<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter XXXVIII </h2>
<h3> The Quest </h3>
<p>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
something 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.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be an old
bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children."</p>
<p>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:</p>
<p>Dark and cheerless is the morn<br/>
Unaccompanied by thee:<br/>
Joyless is the day's return<br/>
Till thy mercy's beams I see:<br/>
Till thou inward light impart,<br/>
Glad my eyes and warm my heart.<br/>
Visit, then, this soul of mine,<br/>
Pierce the gloom of sin and grief—<br/>
Fill me, Radiancy Divine,<br/>
Scatter all my unbelief.<br/>
More and more thyself display,<br/>
Shining to the perfect day.<br/></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your own country
o' purpose to see her?"</p>
<p>"But Hetty—Hetty Sorrel," said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"</p>
<p>"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly. "Is it
anybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"</p>
<p>"Did there come no young woman here—very young and pretty—Friday
was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"</p>
<p>"Nay; I'n seen no young woman."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting down on the
bench beside Adam, "what is it?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of
their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.</p>
<p>"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when Adam
raised his head and was recovering himself.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could
suggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.</p>
<p>"Hast any notion what she's done it for?" he said, at last.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"I hear Mother stirring," said Seth. "Must we tell her?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what's a
man's duty."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and not brought
the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"</p>
<p>"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate that he
wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.</p>
<p>"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye look bad.
Is there anything happened?"</p>
<p>"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hetty at
Snowfield."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser,
indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n."</p>
<p>"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser," said Adam, "for I've a deal to see
to."</p>
<p>"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis when I
go home. It's a hard job."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />