Adam Bede
must trouble you. It’s getting late now, and there may be an alarm set
up about me at home.”
Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till
they came where the basket and the tools lay.
“I must pick up the tools, sir,” Adam said. “They’re my brother’s. I
doubt they’ll be rusted. If you’ll please to wait a minute.”
Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed between
them till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get in
without being seen by any one. He said then, “Thank you; I needn’t
trouble you any further.”
“What time will it be conven’ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?”
said Adam.
“You may send me word that you’re here at five o’clock,” said Arthur;
“not before.”
“Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned
into the house.
Chapter XXIX
The Next Morning
Arthur did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For
sleep comes to the perplexed—if the perplexed are only weary enough.
But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was
going to get up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.
“And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my
grandfather when he’s down that I’m better this morning and am gone for
a ride.”
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our
yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be
but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some
resistance to the past—sensations which assert themselves against
tyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averages
of feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and
shooting seasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh
lighter on country gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur
felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of
Pym, waiting on him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to him
after the scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur’s sensitiveness to
opinion, the loss of Adam’s respect was a shock to his self-contentment
which suffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all
eyes—as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous
woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are suffused
with a sense of danger.
Arthur’s, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as
easy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his
weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He
didn’t like to witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming
on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day
kicked down an old gardener’s pitcher of broth, from no motive but a
kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was the old man’s dinner; but
on learning that sad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a
silver-hafted knife out of his pocket and offered them as compensation.
He had been the same Arthur ever since, trying to make all offences
forgotten in benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it
could only show itself against the man who refused to be conciliated by
him. And perhaps the time was come for some of that bitterness to rise.
At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at
discovering that Adam’s happiness was involved in his relation to
Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends—if
deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored Adam’s
contentment and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only
have executed them without hesitation, but would have felt bound all
the more closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of making
retribution. But Adam could receive no amends; his suffering could not
be cancelled; his respect and affection could not be recovered by any
prompt deeds of atonement. He stood like an immovable obstacle against
which no pressure could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank
from believing in—the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words
of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in
their last conversation in the Hermitage—above all, the sense of having
been knocked down, to which a man does not very well reconcile himself,
even under the most heroic circumstances—pressed on him with a galling
pain which was stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have
persuaded himself that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him
the contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis
can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciences—out of the
suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely
metal enough there to make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns
the manners of good society and smiles when others smile, but when some
rude person gives rough names to our actions, she is apt to take part
against us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam’s judgment of him, Adam’s
grating words, disturbed his self-soothing arguments.
Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam’s discovery. Struggles and
resolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He
was distressed for Hetty’s sake, and distressed for his own, that he
must leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breaking
resolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedily
end in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not
to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty’s account he was filled with
uneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living—that she
was to be a lady in silks and satins—and when he had first talked to
her about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go
with him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had
given the most exasperating sting to Adam’s reproaches. He had said no
word with the purpose of deceiving her—her vision was all spun by her
own childish fancy—but he was obliged to confess to himself that it was
spun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on this
last evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had been
obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw
her into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the
sorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker
anxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future.
That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he
could evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been
secret; the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except
Adam, knew anything of what had passed—no one else was likely to know;
for Arthur had impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by
word or look, that there had been the least intimacy between them; and
Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it
than betray it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there
was no use in making it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations
and forebodings of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness
for Hetty was the worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes
from any bad consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But—but
Hetty might have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And
perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make
up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the
advantage of his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had
incurred now. _So_ good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful
arrangement of things!
Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two
months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour which
shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate any
more positive offence as possible for it?—who thought that his own
self-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The same,
I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us,
as much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or
will be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, which
constitutes a man’s critical actions, it will be better not to think
ourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in our
deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and then
reconcile him to the change, for this reason—that the second wrong
presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The
action which before commission has been seen with that blended common
sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the
soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity,
through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to
be made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a
_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character—until the placid
adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own
sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because
of that very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still
at ease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too
painful to him—he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he
had not been very much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the
necessity he was under of deceiving Adam—it was a course so opposed to
the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to
do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in
consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter that he
had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross
barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her.
And across all this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden
impulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carry
Hetty away, and all other considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable
prison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all the
crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which
would fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up
his mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg’s back, in the
fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the
situation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the
gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose,
and patted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing tone than
usual. He loved her the better because she knew nothing of his secrets.
But Meg was quite as well acquainted with her master’s mental state as
many others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young
gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering
expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the
foot of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road.
Then he threw the bridle on Meg’s neck and prepared to make up his
mind.
Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur
went away—there was no possibility of their contriving another without
exciting suspicion—and she was like a frightened child, unable to think
of anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put
her face up to have the tears kissed away. He _could_ do nothing but
comfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a
dreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what
Adam said—that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which