adam bede(亚当[1].比德)-第88章
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DINAH MORRIS。”
“I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my
pen moves slow。 And so I am straitened； and say but little of what
is in my mind。 Greet your mother for me with a kiss。 She asked me
to kiss her twice when we parted。”
Adam had refolded the letter； and was sitting meditatively with
his head resting on his arm at the head of the bed； when Seth
came upstairs。
“Hast read the letter？” said Seth。
“Yes；” said Adam。 “I don’t know what I should ha’ thought of
her and her letter if I’d never seen her： I daresay I should ha’
thought a preaching woman hateful。 But she’s one as makes
everything seem right she says and does； and I seemed to see her
and hear her speaking when I read the letter。 It’s wonderful how I
remember her looks and her voice。 She’d make thee rare and
happy； Seth； she’s just the woman for thee。”
“It’s no use thinking o’ that；” said Seth； despondingly。 “She
spoke so firm； and she’s not the woman to say one thing and mean
another。”
“Nay； but her feelings may grow different。 A woman may get to
love by degrees—the best fire dosna flare up the soonest。 I’d have
thee go and see her by…and…by： I’d make it convenient for thee to
be away three or four days； and it ’ud be no walk for thee—only
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between twenty and thirty mile。”
“I should like to see her again； whether or no； if she wouldna be
displeased with me for going；” said Seth。
“She’ll be none displeased；” said Adam emphatically； getting up
and throwing off his coat。 “It might be a great happiness to us all if
she’d have thee； for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed
so contented to be with her。”
“Aye；” said Seth； rather timidly； “and Dinah’s fond o’ Hetty too；
she thinks a deal about her。”
Adam made no reply to that； and no other word but “good…
night” passed between them。
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Chapter XXXI
In Hetty’s Bed…Chamber
T was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle；
even in Mrs。 Poyser’s early household； and Hetty carried one
I
with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after
Adam was gone； and bolted the door behind her。
Now she would read her letter。 It must—it must have comfort in
it。 How was Adam to know the truth？ It was always likely he
should say what he did say。
She set down the candle and took out the letter。 It had a faint
scent of roses； which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her。
She put it to her lips； and a rush of remembered sensations for a
moment or two swept away all fear。 But her heart began to flutter
strangely； and her hands to tremble as she broke the seal。 She
read slowly； it was not easy for her to read a gentleman’s
handwriting； though Arthur had taken pains to write plainly。
“DEAREST HETTY—I have spoken truly when I have said that I
loved you； and I shall never forget our love。 I shall be your true
friend as long as life lasts； and I hope to prove this to you in many
ways。 If I say anything to pain you in this letter； do not believe it is
for want of love and tenderness towards you； for there is nothing I
would not do for you； if I knew it to be really for your happiness。 I
cannot bear to think of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am
not there to kiss them away； and if I followed only my own
inclinations； I should be with her at this moment instead of
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writing。 It is very hard for me to part from her—harder still for me
to write words which may seem unkind； though they spring from
the truest kindness。
“Dear； dear Hetty； sweet as our love has been to me； sweet as it
would be to me for you to love me always； I feel that it would have
been better for us both if we had never had that happiness； and
that it is my duty to ask you to love me and care for me as little as
you can。 The fault has all been mine； for though I have been
unable to resist the longing to be near you； I have felt all the while
that your affection for me might cause you grief。 I ought to have
resisted my feelings。 I should have done so； if I had been a better
fellow than I am； but now； since the past cannot be altered； I am
bound to save you from any evil that I have power to prevent。 And
I feel it would be a great evil for you if your affections continued so
fixed on me that you could think of no other man who might be
able to make you happier by his love than I ever can； and if you
continued to look towards something in the future which cannot
possibly happen。 For； dear Hetty； if I were to do what you one day
spoke of； and make you my wife； I should do what you yourself
would come to feel was for your misery instead of your welfare。 I
know you can never be happy except by marrying a man in your
own station； and if I were to marry you now； I should only be
adding to any wrong I have done； besides offending against my
duty in the other relations of life。 You know nothing； dear Hetty； of
the world in which I must always live； and you would soon begin
to dislike me； because there would be so little in which we should
be alike。
“And since I cannot marry you； we must part—we must try not
to feel like lovers any more。 I am miserable while I say this； but
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nothing else can be。 Be angry with me； my sweet one； I deserve it；
but do not believe that I shall not always care for you—always be
grateful to you—always remember my Hetty； and if any trouble
should come that we do not now foresee； trust in me to do
everything that lies in my power。
“I have told you where you are to direct a letter to； if you want
to write； but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten。 Do
not write unless there is something I can really do for you； for；
dear Hetty； we must try to think of each other as little as we can。
Forgive me； and try to forget everything about me； except that I
shall be； as long as I live； your affectionate friend；
ARTHUR DONNITHORNE。
Slowly Hetty had read this letter； and when she looked up from
it there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass—
a white marble face with rounded childish forms； but with
something sadder than a child’s pain in it。 Hetty did not see the
face—she saw nothing—she only felt that she was cold and sick
and trembling。 The letter shook and rustled in her hand。 She laid
it down。 It was a horrible sensation—this cold and trembling。 It
swept away the very ideas that produced it； and Hetty got up to
reach a warm cloak from her clothes…press； wrapped it round her；
and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but getting warm。
Presently she took up the letter with a firmer hand； and began to
read it through again。 The tears came this time—great rushing
tears that blinded her and blotched the paper。 She felt nothing but
that Arthur was cruel—cruel to write so； cruel not to marry her。
Reasons why he could not marry her had no existence for her
mind； how could she believe in any misery that could come to her
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from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and dreaming
of？ She had not the ideas that could make up the notion of that
misery。
As she threw down the letter again； she caught sight of her face
in the glass； it was reddened now； and wet with tears； it was
almost like a companion that she might complain to—that would
pity her。 She leaned forward on her elbows； and looked into those
dark overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth； and saw how
the tears came thicker and thicker； and how the mouth became
convulsed with sobs。
The shattering of all her little dream…world； the crushing blow
on her new…born passion； afflicted her pleasure…craving nature
with an overpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to
resistance； and suspended her anger。 She sat sobbing till the
candle went out； and then； wearied； aching； stupefied with crying；
threw herself on the bed without undressing and went to sleep。
There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke； a little
after four o’clock； with a sense of dull misery； the cause of which
broke upon her gradually as she began to discern the objects
round her in the dim light。 And then came the frightening thought
that she had to conceal her misery as well as to bear it； in this
dreary daylight that was coming。 She could lie no longer。 She got
up and went towards the table： there lay the letter。 She opened
her treasure…drawer： there lay the ear…rings and the locket—the
signs of all her short happiness—the signs of the lifelong
dreariness that was to follow it。 Looking at the little trinkets which
she had once eyed and fingered so f
