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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
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already late enough to go and dress for dinner； for his
grandfather’s dinner…hour was six。
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Chapter XIII
Evening in the Wood
t happened that Mrs。 Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with
Mrs。 Best； the housekeeper； on this Thursday morning—a fact
I
which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty。 It
caused Mrs。 Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room； and it
inspired that exemplary lady’s maid with so lively a recollection of
former passages in Mrs。 Best’s conduct； and of dialogues in which
Mrs。 Best had decidedly the inferiority as an interlocutor with
Mrs。 Pomfret； that Hetty required no more presence of mind than
was demanded for using her needle； and throwing in an occasional
“yes” or “no。” She would have wanted to put on her hat earlier
than usual； only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she
usually set out about eight o’clock； and if he should go to the Grove
again expecting to see her； and she should be gone！ Would he
come？ Her little butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between
memory and dubious expectation。 At last the minute…hand of the
old…fashioned brazen…faced timepiece was on the last quarter to
eight； and there was every reason for its being time to get ready
for departure。 Even Mrs。 Pomfret’s preoccupied mind did not
prevent her from noticing what looked like a new flush of beauty
in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the looking…glass。
“That child gets prettier and prettier every day； I do believe；”
was her inward comment。 “The more’s the pity。 She’ll get neither
a place nor a husband any the sooner for it。 Sober well…to…do men
don’t like such pretty wives。 When I was a girl； I was more
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admired than if I had been so very pretty。 However； she’s reason
to be grateful to me for teaching her something to get her bread
with； better than farm…house work。 They always told me I was
good…natured—and that’s the truth； and to my hurt too； else
there’s them in this house that wouldn’t be here now to lord it over
me in the housekeeper’s room。”
Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure…ground
which she had to traverse； dreading to meet Mr。 Craig； to whom
she could hardly have spoken civilly。 How relieved she was when
she had got safely under the oaks and among the fern of the
Chase！ Even then she was as ready to be startled as the deer that
leaped away at her approach。 She thought nothing of the evening
light that lay gently in the grassy alleys between the fern； and
made the beauty of their living green more visible than it had been
in the overpowering flood of noon： she thought of nothing that was
present。 She only saw something that was possible： Mr。 Arthur
Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir…tree Grove。
That was the foreground of Hetty’s picture； behind it lay a bright
hazy something—days that were not to be as the other days of her
life had been。 It was as if she had been wooed by a river…god； who
might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery
heaven。 There was no knowing what would come； since this
strange entrancing delight had come。 If a chest full of lace and
satin and jewels had been sent her from some unknown source；
how could she but have thought that her whole lot was going to
change； and that to…morrow some still more bewildering joy would
befall her？ Hetty had never read a novel； if she had ever seen one；
I think the words would have been too hard for her； how then
could she find a shape for her expectations？ They were as
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formless as the sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase；
which had floated past her as she walked by the gate。
She is at another gate now—that leading into Fir…tree Grove。
She enters the wood； where it is already twilight； and at every step
she takes； the fear at her heart becomes col