform in that future should be to
increase Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he
might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty
affection for the rector dated from the age of frocks and
trousers. It was an affection partly filial, partly fraternal--
fraternal enough to make him like Irwine's company better than
that of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink
strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation.
You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a good fellow"--all his
college friends thought him such. He couldn't bear to see any one
uncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods
for any harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia
herself had the benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore
towards the whole sex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough
to be always as harmless and purely beneficent as his good-nature
led him to desire, was a question that no one had yet decided
against him; he was but twenty-one, you remember, and we don't
inquire too closely into character in the case of a handsome
generous young fellow, who will have property enough to support
numerous peccadilloes--who, if he should unfortunately break a
man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension him
handsomely; or if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence
for her, will make it up to her with expensive bon-bons, packed up
and directed by his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying
and analytic in such cases, as if one were inquiring into the
character of a confidential clerk. We use round, general,
gentlemanly epithets about a young man of birth and fortune; and
ladies, with that fine intuition which is the distinguishing
attribute of their sex, see at once that he is "nice." The
chances are that he will go through life without scandalizing any
one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse to insure.
Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes make
terribly evident some flaw in their construction that would never
have been discoverable in smooth water; and many a "good fellow,"
through a disastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a
like betrayal.
But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguries
concerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself
capable of a prudent resolution founded on conscience. One thing
is clear: Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray
with perfect comfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never
get beyond that border-land of sin, where he will be perpetually
harassed by assaults from the other side of the boundary. He will
never be a courtier of Vice, and wear her orders in his button-
hole.
It was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly;
everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is a
pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled
gravel on one's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But
the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of things,
ought to be among the soothing influences of a man's life, always
brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There was no having
his own way in the stables; everything was managed in the
stingiest fashion. His grandfather persisted in retaining as head
groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old
habits, and who was allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire
lads as his subordinates, one of whom had lately tested a new pair
of shears by clipping an oblong patch on Arthur's bay mare. This
state of things is naturally embittering; one can put up with
annoyances in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of
vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human flesh and blood
can be expected to endure long together without danger of
misanthropy.
Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that
met Arthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite
poisoned for him the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch
there. He could never speak quite patiently to the old blockhead.
"You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-
past eleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same
time. Do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n," said old John very deliberately,
following the young master into the stable. John considered a
young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and young
people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world.
Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as
possible to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his
temper before breakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the
inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master came beside
her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in
the stable, was comfortably curled up on her back.
"Well, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll
have a glorious canter this morning."
"Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be," said John.
"Not be? Why not?"
"Why, she's got lamed."
"Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?"
"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on
'em flung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near
foreleg."
The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what
ensued. You understand that there was a great deal of strong
language, mingled with soothing "who-ho's" while the leg was
examined; that John stood by with quite as much emotion as if he
had been a cunningly carved crab-tree walking-stick, and that
Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the
pleasure-ground without singing as he went.
He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There
was not another mount in the stable for himself and his servant
besides Meg and Rattler. It was vexatious; just when he wanted to
get out of the way for a week or two. It seemed culpable in
Providence to allow such a combination of circumstances. To be
shut up at the Chase with a broken arm when every other fellow in
his regiment was enjoying himself at Windsor--shut up with his
grandfather, who had the same sort of affection for him as for his
parchment deeds! And to be disgusted at every turn with the
management of the house and the estate! In such circumstances a
man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off the
irritation by some excess or other. "Salkeld would have drunk a
bottle of port every day," he muttered to himself, "but I'm not
well seasoned enough for that. Well, since I can't go to
Eagledale, I'll have a gallop on Rattler to Norburne this morning,
and lunch with Gawaine."
Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he
lunched with Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach
the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of
his sight in the housekeeper's room; and when she set out to go
home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, so he should keep
out of her way altogether. There really would have been no harm
in being kind to the little thing, and it was worth dancing with a
dozen ballroom belles only to look at Hetty for half an hour. But
perhaps he had better not take any more notice of her; it might
put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted; though Arthur,
for his part, thought girls were not by any means so soft and
easily bruised; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool
and cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's
case, it was out of the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his
own bond for himself with perfect confidence.
