Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter XXVIII

  A Dilemma

  IT was only a few minutes measured by the clock--though Adam alwaysthought it had been a long while--before he perceived a gleam ofconsciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver through his frame.The intense joy that flooded his soul brought back some of the oldaffection with it.

  "Do you feel any pain, sir?" he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur'scravat.

  Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way to aslightly startled motion as if from the shock of returning memory. Buthe only shivered again and said nothing.

  "Do you feel any hurt, sir?" Adam said again, with a trembling in hisvoice.

  Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam hadunbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. "Lay my head down," he said,faintly, "and get me some water if you can."

  Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the toolsout of the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the edge of theGrove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below the bank.

  When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full, Arthurlooked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened consciousness.

  "Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?" said Adam, kneeling downagain to lift up Arthur's head.

  "No," said Arthur, "dip my cravat in and souse it on my head."

  The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself alittle higher, resting on Adam's arm.

  "Do you feel any hurt inside sir?" Adam asked again

  "No--no hurt," said Arthur, still faintly, "but rather done up."

  After a while he said, "I suppose I fainted away when you knocked medown."

  "Yes, sir, thank God," said Adam. "I thought it was worse."

  "What! You thought you'd done for me, eh? Come help me on my legs."

  "I feel terribly shaky and dizzy," Arthur said, as he stood leaningon Adam's arm; "that blow of yours must have come against me like abattering-ram. I don't believe I can walk alone."

  "Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along," said Adam. "Or, will you sit downa bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll prop y' up. You'll perhaps bebetter in a minute or two."

  "No," said Arthur. "I'll go to the Hermitage--I think I've got somebrandy there. There's a short road to it a little farther on, near thegate. If you'll just help me on."

  They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking again.In both of them, the concentration in the present which had attendedthe first moments of Arthur's revival had now given way to a vividrecollection of the previous scene. It was nearly dark in the narrowpath among the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round theHermitage there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at thewindows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of fir-needles,and the outward stillness seemed to heighten their inward consciousness,as Arthur took the key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand,for him to open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur hadfurnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and itwas a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room withall the signs of frequent habitation.

  Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman. "You'll seemy hunting-bottle somewhere," he said. "A leather case with a bottle andglass in."

  Adam was not long in finding the case. "There's very little brandy init, sir," he said, turning it downwards over the glass, as he held itbefore the window; "hardly this little glassful."

  "Well, give me that," said Arthur, with the peevishness of physicaldepression. When he had taken some sips, Adam said, "Hadn't I betterrun to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy? I can be there andback pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home for you, if you don't havesomething to revive you."

  "Yes--go. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to getit from Mills, and not to say I'm at the Hermitage. Get some water too."

  Adam was relieved to have an active task--both of them were relieved tobe apart from each other for a short time. But Adam's swift pace couldnot still the eager pain of thinking--of living again with concentratedsuffering through the last wretched hour, and looking out from it overall the new sad future.

  Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presentlyhe rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly in the brokenmoonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of wax candle thatstood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials. There wasmore searching for the means of lighting the candle, and when that wasdone, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himselfof the presence or absence of something. At last he had found a slightthing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought,took out again and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was awoman's little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table,and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the effort.

  When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from adoze.

  "That's right," Arthur said; "I'm tremendously in want of somebrandy-vigour."

  "I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir," said Adam. "I've beenthinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn."

  "No, no; the candle will last long enough--I shall soon be up to walkinghome now."

  "I can't go before I've seen you safe home, sir," said Adam,hesitatingly.

  "No: it will be better for you to stay--sit down."

  Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasysilence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visiblyrenovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position, andlooked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations. Adam waskeenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety about Arthur'scondition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience whichevery one knows who has had his just indignation suspended by thephysical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his mind to bedone before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what hadbeen unjust in his own words. Perhaps he longed all the more to makethis confession, that his indignation might be free again; and as he sawthe signs of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came tohis lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be betterto leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they were silent they didnot look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam that if theybegan to speak as though they remembered the past--if they looked ateach other with full recognition--they must take fire again. So they satin silence till the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket, thesilence all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had justpoured out some more brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind hishead and drew up one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was anirresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind.

  "You begin to feel more yourself again, sir," he said, as the candlewent out and they were half-hidden from each other in the faintmoonlight.

  "Yes: I don't feel good for much--very lazy, and not inclined to move;but I'll go home when I've taken this dose."

