Chapter XXIX
The Next Morning
ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well.
For sleep comes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary
enough. But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by
declaring he was going to get up, and must have breakfast brought
to him at eight.
"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my
grandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am
gone for a ride."
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In
bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up,
though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which
offers some resistance to the past--sensations which assert
themselves against tyrannous memories. And if there were such a
thing as taking averages of feeling, it would certainly be found
that in the hunting and shooting seasons regret, self-reproach,
and mortified pride weigh lighter on country gentlemen than in
late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he should be more of a
man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with
the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after the scenes of
yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion, the loss
of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment which
suffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all
eyes--as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a
nervous woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are
suffused with a sense of danger.
Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness
were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of
his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy.
He didn't like to witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes
beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of
seven, he one day kicked down an old 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 that sad fact, he took his
favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife out of his pocket
and offered them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur
ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If
there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself
against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps
the time was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the
first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at
discovering that Adam's happiness was involved in his relation to
Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making Adam tenfold
amends--if deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored
Adam's contentment and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur
would not only have executed them without hesitation, but would
have felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never have
been weary of making retribution. But Adam could receive no
amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and
affection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement.
He stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure
could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from
believing in--the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The
words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted
over him in their last conversation in the Hermitage--above all,
the sense of having been knocked down, to which a man does not
very well reconcile himself, even under the most heroic
circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which was
stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded
himself that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the
contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis
can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciences--out
of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused:
there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon.
Our moral sense learns the manners of good society and smiles when
others smile, but when some rude person gives rough names to our
actions, she is apt to take part against us. And so 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 and resolves had transformed themselves into compunction
and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed
for his own, that he must leave her behind. He had always, both
in making and breaking resolutions, looked beyond his passion and
seen that it must speedily end in separation; but his nature was
too ardent and tender for him not to suffer at this parting; and
on Hetty's account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found
out the dream in which she was living--that she was to be a lady
in silks and satins--and when he had first talked to her about his
going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with him
and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had
given the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had
said no word with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all
spun by her own childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to
himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And to
increase the mischief, on this last evening he had not dared to
hint the truth to Hetty; he had been obliged to soothe her with
tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw her into violent
distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the sorrow of the
dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety of
the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. That
was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he
could evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been
secret; the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one,
except Adam, knew anything of what had passed--no one else was
likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty that it would be
fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the least
intimacy between them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would
rather help them to keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate
business altogether, but there was no use in making it worse than
it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings of evil that
might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst
consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad
consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty
might have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And
perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and
make up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. She
would owe the advantage of 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,
two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate
honour which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not
contemplate any more positive offence as possible for it?--who
thought that his own self-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 or will be the peculiar
combination of outward with inward facts, which constitutes a
man's critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves
wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in our
deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and
then reconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second
wrong presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable
right. The action which before commission has been seen with that
blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the
healthy eye of the soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of
apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that men call
beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures very much
alike. Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an
individual character--until the placid adjustment is disturbed by
a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his
own sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur
because of that very need of self-respect which, while his
conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safeguards.
Self-accusation was too painful to him--he could not face it. He
must persuade himself that he had not been very much to blame; he
began even to pity himself for the necessity he was under of
deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honesty of his
own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in
consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter
that he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be
a gross barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he
could do to her. And across all this reflection would dart every
now and then a sudden impulse of passionate defiance towards all
consequences. He would carry Hetty away, and all other
considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an
intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down
upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting
feelings, some of which would fly away in the open air. He had
only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must get clear
and calm. Once on Meg's back, in the fresh air of that fine
morning, he should be more master of the situation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed
the gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her
nose, and patted 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. But Meg was quite as well acquainted with her
master's mental state as many others of her sex with the mental
condition of the nice young gentlemen towards whom their hearts
are in a state of fluttering expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at
the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in
the road. Then he 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
Arthur went away--there was no possibility of their contriving
another without exciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened
child, unable to think of anything, only able to cry at the
mention of parting, and then put her face up to have the tears
kissed away. He could do nothing but comfort her, and lull her
into dreaming on. A letter would be a dreadfully abrupt way of
awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam said--that it
would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might be worse
than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of
satisfying Adam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one.
If he could have seen her again! But that was impossible; there
was such a thorny hedge of 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 to suffer 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
dread lest she should do something violent in her grief; and close
upon that dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he
shook them off with the force of youth and hope. What was the
ground for painting the future in that dark way? It was just as
likely to be the reverse. Arthur told himself he did not deserve
that things should turn out badly. He had never meant beforehand
to do anything his conscience disapproved; he had been led on by
circumstances. There was a sort of implicit confidence 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
do was to take what seemed the best course at the present moment.
And he persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open
between Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as
he said, after a while; and in that case there would have been no
great harm done, since it was still Adam's ardent wish to make her
his wife. To be sure, Adam was deceived--deceived in a way that
Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been
practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred the
consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in mingled shame
and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in such a
dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure
Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told
or acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable
fool he was to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet,
if ever a man had excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are
determined not by excuses but by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that
promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears came into
Arthur's eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be
almost as hard for him to write it; he was not doing anything easy
to himself; and this last thought helped him to arrive at a
conclusion. He could never deliberately have taken a step which
inflicted pain on another and left himself at ease. Even a
movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up Hetty 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
set off home again in a canter. The letter should be written the
first thing, 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 Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock
the next day he should have left the Chase miles behind him.
There was some security in this constant occupation against an
uncontrollable impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust
into her hand some mad proposition that would undo everything.
Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign
from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift gallop.
"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night,"
said sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants'
hall. "He's been 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
been relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by
learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was
punctually there again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few
minutes Pym came down with a letter in his hand and gave it to
Adam, saying that the captain was 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 before opening it. It
contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the inside of
the cover Adam read:
"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I
leave it to you to decide whether you will be doing best to
deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more
whether you are not taking a measure which may pain her more than
mere silence.
"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall
meet with better feelings some months hence.
A.D."
"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me," thought Adam.
"It's no use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use
meeting to shake hands and say we're friends again. We're not
friends, an' it's better not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is
a man's duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as you're to
give up all thoughts o' taking revenge: it can never mean as
you're t' have your old feelings back again, for that's not
possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can't feel the same
towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel the same
towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a
false line, and had got it all to measure over again."
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon
absorbed Adam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to
himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam,
who was not given to hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to
feel his way--to ascertain as well as he could what was Hetty's
state of mind before he decided on delivering the letter.