So the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping towards Norburne; and
by good fortune Halsell Common lay in his road and gave him some
fine leaps for Rattler. Nothing like "taking" a few bushes and
ditches for exorcising a demon; and it is really astonishing that
the Centaurs, with their immense advantages in this way, have left
so bad a reputation in history.
After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear that although
Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had
scarcely cleared the last stroke of three when Arthur returned
through the entrance-gates, got down from the panting Rattler, and
went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there
have been men since his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a
rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest they should miss
it. It is the favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a
retreat, and to turn sharp round upon us at the moment we have
made up our minds that the day is our own.
"The cap'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace," said Dalton the
coachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his
pipe against the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler.
"An' I wish he'd get the devil to do's grooming for'n," growled
John.
"Aye; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now,"
observed Dalton--and the joke appeared to him so good that, being
left alone upon the scene, he continued at intervals to take his
pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imaginary audience and
shake luxuriously with a silent, ventral laughter, mentally
rehearsing the dialogue from the beginning, that he might recite
it with effect in the servants' hall.
When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it
was inevitable that the debate he had had with himself there
earlier in the day should flash across his mind; but it was
impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance--impossible to
recall the feelings and reflections which had been decisive with
him then, any more than to recall the peculiar scent of the air
that had freshened him when he first opened his window. The
desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an ill-stemmed current;
he was amazed himself at the force with which this trivial fancy
seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous as he brushed
his hair--pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was
because he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by
thinking of it as if it were of any consequence. He would amuse
himself by seeing Hetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing
from his mind. It was all Irwine's fault. "If Irwine had said
nothing, I shouldn't have thought half so much of Hetty as of
Meg's lameness." However, it was just the sort of day for lolling
in the Hermitage, and he would go and finish Dr. Moore's Zeluco
there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove--the
way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm. So
nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a
mere circumstance of his walk, not its object.
Arthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the
Chase than might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man
on a warm afternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when
he stood before the tall narrow gate leading into the delicious
labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the Chase, and which
was called Fir-tree Grove, not because the firs were many, but
because they were few. It was a wood of beeches and limes, with
here and there a light silver-stemmed birch--just the sort of wood
most haunted by the nymphs: you see their white sunlit limbs
gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behind the smooth-
sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid
laughter--but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye,
they vanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that
their voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose
themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you
from the topmost bough. It was not a grove with measured grass or
rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-
shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss--
paths which look as if they were made by the free will of the
trees and underwood, moving reverently aside to look at the tall
queen of the white-footed nymphs.
It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne
passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches. It was a still
afternoon--the golden light was lingering languidly among the
upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple
pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in
which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant
veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-
scented breath. Arthur strolled along carelessly, with a book
under his arm, but not looking on the ground as meditative men are
apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on the distant bend in
the road round which a little figure must surely appear before
long. Ah! There she comes. First a bright patch of colour, like
a tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a
round hat on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-
blushing, almost frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her
curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to
her. If Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have
thought it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious
of blushing too--in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had
been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected.
Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden age of
childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each
other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly
kiss, and toddled off to play together. Arthur would have gone
home to his silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow,
and both would have slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have
been a life hardly conscious of a yesterday.
Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side without giving a
reason. They were alone together for the first time. What an
overpowering presence that first privacy is! He actually dared
not look at this little butter-maker for the first minute or two.
As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along
by warm zephyrs; she had forgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she
was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had
passed into a water-lily, resting on a liquid bed and warmed by
the midsummer sun-beams. It may seem a contradiction, but Arthur
gathered a certain carelessness and confidence from his timidity:
it was an entirely different state of mind from what he had
expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was of vague
feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the
thought that his previous debates and scruples were needless.
"You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase,"
he said at last, looking down at Hetty; "it is so much prettier as
well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges."
