Chapter XXXVIII
The Quest
THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as
any other days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at
his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or
ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with
her, because there might then be somethung to detain them at
Snowfield. But when a fortnight had passed they began to feel a
little surprise that Hetty did not return; she must surely have
found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could have
supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient to see
her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day
(Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her.
There was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was
light, and perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would
arrive pretty early at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next
day--Dinah too, if she were coming. It was quite time Hetty came
home, and he would afford to lose his Monday for the sake of
bringing her.
His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on
Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to
come back without Hetty, for she had been quite too long away,
considering the things she had to get ready by the middle of
March, and a week was surely enough for any one to go out for
their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. Poyser had small hope of their
bringing her, unless they could make her believe the folks at
Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at Snowfield.
"Though," said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, "you might tell
her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to a
shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off
her next Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange
folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man
perfectly heart-whole, "it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking
rarely now, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for
Dinah t' come, for she'd help thee wi' the little uns: they took
t' her wonderful."
So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the
first mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the
possibility that Dinah might come again made him restless, and the
walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both in their best
clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the
last morning in February, with a low grey sky, and a slight hoar-
frost on the green border of the road and on the black hedges.
They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the
hill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they
walked in silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.
"Good-bye, lad," said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and
looking at him affectionately as they were about to part. "I wish
thee wast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am."
"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be
an old bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children."
The'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely
homeward, mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was
very fond of hymns:
Dark and cheerless is the morn
Unaccompanied by thee:
Joyless is the day's return
Till thy mercy's beams I see:
Till thou inward light impart,
Glad my eyes and warm my heart.
Visit, then, this soul of mine,
Pierce the gloom of sin and grief--
Fill me, Radiancy Divine,
Scatter all my unbelief.
More and more thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.
Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne
road at sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in
this tall broad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as
upright and firm as any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at
the dark-blue hills as they began to show themselves on his way.
Seldom in Adam's life had his face been so free from any cloud of
anxiety as it was this morning; and this freedom from care, as is
usual with constructive practical minds like his, made him all the
more observant of the objects round him and all the more ready to
gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite plans and
ingenious contrivances. His happy love--the knowledge that his
steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was so
soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was
to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-being that
made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of
more intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images
than Hetty; and along with that would come a wondering
thankfulness that all this happiness was given to him--that this
life of ours had such sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout
mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of devout words, and
his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one
could hardly be stirred without the other. But after feeling had
welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would
come back with the greater vigour; and this morning it was intent
on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so
imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the
benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country
gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good
in his own district.
It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that
pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted.
After this, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling
woods, no more wide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no
more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting the meagre
pastures, and dismal wide-scattered greystone houses on broken
lands where mines had been and were no longer. "A hungry land,"
said Adam to himself. "I'd rather go south'ard, where they say
it's as flat as a table, than come to live here; though if Dinah
likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfort to
folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she must look
as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in the
desert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat." And when
at last he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a
town that was "fellow to the country," though the stream through
the valley where the great mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to
the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up
the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at
present, for Seth had told him where to find Dinah. It was at a
thatched cottage outside the town, a little way from the mill--an
old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with a little bit
of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderly
couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn
where they were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah
might be out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have
left Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he
recognized the cottage by the roadside before him, there shone out
in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the
expectation of a near joy.
He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the
door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow
palsied shake of the head.
"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam.
"Eh?...no," said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger
with a wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "Will
you please to come in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if
recollecting herself. "Why, ye're brother to the young man as
come afore, arena ye?"
"Yes," said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother
Adam. He told me to give his respects to you and your good
master."
"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye
feature him, on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My
man isna come home from meeting."
Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman
with questions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting
stairs in one corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might
have heard his voice and would come down them.
"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standing
opposite to him. "An' you didn' know she was away from home,
then?"
"No," said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away,
seeing as it's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home,
or gone along with Dinah?"
The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.
"Gone along wi' her?" she said. "Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big
town ye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's
people. She's been gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent
her the money for her journey. You may see her room here," she
went on, opening a door and not noticing the effect of her words
on Adam. He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance
into the little room with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley
on the wall, and the few books lying on the large Bible. He had
had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He could not
speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an
undefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on
the journey. Still the old woman was so slow of; speech and
apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all.
"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your
own country o' purpose to see her?"
"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel," said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"
"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly.
"Is it anybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"
"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday
was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"
"Nay; I'n seen no young woman."
"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark
eyes and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her
arm? You couldn't forget her if you saw her."
"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--
there come nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till
you come, for the folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh
dear, is there summat the matter?"
The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face.
But he was not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly
where he could inquire about Hetty.
