After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after her betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hope that something would happen to set her free from her terror; but she could wait no longer.  All the force of her nature had been concentrated on the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistible dread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her miserable secret.  Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurred to her, she had rejected it.  He could do nothing for her that would shelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbours who once more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished.  Her imagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride.  No, something else would happen—­something must happen—­to set her free from this dread.  In young, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind trust in some unshapen chance:  it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe that a great wretchedness will actually befall them as to believe that they will die.

But now necessity was pressing hard upon her—­now the time of her marriage was close at hand—­she could no longer rest in this blind trust.  She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyes could detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a thought which brought some comfort with it.  She felt so helpless now, so unable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride.  As she sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that he would receive her tenderly—­that he would care for her and think for her—­was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the moment indifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothing but the scheme by which she should get away.

She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about the coming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, “I wish Dinah ’ud come again now, for she’d be a comfort to your aunt when you’re gone.  What do you think, my wench, o’ going to see her as soon as you can be spared and persuading her to come back wi’ you?  You might happen persuade her wi’ telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o’ not being able to come.”  Hetty had not liked the thought of going to Snowfield, and felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, “It’s so far off, Uncle.”  But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext for going away.  She would tell her aunt when she got home again that she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days.  And then, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would ask for the coach that would take her on the way to Windsor.  Arthur was at Windsor, and she would go to him.