"Yes, sir," Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering
voice. She didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like
Mr. Arthur, and her very vanity made her more coy of speech.
"Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?"
"Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with Miss
Donnithorne."
"And she's teaching you something, is she?"
"Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the
stocking-mending--it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell
it's been mended; and she teaches me cutting-out too."
"What! are YOU going to be a lady's maid?"
"I should like to be one very much indeed." Hetty spoke more
audibly now, but still rather tremulously; she thought, perhaps
she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to
her.
"I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?"
"She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because
my aunt couldn't spare me; but the regular time is four, because
that gives us time before Miss Donnithorne's bell rings."
"Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you
the Hermitage. Did you ever see it?"
"No, sir."
"This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now.
I'll show it you some other time, if you'd like to see it."
"Yes, please, sir."
"Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you
afraid to come so lonely a road?"
"Oh no, sir, it's never late; I always set out by eight o'clock,
and it's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with
me if I didn't get home before nine."
"Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?"
A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. "I'm sure he
doesn't; I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him; I don't like
him," she said hastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast
that before she had done speaking a bright drop rolled down her
hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was crying,
and for one long instant her happiness was all gone. But in the
next she felt an arm steal round her, and a gentle voice said,
"Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn't mean to vex you. I
wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come, don't
cry; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me."
Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him,
and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty.
Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent
towards her with a sweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of
time those three moments were while their eyes met and his arms
touched her! Love is such a simple thing when we have only one-
and-twenty summers and a sweet girl of seventeen trembles under
our glance, as if she were a bud first opening her heart with
wondering rapture to the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls
roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches that touch softly
and are at rest; they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask
for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with ever-
interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur
gazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to
him what sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops and powder
had been in fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible
just then that Hetty wanted those signs of high breeding.
But they started asunder with beating hearts: something had fallen
on the ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty's basket; all
her little workwoman's matters were scattered on the path, some of
them showing a capability of rolling to great lengths. There was
much to be done in picking up, and not a word was spoken; but when
Arthur hung the basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a
strange difference in his look and manner. He just pressed her
hand, and said, with a look and tone that were almost chilling to
her, "I have been hindering you; I must not keep you any longer
now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye."
Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and
hurried back towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving
Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream that seemed to have
begun in bewildering delight and was now passing into
contrarieties and sadness. Would he meet her again as she came
home? Why had he spoken almost as if he were displeased with her?
And then run away so suddenly? She cried, hardly knowing why.
Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him
by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage,
which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a
hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched Zeluco into the most
distant corner, and thrusting his right hand into his pocket,
first walked four or five times up and down the scanty length of
the little room, and then seated himself on the ottoman in an
uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish not to
abandon ourselves to feeling.
He was getting in love with Hetty--that was quite plain. He was
ready to pitch everything else--no matter where--for the sake of
surrendering himself to this delicious feeling which had just
disclosed itself. It was no use blinking the fact now--they would
get too fond of each other, if he went on taking notice of her--
and what would come of it? He should have to go away in a few
weeks, and the poor little thing would be miserable. He MUST NOT
see her alone again; he must keep out of her way. What a fool he
was for coming back from Gawaine's!
He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of
the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt
round the Hermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as
he leaned out and looked into the leafy distance. But he
considered his resolution sufficiently fixed: there was no need to
debate with himself any longer. He had made up his mind not to
meet Hetty again; and now he might give himself up to thinking how
immensely agreeable it would be if circumstances were different--
how pleasant it would have been to meet her this evening as she
came back, and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet
face. He wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him
too--twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes were with the
tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for a day
with looking at them, and he MUST see her again--he must see her,
simply to remove any false impression from her mind about his
manner to her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to
her--just to prevent her from going home with her head full of
wrong fancies. Yes, that would be the best thing to do after all.
It was a long while--more than an hour before Arthur had brought
his meditations to this point; but once arrived there, he could
stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with
movement until he should see Hetty again. And it was already late
enough to go and dress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-
hour was six.
