by George Eliot
Chapter XXIX
The Next Morning
ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleepcomes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary enough. But atseven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going toget up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.
"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell mygrandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am gone fora ride."
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed ouryesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though itbe but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers someresistance to the past--sensations which assert themselves againsttyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averagesof feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shootingseasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter oncountry gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that heshould be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waitingon him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after thescenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion,the loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment whichsuffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes--asa sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous woman afraideven to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense ofdanger.
Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were aseasy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknessesand good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn't like towitness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as thegiver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down anold 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 thatsad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knifeout of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the sameArthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits.If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itselfagainst the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps thetime was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment,Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at discovering thatAdam's happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there hadbeen a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends--if deeds of gift, orany other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment and regard forhim as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them withouthesitation, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam,and would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam couldreceive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect andaffection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. Hestood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure couldavail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing in--theirrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusalto shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last conversationin the Hermitage--above all, the sense of having been knocked down, towhich a man does not very well reconcile himself, even under the mostheroic circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which wasstronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himselfthat he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, hecould have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge asword for herself out of our consciences--out of the suffering we feelin the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough thereto make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of goodsociety and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person givesrough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. Andso 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 andresolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He wasdistressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed for his own, that hemust leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breakingresolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedilyend in separation but his nature was too ardent and tender for him notto suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled withuneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living--that shewas to be a lady in silks and satins--and when he had first talked toher about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her gowith him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which hadgiven the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had said noword with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all spun by herown childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to himself that it wasspun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on thislast evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had beenobliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throwher into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt thesorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darkeranxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future.That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other hecould evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret;the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knewanything of what had passed--no one else was likely to know; for Arthurhad impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word orlook, that there had been the least intimacy between them; and Adam, whoknew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betrayit. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use inmaking it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodingsof evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty wasthe worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any badconsequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty mighthave had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhapshereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to herfor all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the advantageof 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, twomonths ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour whichshrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate anymore positive offence as possible for it?--who thought that his ownself-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 orwill be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, whichconstitutes a man's critical actions, it will be better not to thinkourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion inour deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and thenreconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second wrongpresents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. Theaction which before commission has been seen with that blended commonsense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of thesoul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity,through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen tobe made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character--until the placidadjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his ownsentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because ofthat very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still atease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful tohim--he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not beenvery much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity hewas under of deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honestyof his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough inconsequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter thathe had promised to write, and
that seemed at one moment to be a grossbarbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her.And across all this reflection would dart every now and then a suddenimpulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carryHetty away, and all other considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerableprison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all thecrowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of whichwould fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make uphis mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg's back, inthe fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of thesituation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed thegravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, andpatted 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. ButMeg was quite as well acquainted with her master's mental state as manyothers of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlementowards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the footof a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Thenhe 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 Arthurwent away--there was no possibility of their contriving another withoutexciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened child, unable to thinkof anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then puther face up to have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing butcomfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be adreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adamsaid--that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might beworse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfyingAdam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could haveseen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a thorny hedgeof hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet,if he COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him tosuffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it.Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control.
A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination--the dreadlest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon thatdread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them offwith the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting thefuture in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthurtold himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. Hehad never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved;he had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicitconfidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom,Providence would not treat him harshly.
At all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could dowas to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And hepersuaded himself that that course was to make the way open betweenAdam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after awhile; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, sinceit was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adamwas deceived--deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as adeep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflectionthat marred the consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned inmingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do insuch a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injureHetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told oracted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he wasto have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man hadexcuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excusesbut by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promiseda solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur's eyes as hethought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for himto write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and thislast thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could neverdeliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and lefthimself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving upHetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and setoff home again in a canter. The letter should be written the firstthing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business:he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawainewere coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock the next day he shouldhave left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in thisconstant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him torush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that wouldundo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at everyslight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swiftgallop.
"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night," saidsour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants' hall. "He'sbeen ridin' fit to split the mare i' two this forenoon."
"That's happen one o' the symptims, John," said the facetious coachman.
"Then I wish he war let blood for 't, that's all," said John, grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had beenrelieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learningthat he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was punctually thereagain, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came downwith a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the captainwas too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say.The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again beforeopening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On theinside of the cover Adam read:
"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave itto you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hettyor to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not takinga measure which may pain her more than mere silence.
"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meetwith better feelings some months hence.
"A.D."
"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me," thought Adam. "It'sno use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use meeting to shakehands and say we're friends again. We're not friends, an' it's betternot to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man's duty, but, to mythinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all thoughts o' takingrevenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old feelings backagain, for that's not possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can'tfeel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel thesame towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from afalse line, and had got it all to measure over again."
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbedAdam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwingthe decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given tohesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way--to ascertainas well as he could what was Hetty's state of mind before he decided ondelivering the letter.
