Book Four
Chapter XXVII
A crisis
IT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after the
birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north
midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to
be retarded by the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and
much damage throughout the country. From this last trouble the
Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in
their brook-watered valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot
pretend that they were such exceptional farmers as to love the
general good better than their own, you will infer that they were
not in very low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of
bread, so long as there was hope of gathering in their own corn
undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying winds
flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine
looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand
masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round
hills behind the Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the
sun was hidden for a moment, and then shone out warm again like a
recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed off the
hedgerow trees by the wind; around the farmhouses there was a
sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the orchards; and the
stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on the common had
their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only
part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry
day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could top
the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in
good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind
had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out
of the husk and scattered as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man.
For if it be true that Nature at certain moments seems charged
with a presentiment of one individual lot must it not also be true
that she seems unmindful uncon-scious of another? For there is no
hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning
brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well
as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and
our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature's mood is often
in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives? We are
children of a large family, and must learn, as such children do,
not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to be content
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 some satisfactory person could be found to supply his place,
and Jonathan was slow to find that person. But he had done the
extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant again about
Hetty. Every time she had seen him since the birthday, she had
seemed to make an effort to behave all the more kindly to him,
that she might make him understand she had forgiven his silence
and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the locket
to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happier
because he observed in her a more subdued air, something that he
interpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness.
"Ah!" he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll
be thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt allays says how
clever she is at the work. 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 the birthday; for one Sunday, when he
was intending to go from church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined
the party of upper servants from the Chase and had gone home with
them--almost as if she were inclined to encourage Mr. Craig.
"She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house keeper's
room," Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For my part, I was never overfond
o' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies'
fat dogs, 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 at a 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 again when he had taken her to the
yard gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after
coming from Treddleston because she didn't want to go in, she
said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt always made
such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in
with me!" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the
gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs.
Poyser was contented with 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 and talked and waited on them all
with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make
leisure for going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her
day for going to the Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he
would get as much work done as possible this evening, that the
next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight
repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by
Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old
squire was going to let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been
seen to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to get a
tenant could account for the squire's undertaking repairs, though
the Saturday-evening party at Mr. Casson's agreed over their pipes
that no man in his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there
was a bit more ploughland laid to it. However that might be, the
repairs were ordered to be executed with all dispatch, and Adam,
acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual
energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, he had not
been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the afternoon,
and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had
calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no
good to be done with this part of the building without pulling it
all down, and Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building
it up again, so as to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and
calf-pens, with a hovel for implements; and all without any great
expense for materials. So, when the workmen were gone, he sat
down, took out his pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching
a plan, and making a specification of the expenses that he might
show it to Burge the next morning, and set him on 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 and
then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible
smile of gratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of
good work, he loved also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the
only people who are free from that weakness are those who have no
work to call their own. It was nearly seven before he had
finished and put on his jacket again; and on giving a last look
round, he observed that Seth, who had been working here to-day,
had left his basket of tools behind him. "Why, th' lad's forgot
his tools," thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shop to-
morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd
leave his 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
come thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put
up his nag on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr.
Craig, who had come to look at the captain's new horse, on which
he was to ride away the day after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig
detained him to tell how all the servants were to collect at the
gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire luck 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, the sun
was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays
among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare
patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a
jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there
was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any
one who had been sitting in the house all day would have been glad
to walk now; but Adam had been quite enough in the open air to
wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought himself that he
might do so by striking across the Chase and going through the
Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on across
the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with
Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes
of the light--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence
in a certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy
working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very
deer felt it, and were more timid.
Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said
about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the
changes that might take place before he came back; then they
travelled back affectionately over the old scenes of boyish
companionship, and dwelt on Arthur's good qualities, which Adam
had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of the superior who
honours us. A nature like Adam's, with a great need of love and
reverence in it, depends for so much of its happiness on what it
can believe and feel about others! And he had no ideal world of
dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the past; he
must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving admiration
among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant
thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into
his keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he
opened the old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat
Gyp and say a kind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path
through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine
tree of all things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the
sea, so Adam's perceptions were more at home with trees than with
other objects. He kept them in his memory, as a painter does,
with all the flecks and knots in their bark, all the curves and
angles of their boughs, and had often calculated the height and
contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood looking at it. No
wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get on, he could not
help pausing to look at a curious large beech which he had seen
standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself
that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the
rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly
examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the
home where his youth was passed, before the road turned, and he
saw it no more. The beech stood at the last turning before the
Grove ended in an archway of boughs that let in the eastern light;
and as Adam stepped away from the tree to continue his walk, his
eyes fell on two figures about twenty yards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale.
