by George Eliot
Chapter XXVII
A crisis
IT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after thebirthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midlandcounty of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retardedby the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damagethroughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslopefarmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-wateredvalleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were suchexceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their own,you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapidrise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering intheir own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and dryingwinds flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine lookedbrighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses ofcloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind theChase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for amoment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves,still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around thefarmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in theorchards; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and onthe common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the windseemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. Amerry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they couldtop the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were ingood spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind hadfallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of thehusk and scattered as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if itbe true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentimentof one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindfulunconscious of another? For there is no hour that has not its birthsof gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring newsickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. Thereare so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder thatNature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis ofour lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as suchchildren do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to becontent with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more.
It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work,for he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until somesatisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan wasslow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, forhis hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen himsince the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all themore kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgivenhis silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned thelocket to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happierbecause he observed in her a more subdued air, something that heinterpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. "Ah!"he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll be thoughtfulenough after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at thework. She'll make a wife as Mother'll have no occasion to grumble at,after all." To be sure, he had only seen her at home twice since thebirthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to theHall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the Chaseand had gone home with them--almost as if she were inclined to encourageMr. Craig. "She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the housekeeper's room," Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For my part, I was never overfondo' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies' fatdogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show."And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things;though, to his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her ata distance getting over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But,when he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in againwhen he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little fartherinto the fields after coming from Treddleston because she didn't want togo in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt alwaysmade such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in withme!" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, andhe could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contentedwith 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 andtalked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure forgoing to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going tothe Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he would get as much work doneas possible this evening, that the next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairsat the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, asbailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going tolet to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over itone day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for thesquire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr.Casson's agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would takethe Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it.However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with alldispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the orderwith his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere,he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in theafternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he hadcalculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good tobe done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, andAdam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so asto make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel forimplements; and all without any great expense for materials. So, whenthe workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, andbusied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of theexpenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set himon 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 andthen and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile ofgratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, heloved also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the only people who arefree from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own. Itwas nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; andon giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been workinghere to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. "Why, th' lad'sforgot his tools," thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shopto-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd leavehis 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 comethither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nagon his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had cometo look at the captain's new horse, on which he was to ride away the dayafter to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servantswere to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squireluck 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, thesun was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson raysamong the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare patch ofground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt uponthe grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze tostir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in thehouse all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quiteenough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethoughthimself that he might do so by striking across the Chase
and goingthrough the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried onacross the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, withGyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of thelight--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence in a certaincalm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy working-day thoughts.How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and were moretimid.
Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said aboutArthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changesthat might take place before he came back; then they travelled backaffectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelton Arthur's good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have inthe virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, witha great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of itshappiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had noideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men inthe past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with lovingadmiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasantthoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into hiskeen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened theold green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say akind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding paththrough the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree ofall things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam'sperceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. Hekept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks andknots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and hadoften calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as hestood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to geton, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech whichhe had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convincehimself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For therest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examiningthe beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where hisyouth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. Thebeech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway ofboughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from thetree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twentyyards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. Thetwo figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped handsabout to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had beenrunning among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gavea sharp bark. They separated with a start--one hurried through the gateout of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, witha sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale,clutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools overhis shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in whichamazement was fast turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to makeunpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine thanusual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flatteringinfluence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adamthan he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best personwho could have happened to see him and Hetty together--he was a sensiblefellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur feltconfident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And sohe sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, hisevening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust intohis waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light whichthe light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now sheddingdown between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understoodit all now--the locket and everything else that had been doubtful tohim: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters thatchanged the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he mustinevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflictingemotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that hewould 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 ownstrong 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 sacredgrove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to myden--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 tobe thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face. He did not lookdirectly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and thenlifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say nomore--he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam's eyes--and as hespoke the last words, he walked on.
"Stop a bit, sir," said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, withoutturning round. "I've got a word to say to you."
