by George Eliot
Chapter XLIV
Arthur's Return
When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter fromhis Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death, his firstfeeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to bewith him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at thelast that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death."
It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pityand softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busythoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly alongtowards the home where he was now to be master, there was a continuallyrecurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a regardfor his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherishedaims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in humannature--only in human pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fineconstitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing thatothers think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to givethem more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible forsuch a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through thedeath of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything verydifferent from exultant joy. Now his real life was beginning; now hewould have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. Hewould show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; hewould not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felthimself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking afterfavourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombremornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken wellof on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches atelection dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture;the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligentlandowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like--happyfaces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouringfamilies on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with himevery week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some verydelicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of theHayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more tothe vicar; and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go onliving at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--atleast until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinctbackground, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play thelady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman.
These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts throughhours of travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which areonly like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a longlong panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy facesArthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddyfaces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyserfamily.
What--Hetty?
Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about thepast, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thoughtof the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot.Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all thenews about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly threemonths ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he hadthought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself hadboth told Mr. Irwine all about it--that Adam had been deeply in lovewith Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to bemarried in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than therector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and ifit had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked todescribe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words withwhich the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would liketo hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect.
Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfyhis renovated life, when he had read that passage in the letter. Hethrew up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, andgreeted every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there hadbeen news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the first time that day sincehe had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load thathad been pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. Hethought he could conquer his bitterness towards Adam now--could offerhim his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painfulmemory which would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down,and he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do whatwe will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthurwished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his businessand his future, as he had always desired before the accursed meetingin August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he shouldotherwise have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband hada special claim on him--Hetty herself should feel that any pain shehad suffered through Arthur in the past was compensated to her ahundredfold. For really she could not have felt much, since she had sosoon made up her mind to marry Adam.
You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in thepanorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March now;they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married. And nowit was actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet--sweetlittle Hetty! The little puss hadn't cared for him half as much ashe cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still--was almostafraid of seeing her--indeed, had not cared much to look at any otherwoman since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards him inthe Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up tokiss him--that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. Andshe would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he couldmeet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort ofinfluence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. Hehad been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam,and there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in thesemoments than the thought of their marriage. It was the exaggeratingeffect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little morequickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as shereally was, as Adam's wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home,he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings. Thankheaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs andinterests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the foolagain.
Pleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of beinghurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those roundhis own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town--verymuch like Treddleston--where the arms of the neighbouring lord of themanor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields andhedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestionof high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woodswere more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked downfrom a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapetand chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--massesreddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: thesmall church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among thefaded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles roundthem; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes atthe swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs ofmysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And itshould not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should goon everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers inpost-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing butadmire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs,for he had a share in Burge's business now, and, if he liked, Arthurwould put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in anotheryear or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur's life, that affair lastsummer, but the future should make amends. Many men would have retaineda feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would not--he wouldresolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he h
ad certainlybeen very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent,and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love,and had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mindtowards any human being: he was happy, and would make every one elsehappy that came within his reach.
And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like aquiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and oppositeto it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplishblackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey,looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for theheir's return. "Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He was a youngfellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the worldgoes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but sheshall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido."
The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at theChase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferredtwo days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all theservants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decentwelcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would havebeen difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in theirfaces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession but the hearts ofthe head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the deathof the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twentymiles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of HettySorrel--pretty Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They hadthe partisanship of household servants who like their places, andwere not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation feltagainst him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for him;nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourlyintercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling thatthe longed-for event of the young squire's coming into the estate hadbeen robbed of all its pleasantness.
To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave andsad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, andfeeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort ofpathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it--which isperhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man,conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelledagreeably as he said, "Well, Mills, how is my aunt?"
But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever sincethe death, came forward to give deferential greetings and answer allquestions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where hisAunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in thehouse who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughterwas unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeralarrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women,she mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the morebecause she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him inother hearts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever donein his life before.
"Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR loss isthe greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up toyou all the rest of your life."
"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur," poor Miss Lydia began,pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen withimpatient patience. When a pause came, he said:
"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my ownroom, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything."
"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the butler,who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall.
"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on thewriting-table in your dressing-room."
On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, butwhich Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast hiseyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were several letters andpackets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty conditionof a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really refreshhimself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read hisletters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, witha delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a newday, he went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The levelrays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and asArthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmthupon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps youand I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth andhealth, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows ofactivity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was noneed for hurrying to look at, because it was all our own.
The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr.Irwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address waswritten, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives." Nothing could havebeen less surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at thatmoment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlierthan it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as thatit was quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say.Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing thewriter.
"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I maythen be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it hasever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know whatI have to tell you without delay.
"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retributionthat is now falling on you: any other words that I could write at thismoment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in which I musttell you the simple fact.
"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime ofchild-murder."...
Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a singleminute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole frame, as if thelife were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next minute hehad rushed out of the room, still clutching the letter--he was hurryingalong the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was stillthere, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted man acrossthe hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out after himas fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where theyoung squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur wasforcing himself to read the remaining words of the letter. He thrustit into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that momentcaught sight of Mills' anxious face in front of him.
"Tell them I'm gone--gone to Stoniton," he said in a muffled tone ofagitation--sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.