The two figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped
hands about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who
had been running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of
them, and gave a sharp bark. They separated with a start--one
hurried through the gate out of the Grove, and the other, turning
round, walked slowly, with a sort of saunter, towards Adam who
still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with
which he held the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking
at the approaching figure with eyes in which amazement was fast
turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to
make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more
wine than usual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its
flattering influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for
rencontre with Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all,
Adam was the best person who could have happened to see him and
Hetty together--he was a sensible fellow, and would not babble
about it to other people. Arthur felt confident that he could
laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so he sauntered
forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, his evening
dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust into his
waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light
which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were
now shedding down between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He
understood it all now--the locket and everything else that had
been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching light showed him the
hidden letters that changed the meaning of the past. If he had
moved a muscle, he must inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a
tiger; and in the conflicting emotions that filled those long
moments, he had told himself that he would 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 own strong
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 sacred grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as
I was coming to my den--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 to be thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face.
He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at
the trees and then lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his
boot. He cared to say no more--he had thrown quite dust enough
into honest Adam's eyes--and as he spoke the last words, he walked
on.
"Stop a bit, sir," said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without
turning round. "I've got a word to say to you."
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected
by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the
susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was
still more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but
stood with his back to him, as if summoning him to return. What
did he mean? He was going to make a serious business of this
affair. Arthur felt his temper rising. A patronising disposition
always has its meaner side, and in the confusion of his irritation
and alarm there entered the feeling that a man to whom he had
shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position to criticize
his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself
in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares
for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation
as anger in his voice when he said, "What do you mean, Adam?"
"I mean, sir"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still
without turning round--"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by
your light words. 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 from
knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty,
which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened
his irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, "Well, sir, what
then?"
"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man
we've all believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a
selfish light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what
it's to lead to when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to
a young woman like Hetty, and gives her presents as she's
frightened for other folks to see. And I say it again, you're
acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel though it cuts
me to th' heart to say so, and I'd rather ha' lost my right hand."
"Let me tell you, Adam," said Arthur, bridling his growing anger
and trying to recur to his careless tone, "you're not only
devilishly impertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty
girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman
admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must mean
something particular. Every man likes to flirt with a pretty
girl, and every pretty girl likes to be flirted with. The wider
the distance between them, the less harm there is, for then she's
not likely to deceive herself."
"I don't know what you mean by flirting," said Adam, "but if you
mean behaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving
her all the while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man,
and what isn't honest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and
you're not a fool, and you know better than what you're saying.
You know it couldn't be made public as you've behaved to Hetty as
y' have done without her losing her character and bringing shame
and trouble on her and her relations. What if you meant nothing
by your kissing and your presents? Other folks won't believe as
you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not deceiving
herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the thought
of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never love
another man as 'ud make her a good husband."
Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he
perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and
that there was no irrevocable damage done by this evening's
unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be deceived. The candid
Arthur had brought himself into a position in which successful
lying was his only hope. The hope allayed his anger a little.
"Well, Adam," he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're
perhaps right. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking
notice of the pretty little 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 good Poysers on any account if
I could help it. But I think you look a little too seriously at
it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan't make any
more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night"--Arthur
here turned round to walk on--"and talk no more about the matter.
The whole thing will soon be forgotten."
"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no
longer, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward
till he was right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense
of personal injury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep
under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of us, in the
first moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellow-
man who has been the medium of inflicting it did not mean to hurt
us? In our instinctive rebellion against pain, we are children
again, and demand an active will to wreak our vengeance on. Adam
at this moment could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty--
robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted--and he
stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him,
with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he had
hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a just
indignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to
shake him as 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 robbed me o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best
friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And
you've been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have you? And I
never kissed her i' my life--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for
the right to kiss her. And you make light of it. You think
little o' doing what may damage other folks, so as you get your
bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throw back your favours, for
you're not the man I took you for. I'll never count you my friend
any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, and fight 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
to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to
notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he was
speaking. Arthur's lips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was
beating violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a
shock which made him for the moment see himself in the light of
Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's suffering as not merely a
consequence, but an element of his error. The words of hatred and
contempt--the first he had ever heard in his life--seemed like
scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him.
All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while
others respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face
to face with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever
committed. He was only twenty-one, and three months ago--nay,
much later--he had thought proudly that no man should ever be able
to reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been time
for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of propitiation;
but Adam had no sooner thrown off his coat and cap than he became
aware that Arthur was standing pale and motionless, 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
strike you 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 a common man, as you can injure without answering for it."
"I never meant to injure you," said Arthur, with returning anger.
"I didn't know you loved her."
"But you've made her love you," said Adam. "You're a double-faced
man--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 away
without fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you
you're a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you."
The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his
right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which
sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as
Adam's now, and the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone
before, fought with the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the
deepening twilight darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed
gentleman was a match for the workman in everything but strength,
and Arthur's skill enabled him to protract the struggle for some
long moments. But between unarmed men the battle is to the
strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must sink
under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken by an
iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying
concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his
darkly clad 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 the force of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it?
What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion,
only wreaked his own vengeance. 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
time seemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much
for him? Adam shuddered at the thought of his own strength, as
with the oncoming of this dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and
lifted his head from among the fern. There was no sign of life:
the eyes and teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam
completely mastered him, and forced upon him its own belief. He
could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's face, 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.
