Adam Bede
she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, and he
could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented
with only a slight remark on Hetty’s being later than was expected;
while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, smiled and
talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure
for going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going
to the Chase to sew with the lady’s maid, so he would get as much work
done as possible this evening, that the next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs
at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, as
bailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going to
let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it one
day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for the
squire’s undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr.
Casson’s agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would take
the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it.
However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with all
dispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order
with his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, he
had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the
afternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had
calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to
be done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and
Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as
to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel
for implements; and all without any great expense for materials. So,
when the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, and
busied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of the
expenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set him
on persuading the squire to consent. To “make a good job” of anything,
however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block,
with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and
then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile of
gratification—of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he
loved also to think, “I did it!” And I believe the only people who are
free from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own.
It was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again;
and on giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been
working here to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. “Why, th’
lad’s forgot his tools,” thought Adam, “and he’s got to work up at the
shop to-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he’d
leave his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it’s lucky I’ve
seen ’em; I’ll carry ’em home.”
The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase, at
about ten minutes’ walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had come
thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his
nag on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had
come to look at the captain’s new horse, on which he was to ride away
the day after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the
servants were to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young
squire luck as he rode out; so that by the time Adam had got into the
Chase, and was striding along with the basket of tools over his
shoulder, the sun was on the point of setting, and was sending level
crimson rays among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every
bare patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a
jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only
enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been
sitting in the house all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam
had been quite enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home,
and he bethought himself that he might do so by striking across the
Chase and going through the Grove, where he had never been for years.
He hurried on across the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between
the fern, with Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent
changes of the light—hardly once thinking of it—yet feeling its
presence in a certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy
working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt
it, and were more timid.
Presently Adam’s thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said about
Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changes that
might take place before he came back; then they travelled back
affectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt
on Arthur’s good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have
in the virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam’s,
with a great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of
its happiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had
no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the
past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving
admiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant
thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his
keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the
old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a
kind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path
through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree of
all things; as the fisherman’s sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam’s
perceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. He
kept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks and
knots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and had
often calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he
stood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get
on, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech which he
had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince
himself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For
the rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly
examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home
where his youth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no
more. The beech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an
archway of boughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped
away from the tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures
about twenty yards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The
two figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped hands
about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been
running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a
sharp bark. They separated with a start—one hurried through the gate
out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with a
sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale,
clutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools over
his shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in which
amazement was fast turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make
unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine than
usual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flattering
influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with
Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best
person who could have happened to see him and Hetty together—he was a
sensible fellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur
felt confident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away.
And so he sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness—his flushed
face, his evening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands
half-thrust into his waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange
evening light which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith,
and were now shedding down between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood
it all now—the locket and everything else that had been doubtful to
him: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters that
changed the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must
inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting
emotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he
would not give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing.
He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his own
strong will.
“Well, Adam,” said Arthur, “you’ve been looking at the fine old
beeches, eh? They’re not to be come near by the hatchet, though; this
is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was
coming to my den—the Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this
way so late. So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss
for my pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly
damp. Good-night, Adam. I shall see you to-morrow—to say good-bye, you
know.”
Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself to
be thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam’s face. He did not look
directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and then
lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no
more—he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam’s eyes—and as he
spoke the last words, he walked on.
“Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without
turning round. “I’ve got a word to say to you.”
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected by a
change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the
susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was still
more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his
back to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was
going to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper
rising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in
the confusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the feeling
that a man to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a
position to criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who
feels himself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he
cares for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation
as anger in his voice when he said, “What do you mean, Adam?”
“I mean, sir”—answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without
turning round—“I mean, sir, that you don’t deceive me by your light
words. This is not the first time you’ve met Hetty Sorrel in this
grove, and this is not the first time you’ve kissed her.”
Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from
knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty, which
prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened his
irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, “Well, sir, what then?”
“Why, then, instead of acting like th’ upright, honourable man we’ve
all believed you to be, you’ve been acting the part of a selfish
light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it’s to lead to
when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman like
Hetty, and gives her presents as she’s frightened for other folks to