"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday
was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something
has happened to her. I can't stop. Good-bye."
He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to
the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost
ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at the place where
the Oakbourne coach stopped.
No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any
accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there
was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he
would walk: he couldn't stay here, in wretched inaction. But the
innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great anxiety, and entering
into this new incident with the eagerness of a man who passes a
great deal of time with his hands in his pockets looking into an
obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back to
Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart" this very evening. It was not
five o'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and
yet to get to Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper
declared that he really wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as
well go to-night; he should have all Monday before him then.
Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in
his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready
to set off. As they approached the cottage, it occurred to him
that he would do well to learn from the old woman where Dinah was
to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall Farm--he
only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--the Poysers
might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any address,
and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not
recall the name of the "blessed woman" who was Dinah's chief
friend in the Society at Leeds.
During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time
for all the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope.
In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to
Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a
sharp pang, but he tried for some time to ward off its return by
busying himself with modes of accounting for the alarming fact,
quite apart from that intolerable thought. Some accident had
happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance, got into a wrong
vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and did not want
to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fence of
vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct
agonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking
that she could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all
the while; and now, in her desperation at the nearness of their
marriage, she had run away. And she was gone to him. The old
indignation and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion
that Arthur had been dealing falsely--had written to Hetty--had
tempted her to come to him--being unwilling, after all, that she
should belong to another man besides himself. Perhaps the whole
thing had been contrived by him, and he had given her directions
how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew that Arthur had been
gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt it at the
Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged to
Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful
retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The
poor thing hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had
thought that she could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn
towards the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. He
couldn't bear to blame her: she never meant to cause him this
dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man who had selfishly
played with her heart--had perhaps even deliberately lured her
away.
At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young
woman as Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more
than a fortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass
as that in a hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton
coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while
he went away with the horses and had never set eyes on her again.
Adam then went straight to the house from which the Stonition
coach started: Stoniton was the most obvious place for Hetty to go
to first, whatever might be her destination, for she would hardly
venture on any but the chief coach-roads. She had been noticed
here too, and was remembered to have sat on the box by the
coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, for another man had
been driving on that road in his stead the last three or four
days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at
the inn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken
Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay,
till eleven o'clock, when the coach started.
At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had
driven Hetty would not be in the town again till night. When he
did come he remembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke
addressed to her, quoting it many times to Adam, and observing
with equal frequency that he thought there was something more than
common, because Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he
declared, as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost
sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of the next morning
was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from which a
coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did not start from
Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--and then in
walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines of
road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her
there. No, she was not to be traced any farther; and the next
hard task for Adam was to go home and carry the wretched tidings
to the Hall Farm. As to what he should do beyond that, he had
come to two distinct resolutions amidst the tumult of thought and
feeling which was going on within him while he went to and fro.
He would not mention what he knew of Arthur Donnithorne's
behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for it: it was
still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure might be
an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been home
and done what was necessary there to prepare for his further
absence, he would start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of
Hetty on the road, he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and
make himself certain how far he was acquainted with her movements.
Several times the thought occurred to him that he would consult
Mr. Irwine, but that would be useless unless he told him all, and
so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seems strange that Adam,
in the incessant occupation of his mind about Hetty, should never
have alighted on the probability that she had gone to Windsor,
ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the reason was
that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur
uncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to such
a step, after that letter written in August. There were but two
alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again
and enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching
marriage with himself because she found, after all, she could not
love him well enough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if
she retracted.
With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to
Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which
had proved to be almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet,
since he would not tell the Poysers his conviction as to where
Hetty was gone, or his intention to follow her thither, he must be
able to say to them that he had traced her as far as possible.
It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached
Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and
also to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself
without undressing on a bed at the "Waggon Overthrown," and slept
hard from pure weariness. Not more than four hours, however, for
before five o'clock he set out on his way home in the faint
morning twilight. He always kept a key of the workshop door in
his pocket, so that he could let himself in; and he wished to
enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxious to avoid
telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and
asking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked
gently along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but,
as he expected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark.
It subsided when he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to
impose silence, and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content
himself with rubbing his body against his master's legs.
Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He
threw himself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the
signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel
pleasure in them again, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was
something wrong with his master, laid his rough grey head on
Adam's knee and wrinkled his brows to look up at him. Hitherto,
since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constantly among strange
people and in strange places, having no associations with the
details of his daily life, and now that by the light of this new
morning he was come back to his home and surrounded by the
familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the
reality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon
him with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest
of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's
use, when his home should be hers.
Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by
Gyp's bark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above,
dressing himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother:
he would come home to-day, surely, for the business would be
wanting him sadly by to-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he
had had a longer holiday than he had expected. And would Dinah
come too? Seth felt that that was the greatest happiness he could
look forward to for himself, though he had no hope left that she
would ever love him well enough to marry him; but he had often
said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and brother
than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always near
her, instead of living so far off!
He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the
kitchen into the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood
still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of
Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken
blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt
in an instant what the marks meant--not drunkenness, but some
great calamity. Adam looked up at him without speaking, and Seth
moved forward towards the bench, himself trembling so that speech
did not come readily.
"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting
down on the bench beside Adam, "what is it?"
Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress
the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at
this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and
sobbed.
Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his
recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.
"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when
Adam raised his head and was recovering himself.
"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been to
Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was
a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where
she went after she got to Stoniton."
Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that
could suggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.
"Hast any notion what she's done it for?" he said, at last.
"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it
came nigh--that must be it," said Adam. He had determined to
mention no further reason.
"I hear Mother stirring," said Seth. "Must we tell her?"
"No, not yet," said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the
hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. "I can't
have her told yet; and I must set out on another journey directly,
after I've been to the village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell
thee where I'm going, and thee must say to her I'm gone on
business as nobody is to know anything about. I'll go and wash
myself now." Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but
after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth's eyes with
a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all the money out o' the
tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll be
thine, to take care o' Mother with."
Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible
secret under all this. "Brother," he said, faintly--he never
called Adam "Brother" except in solemn moments--"I don't believe
you'll do anything as you can't ask God's blessing on."
"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but
what's a man's duty."
The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she
would only distress him by words, half of blundering affection,
half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his
wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual
firmness and self-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--
he told her when she came down--had stayed all night at
Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad headache, that still hung
about him this morning, accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes.
He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to
his business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being
obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention
to any one; for he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near
breakfast-time, when the children and servants would be in the
house-place, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about
his having returned without Hetty. He waited until the clock
struck nine before he left the work-yard at the village, and set
off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It was an immense
relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser
advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going
to the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning,
with a sense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast
the master's eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his
spud as a useful companion by the way. His surprise was great
when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to
presentiments of evil.
"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and
not brought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"
"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate
that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.
"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye
look bad. Is there anything happened?"
"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find
Hetty at Snowfield."
Mr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled
astonishment. "Not find her? What's happened to her?" he said,
his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident.
"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never
went to Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't
learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoniton coach."
"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still,
so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself
felt as a trouble by him.
"She must ha' done," said Adam. "She didn't like our marriage
when it came to the point--that must be it. She'd mistook her
feelings."
Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and
rooting up the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was
doing. His usual slowness was always trebled when the subject of
speech was painful. At last he looked up, right in Adam's face,
saying, "Then she didna deserve t' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i'
fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for her
marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye, lad--the more's the
pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt."
Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk
for a little while, went on, "I'll be bound she's gone after
trying to get a lady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her
head half a year ago, and wanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd
thought better on her"--he added, shaking his head slowly and
sadly--"I'd thought better on her, nor to look for this, after
she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been got ready."
Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in
Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be
true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to
Arthur.
"It was better it should be so," he said, as quietly as he could,
"if she felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away
before than repent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if
she comes back, as she may do if she finds it hard to get on away
from home."
"I canna look on her as I've done before," said Martin decisively.
"She's acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I'll not turn my
back on her: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've
knowed on her. It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why
didna Dinah come back wi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt
a bit."
"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this
fortnight, and I couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction
where she is at Leeds, else I should ha' brought it you."
"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser,
indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n."
"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser," said Adam, "for I've a deal to
see to."
"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the
missis when I go home. It's a hard job."
"But," said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened
quiet for a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's
no knowing how things may turn out."
"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why
the match is broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake
hands wi' me, lad: I wish I could make thee amends."
There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment which
caused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken
fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the
two honest men grasped each other's hard hands in mutual
understanding.
There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had
told Seth to go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire,
saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a
journey--and to say as much, and no more, to any one else who made
inquiries about him. If the Poysers learned that he was gone away
again, Adam knew they would infer that he was gone in search of
Hetty.
He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now
the impulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr.
Irwine, and make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force
which belongs to a last opportunity. He was about to start on a
long journey--a difficult one--by sea--and no soul would know
where he was gone. If anything happened to him? Or, if he
absolutely needed help in any matter concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine
was to be trusted; and the feeling which made Adam shrink from
telling anything which was her secret must give way before the
need there was that she should have some one else besides himself
who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity.
Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt,
Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's
interest called on him to speak.
"I must do it," said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread
themselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon
him in an instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering;
"it's the right thing. I can't stand alone in this way any
longer."
