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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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Adam Bede 438
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 fondly as the earnest of her
future paradise of finery； she lived back in the moments when they
had been given to her with such tender caresses； such strangely
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pretty words； such glowing looks； which filled her with a
bewildering delicious surprise—they were so much sweeter than
she had thought anything could be。 And the Arthur who had
spoken to her and looked at her in this way； who was present with
her now—whose arm she felt round her； his cheek against hers；
his very breath upon her—was the cruel； cruel Arthur who had
written that letter； that letter which she snatched and crushed and
then opened again； that she might read it once more。 The half…
benumbed mental condition which was the effect of the last
night’s violent crying made it necessary to her to look again and
see if her wretched thoughts were actually true—if the letter was
really so cruel。 She had to hold it close to the window； else she
could not have read it by the faint light。 Yes！ It was worse—it was
more cruel。 She crushed it up again in anger。 She hated the writer
of that letter—hated him for the very reason that she hung upon
him with all her love—all the girlish passion and vanity that made
up her love。
She had no tears this morning。 She had wept them all away last
night； and now she felt that dry…eyed morning misery； which is
worse than the first shock because it has the future in it as well as
the present。 Every morning to come； as far as her imagination
could stretch； she would have to get up and feel that the day would
have no joy for her。 For there is no despair so absolute as that
which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow；
when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be
healed； to have despaired and to have recovered hope。 As Hetty
began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the night；
that she might wash herself and brush her hair； she had a
sickening sense that her life would go on in this way。 She should
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always be doing things she had no pleasure in； getting up to the
old tasks of work； seeing people she cared nothing about； going to
church； and to Treddleston； and to tea with Mrs。 Best； and
carrying no happy thought with her。 For her short poisonous
delights had spoiled for ever all the little joys that had once made
the sweetness of her life—the new frock ready for Treddleston
Fair； the party at Mr。 Britton’s at Broxton wake； the beaux that
she would say “No” to for a long while； and the prospect of the
wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gown
and a great many clothes all at once。 These things were all flat and
dreary to her now； everything would be a weariness； and she
would carry about for ever a hopeless thirst and longing。
She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned
against the dark old clothes…press。 Her neck and arms were bare；
her hair hung down in delicate rings—and