  There was a slight pause before Adam said, "My temper got the better ofme, and I said things as wasn't true. I'd no right to speak as if you'dknown you was doing me an injury: you'd no grounds for knowing it; I'vealways kept what I felt for her as secret as I could."

  He paused again before he went on.

  "And perhaps I judged you too harsh--I'm apt to be harsh--and you mayhave acted out o' thoughtlessness more than I should ha' believed waspossible for a man with a heart and a conscience. We're not all puttogether alike, and we may misjudge one another. God knows, it's all thejoy I could have now, to think the best of you."

  Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too painfullyembarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to wish for anyfurther explanation to-night. And yet it was a relief to him that Adamreopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer.Arthur was in the wretched position of an open, generous man who hascommitted an error which m
akes deception seem a necessity. The nativeimpulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frankconfession, must be suppressed, and duty was becoming a question oftactics. His deed was reacting upon him--was already governing himtyrannously and forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitualfeelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceiveAdam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved.And when he heard the words of honest retractation--when he heard thesad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice inthe remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answerimmediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful.

  "Say no more about our anger, Adam," he said, at last, very languidly,for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; "I forgive your momentaryinjustice--it was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions you had inyour mind. We shall be none the worse friends in future, I hope, becausewe've fought. You had the best of it, and that was as it should be, forI believe I've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shakehands."

  Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still.

  "I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir," he said, "but I can't shakehands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I spoke asif you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong in what I saidbefore, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't shake hands with youas if I held you my friend the same as ever till you've cleared that upbetter."

  Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand.He was silent for some moments, and then said, as indifferently as hecould, "I don't know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I've told youalready that you think too seriously of a little flirtation. But ifyou are right in supposing there is any danger in it--I'm going away onSaturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pain it has givenyou, I'm heartily sorry for it. I can say no more."

  Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his facetowards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of themoonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but theconflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not to speaktill to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it was several minutesbefore he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing andlooking down on him as he lay.

  "It'll be better for me to speak plain," he said, with evident effort,"though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle to me,whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go making lovefirst to one woman and then t' another, and don't think it much oddswhich of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a different sort o' love,such as I believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it and Godas has given it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to me, all butmy conscience and my good name. And if it's true what you've been sayingall along--and if it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it,as 'll be put an end to by your going away--why, then, I'd wait, andhope her heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speakfalse to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look."

  "You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it," saidArthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving away.But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly,"You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputationsupon her."

  "Nay, sir," Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he werehalf-relieved--for he was too straightforward to make a distinctionbetween a direct falsehood and an indirect one--"Nay, sir, things don'tlie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your eyes open,whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in her mind? She'sall but a child--as any man with a conscience in him ought to feel boundto take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbedher mind. I know she's been fixing her heart on you, for there's a manythings clear to me now as I didn't understand before. But you seem tomake light o' what she may feel--you don't think o' that."

  "Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I feel itenough without your worrying me."

  He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped him.

  "Well, then, if you feel it," Adam rejoined, eagerly; "if you feel asyou may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her believe asyou loved her, when all the while you meant nothing, I've this demandto make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t'undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't going away for ever, and ifyou leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your feeling about herthe same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, and themischief may get worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save herpain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeingas she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself forbehaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't your equal.I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody cantake care o' Hetty in this thing but me."

  "I can do what I think needful in the matter," said Arthur, more andmore irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, "without givingpromises to you. I shall take what measures I think proper."

  "No," said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I must knowwhat ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've put an end to whatought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget what's owing to you as agentleman, but in this thing we're man and man, and I can't give up."

  There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see youto-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill." He rose as he spoke, andreached his cap, as if intending to go.

  "You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurringanger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing his backagainst it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife--tell me you'vebeen lying--or else promise me what I've said."

  Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate beforeArthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped, faint,shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of them--thatinward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, "I promise; let mego."

  Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached thestep, he stopped again and leaned against the door-post.

  "You're not well enough to walk alone, sir," said Adam. "Take my armagain."

  Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But,after a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, "I believe Imust trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may be an alarm setup about me at home."

  Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till theycame where the basket and the tools lay.

  "I must pick up the tools, sir," Adam said. "They're my brother's. Idoubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a minute."

  Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed betweenthem till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get inwithout being seen by any one. He said then, "Thank you; I needn'ttrouble you any further."

  "What time will it be conven'ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?" saidAdam.

  "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 turnedinto the house.