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and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little
coal…scuttle bonnet； with the wreath of small roses round it； she
didn’t mind it to…day。 But there were no more curtsies—no； he was
not come； she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew
door but the house…keeper’s black bonnet and the lady’s maid’s
beautiful straw hat that had once been Miss Lydia’s； and then the
powdered heads of the butler and footman。 No； he was not there；
yet she would look now—she might be mistaken—for； after all； she
had not looked。 So she lifted up her eyelids and glanced timidly at
the cushioned pew in the chancel—there was no one but old Mr。
Donnithorne rubbing his spectacles with his white handkerchief；
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and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt…edged prayer…book。 The chill
disappointment was too hard to bear。 She felt herself turning pale；
her lips trembling； she was ready to cry。 Oh； what should she do？
Everybody would know the reason； they would know she was
crying because Arthur was not there。 And Mr。 Craig； with the
wonderful hothouse plant in his button…hole； was staring at her；
she knew。 It was dreadfully long before the General Confession
began； so that she could kneel down。 Two great drops would fall
then； but no one saw them except good…natured Molly； for her
aunt and uncle knelt with their backs towards her。 Molly； unable
to imagine any cause for tears in church except faintness； of which
she had a vague traditional knowledge； drew out of her pocket a
queer little flat blue smelling…bottle； and after much labour in
pulling the cork out； thrust the narrow neck against Hetty’s
nostrils。 “It donna smell；” she whispered； thinking this was a great
advantage which old salts had over fresh ones： they did you good
without biting your nose。 Hetty pushed it away peevishly； but this
little flash of temper did what the salts could not have done—it
roused her to wipe away the traces of her tears； and try with all
her might not to shed any more。 Hetty had a certain strength in
her vain little nature： she would have borne anything rather than
be laughed at； or pointed at with any other feeling than
admiration； she would have pressed her own nails into her tender
flesh rather than people should know a secret she did not want
them to know。
What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings；
while Mr。 Irwine was pronouncing the solemn “Absolution” in her
deaf ears； and through all the tones of petition that followed！
Anger lay very close to disappointment； and soon won the victory
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over the conjectures her small ingenuity could devise to account
for Arthur’s absence on the supposition that he really wanted to
come； really wanted to see her again。 And by the time she rose
from her knees mechanically； because all the rest were rising； the
colour had returned to her cheeks even with a heightened glow；
for she was framing little indignant speeches to herself； saying she
hated Arthur for giving her this pain—she would like him to suffer
too。 Yet while this selfish tumult was going on in her soul； her eyes
were bent down on her prayer…book； and the eyelids with their
dark fringe looked as lovely as ever。 Adam Bede thought so； as he
glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees。
But Adam’s thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service；
they rather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the
church service was a channel to him this afternoon； as a certain
consciousness of our entire past and our imagined future blends
itself with all our moments of keen sensibility。 And to Adam the
church service was the best channel he could have found for his
mingled regret； yearning； and resignation； its interchange of
beseeching cries for help with outbursts of faith and praise； its
recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm of its collects；
seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship could have
done； as； to those early Christians who had worshipped from their
childhood upwards in catacombs； the torch…light and shadows
must have seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish
daylight of the streets。 The secret of our emotions never lies in the
bare object； but in its subtle relations to our own past： no wonder
the secret escapes the unsympathising observer； who might as
well put on his spectacles to discern odours。
But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have
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found the service in Hayslope Church more impressive than in
most other village nooks in the kingdom—a reason of which I am
sure you have not the slightest suspicion。 It was the reading of our
friend Joshua Rann。 Where that good shoemaker got his notion of
reading from remained a mystery even to his most intimate
acquaintances。 I believe； after all； he got it chiefly from Nature；
who had poured some of her music into this honest conceited soul；
as she had been known to do into other narrow souls before his。
She had given him； at least； a fine bass voice and a musical ear；
but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed to
inspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the
responses。 The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a
melancholy cadence； subsiding； at the end of the last word； into a
sort of faint resonance； like the lingering vibrations of a fine
violoncello； I can compare to nothing for its strong calm
melancholy but the rush and cadence