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Poyser said； “Come； Hetty； where have you been？” Adam was
obliged to turn round； though he was afraid to see the changed
look there must be in her face。 He almost started when he saw her
smiling as if she were pleased to see him—looking the same as
ever at a first glance； only that she had her cap on； which he had
never seen her in before when he came of an evening。 Still； when
he looked at her again and again as she moved about or sat at her
work； there was a change： the cheeks were as pink as ever； and
she smiled as much as she had ever done of late； but there was
something different in her eyes； in the expression of her face； in all
her movements； Adam thought—something harder； older； less
child…like。 “Poor thing！” he said to himself； “that’s allays likely。 It’s
because she’s had her first heartache。 But she’s got a spirit to bear
up under it。 Thank God for that。”
As the weeks went by； and he saw her always looking pleased to
see him—turning up her lovely face towards him as if she meant
him to understand that she was glad for him to come—and going
about her work in the same equable way； making no sign of
sorrow； he began to believe that her feeling towards Arthur must
have been much slighter than he had imagined in his first
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indignation and alarm； and that she had been able to think of her
girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and would marry her
as a folly of which she was timely cured。 And it perhaps was； as he
had sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be—
her heart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the
man she knew to have a serious love for her。
Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his
interpretations； and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming
in a sensible man to behave as he did—falling in love with a girl
who really had nothing more than her beauty to recommend her；
attributing imaginary virtues to her； and even condescending to
cleave to her after she had fallen in love with another man； waiting
for her kind looks as a patient trembling dog waits for his master’s
eye to be turned upon him。 But in so complex a thing as human
nature； we must consider； it is hard to find rules without
exceptions。 Of course； I know that； as a rule； sensible men fall in
love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance； see
through all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty； never imagine
themselves loved when they are not loved； cease loving on all
proper occasions； and marry the woman most fitted for them in
every respect—indeed； so as to compel the approbation of all the
maiden ladies in their neighbourhood。 But even to this rule an
exception will occur now and then in the lapse of centuries； and
my friend Adam was one。 For my own part； however； I respect him
none the less—nay； I think the deep love he had for that sweet；
rounded； blossom…like； dark…eyed Hetty； of whose inward self he
was really very ignorant； came out of the very strength of his
nature and not out of any inconsistent weakness。 Is it any
weakness； pray； to be wrought on by exquisite music？ To feel its
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wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul；
the delicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate； and
binding together your whole being past and present in one
unspeakable vibration； melting you in one moment with all the
tenderness； all the love that has been scattered through the
toilsome years； concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or
resignation all the hard…learnt lessons of self…renouncing
sympathy； blending your present joy with past sorrow and your
present sorrow with all your past joy？ If not； then neither is it a
weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a
woman’s cheek and neck and arms； by the liquid depths of her
beseeching eyes； or the sweet childish pout of her lips。 For the
beauty of a lovely woman is like music： what can one say more？
Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one woman’s
soul that it clothes； as the words of genius have a wider meaning
than the thought that prompted them。 It is more than a woman’s
love that moves us in a woman’s eyes—it seems to be a far…off
mighty love that has come near to us； and made speech for itself
there； the rounded neck； the dimpled arm； move us by something
more than their prettiness—by their close kinship with all we have
known of tenderness and peace。 The noblest nature sees the most
of this impersonal expression in beauty （it is needless to say that
there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none
of it whatever）； and for this reason； the noblest nature is often the
most blinded to the character of the one woman’s soul that the
beauty clothes。 Whence； I fear； the tragedy of human life is likely
to continue for a long time to come； in spite of mental philosophers
who are ready with the best receipts for avoiding all mistakes of
the kind。
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Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his
feeling for Hetty： he could not disguise mystery in this way with
the appearance of knowledge； he called his love frankly a mystery；
as you have heard him。 He only knew that the sight and memory
of her moved him deeply； touching the spring of all love and
tenderness； all faith and courage within him。 How could he
imagine narrowness； selfishness； hardness in her？ He created the
mind he believed in out of his own； which was