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected bya change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had thesusceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was stillmore surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with hisback to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He wasgoing to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temperrising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in theconfusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the feeling that aman to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a positionto criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feelshimself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he caresfor. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation asanger in his voice when he said, "What do you mean, Adam?"
"I mean, sir"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still withoutturning round--"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by your lightwords. 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 fromknowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty,which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened hisirritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, "Well, sir, what then?"
"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man we'veall believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a selfishlight-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it's to lead towhen a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman likeHetty, and gives her presents as she's frightened for other folksto see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfishlight-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'drather ha' lost my right hand."
"Let me tell you, Adam," said Arthur, bridling his growing anger andtrying to recur to his careless tone, "you're not only devilishlyimpertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not sucha fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty andpays her a little attention, he must mean something particular. Everyman likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to beflirted with. The wider the distance between them, the less harm thereis, for then she's not likely to deceive herself."
"I don't know what you mean by flirting," said Adam, "but if you meanbehaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her allthe while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man, and what isn'thonest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and you're not a fool, and youknow better than what you're saying. You know it couldn't be madepublic as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done without her losing hercharacter and bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. Whatif you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Other folkswon't believe as you've meant nothing; a
nd don't tell me about her notdeceiving herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with thethought of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never loveanother man as 'ud make her a good husband."
Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceivedthat Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was noirrevocable damage done by this evening's unfortunate rencontre. Adamcould still be deceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into aposition in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope allayedhis anger a little.
"Well, Adam," he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're perhapsright. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking notice of the prettylittle thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You're such a grave,steady fellow, you don't understand the temptation to such trifling.I'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the goodPoysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a littletoo seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan'tmake any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night"--Arthurhere turned round to walk on--"and talk no more about the matter. Thewhole thing will soon be forgotten."
"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled nolonger, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till hewas right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personalinjury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped upand mastered him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharpagony, could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium ofinflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebellionagainst pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreakour vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he hadbeen robbed of Hetty--robbed treacherously by the man in whom he hadtrusted--and he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaringat him, with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which hehad hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a justindignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to shake himas he spoke.
"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me,when she might ha' loved me--it'll not soon be forgot as you've robbedme o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and anoble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've been kissingher, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i' mylife--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. Andyou make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage otherfolks, so as you get your bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throwback your favours, for you're not the man I took you for. I'll nevercount you my friend any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, andfight me where I stand--it's all th' amends you can make me."
Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began tothrow off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice thechange that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur'slips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating violently. Thediscovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for themoment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam'ssuffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error.The words of hatred and contempt--the first he had ever heard in hislife--seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scarson him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away whileothers respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to facewith the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He wasonly twenty-one, and three months ago--nay, much later--he had thoughtproudly that no man should ever be able to reproach him justly. Hisfirst impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been toutter words of propitiation but Adam had no sooner thrown off hiscoat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale andmotionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.
"What!" he said, "won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't strikeyou while you stand so."
"Go away, Adam," said Arthur, "I don't want to fight you."
"No," said Adam, bitterly; "you don't want to fight me--you think I'm acommon man, as you can injure without answering for it."
"I never meant to injure you," said Arthur, with returning anger. "Ididn't know you loved her."
"But you've made her love you," said Adam. "You're a double-facedman--I'll never believe a word you say again."
"Go away, I tell you," said Arthur, angrily, "or we shall both repent."
"No," said Adam, with a convulsed voice, "I swear I won't go awaywithout fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you'rea coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you."
The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his righthand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adamstaggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam's now, andthe two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, foughtwith the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilightdarkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for theworkman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him toprotract the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men thebattle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthurmust sink under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is brokenby an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lyingconcealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darklyclad body.
He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise.
The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all theforce of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it? What had hedone by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his ownvengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past--there it was,just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage.
But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the timeseemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adamshuddered at the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming ofthis dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted his head from amongthe fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. Thehorror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced uponhim its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur'sface, and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement,but knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death.