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Christmas Mrs。 Poyser had taken another cold； which had brought
on inflammation； and this illness had confined her to her room all
through January。 Hetty had to manage everything downstairs； and
half…supply Molly’s place too； while that good damsel waited on
her mistress； and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into her
new functions； working with a grave steadiness which was new in
her； that Mr。 Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show him
what a good housekeeper he would have； but he “doubted the lass
was o’erdoing it—she must have a bit o’ rest when her aunt could
come downstairs。”
This desirable event of Mrs。 Poyser’s coming downstairs
happened in the early part of February； when some mild weather
thawed the last patch of snow on the Binton Hills。 On one of these
days； soon after her aunt came down； Hetty went to Treddleston to
buy some of the wedding things which were wanting； and which
Mrs。 Poyser had scolded her for neglecting； observing that she
supposed “it was because they were not for th’ outside； else she’d
ha’ bought ’em fast enough。”
It was about ten o’clock when Hetty set off； and the slight hoar…
frost that had whitened the hedges in the early morning had
disappeared as the sun mounted the cloudless sky。 Bright
February days have a stronger charm of hope about them than
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any other days in the year。 One likes to pause in the mild rays of
the sun； and look over the gates at the patient plough…horses
turning at the end of the furrow； and think that the beautiful year
is all before one。 The birds seem to feel just the same： their notes
are as clear as the clear air。 There are no leaves on the trees and
hedgerows； but how green all the grassy fields are！ And the dark
purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is
beautiful too。 What a glad world this looks like； as one drives or
rides along the valleys and over the hills！ I have often thought so
when； in foreign countries； where the fields and woods have
looked to me like our English Loamshire—the rich land tilled with
just as much care； the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the
green meadows—I have come on something by the roadside which
has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire： an image of a great
agony—the agony of the Cross。 It has stood perhaps by the
clustering apple…blossoms； or in the broad sunshine by the
cornfield； or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook was
gurgling below； and surely； if there came a traveller to this world
who knew nothing of the story of man’s life upon it； this image of
agony would seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this
joyous nature。 He would not know that hidden behind the apple…
blossoms； or among the golden corn； or under the shrouding
boughs of the wood； there might be a human heart beating heavily
with anguish—perhaps a young blooming girl； not knowing where
to turn for refuge from swift…advancing shame； understanding no
more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering farther
and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath； yet tasting the
bitterest of life’s bitterness。
Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and
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Adam Bede 478
behind the blossoming orchards； and the sound of the gurgling
brook； if you came close to one spot behind a small bush； would be
mingled for your ear with a despairing human sob。 No wonder
man’s religion has much sorrow in it： no wonder he needs a
Suffering God。
Hetty； in her red cloak and warm bonnet； with her basket in her
hand； is turning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston
road； but not that she may have a more lingering enjoyment of the
sunshine and think with hope of the long unfolding year。 She
hardly knows that the sun is shining； and for weeks； now； when
she has hoped at all； it has been for something at which she herself
trembles and shudders。 She only wants to be out of the high…road；
that she may walk slowly and not care how her face looks； as she
dwells on wretched thoughts； and through this gate she can get
into a field…path behind the wide thick hedgerows。 Her great dark
eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is
desolate； homeless； unloved； not the promised bride of a brave
tender man。 But there are no tears in them： her tears were all
wept away in the weary night； before she went to sleep。 At the
next stile the pathway branches off： there are two roads before
her—one along by the hedgerow； which will by…and…by lead her
into the road again； the other across the fields； which will take her
much farther out of the way into the Scantlands； low shrouded
pastures where she will see nobody。 She chooses this and begins
to walk a little faster； as if she had suddenly thought of an object
towards which it was worth while to hasten。 Soon she is in the
Scantlands； where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards；
and she leaves the level ground to follow the slope。 Farther on
there is a clump of trees on the low ground； and she is making her
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way towards it。 No； it is not a clump of trees； but a dark shrouded
pool； so full with the wintry rains that the under boughs of the
elder…bushes lie low beneath the water。 She sits down on the
grassy bank； against the stooping stem of the great oak that hangs
over the dark pool。 She has thought of this pool often in the nights
of the month that has just gone by； and now at last she is come to
see it。 She clasps her hands round her knees； and leans forward；
and looks earnestly at it； as if trying to guess what sort of bed it
would