Chapter XLIV
Arthur's Return
When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter
from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death,
his first feeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got
to him to be with him when he died. He might have felt or wished
something at the last that I shall never know now. It was a
lonely death."
It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity
and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his
busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly
along towards the home where he was now to be master, there was a
continually recurring effort to remember anything by which he
could show a regard for his grandfather's wishes, without
counteracting his own cherished aims for the good of the tenants
and the estate. But it is not in human nature--only in human
pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fine constitution
and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that others
think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give them
more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible for
such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the
death of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything
very different from exultant joy. Now his real life was
beginning; now he would have room and opportunity for action, and
he would use them. He would show the Loamshire people what a fine
country gentleman was; he would not exchange that career for any
other under the sun. He felt himself riding over the hills in the
breezy autumn days, looking after favourite plans of drainage and
enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings as the best rider on
the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days as a
first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches at election
dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the
patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of
negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody
must like--happy faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate,
and the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The
Irwines should dine with him every week, and have their own
carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur
would devise, the lay-impropriator of the Hayslope tithes would
insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the vicar; and his
aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the
Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--at least
until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct
background, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play
the lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman.
These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts
through hours of travelling can be compressed into a few
sentences, which are only like the list of names telling you what
are the scenes in a long long panorama full of colour, of detail,
and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not
pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, long familiar to him:
Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyser family.
What--Hetty?
Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about
the past, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he
thought of the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her
present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent,
telling him all the news about the old places and people, had sent
him word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry
Mary Burge, as he had thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin
Poyser and Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it--
that Adam had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and
that now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That
stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector had
thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if it had
not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to
describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words
with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur
would like to hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in
prospect.
Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to
satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that passage in the
letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the
December air, and greeted every one who spoke to him with an eager
gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For
the first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he was in
true boyish spirits. The load that had been pressing upon him was
gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer
his bitterness towards Adam now--could offer him his hand, and ask
to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory 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 what we
will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur
wished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his
business and his future, as he had always desired before the
accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great deal more
for Adam than he should otherwise have done, when he came into the
estate; Hetty's husband had a special claim on him--Hetty herself
should feel that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the
past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could
not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to
marry Adam.
You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in
the panorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was
March now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already
married. And now it was actually in his power to do a great deal
for them. Sweet--sweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn't
cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he was a great
fool about her still--was almost afraid of seeing her--indeed, had
not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from
her. That little figure coming towards him in the Grove, those
dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him--
that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she
would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he could
meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this
sort of influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with
Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that she
should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to
his happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage.
It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart
still beat a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he
saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam's wife, at
work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder
at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had
turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and
interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing
the fool again.
Pleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of
being hurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like
those round his own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a
market-town--very much like Treddleston--where the arms of the
neighbouring lord of the manor were borne on the sign of the
principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a
market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till
the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more
frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a
moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and
chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--masses
reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village:
the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even
among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones
with nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the
children, opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing
noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a
much prettier village Hayslope was! And it should not be
neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go on
everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in
post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing
but admire 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, Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the
old man out in another year or two. That was an ugly fault in
Arthur's life, that affair last summer, but the future should make
amends. Many men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness
towards Adam, but he would not--he would resolutely overcome all
littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been 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
mind towards any human being: he was happy, and would make every
one else happy that came within his reach.
And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill,
like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight,
and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below
them the purplish blackness 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 the heir's return. "Poor Grandfather!
And he lies dead there. He was a young fellow once, coming into
the estate and making his plans. So the world goes round! Aunt
Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be
indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido."
The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at
the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been
deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the
courtyard, all the servants in the house were assembled to receive
him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A
month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have
maintained a suitable sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was
come to take possession; but the hearts of the head-servants were
heavy that day for another cause than the death of the old squire,
and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as
Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel--pretty
Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They had the
partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were
not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt
against him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for
him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of
neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not
help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire's
coming into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness.
To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave
and sad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all
again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was
that sort of pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in
it--which is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a
good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good
nature. His heart swelled agreeably as he said, "Well, Mills, how
is my aunt?"
But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever
since the death, came forward to give deferential greetings and
answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the
library, where his Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was
the only person in the house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her
sorrow as a maiden daughter was unmixed with any other thoughts
than those of anxiety about funeral arrangements and her own
future lot; and, after the manner of women, she mourned for the
father who had made her life important, all the more because she
had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in other
hearts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever
done in his life before.
"Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR
loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and
make it up to you 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 with
impatient patience. When a pause came, he said:
"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to
my own room, 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 the
writing-table in your dressing-room."
On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room,
but which Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just
cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were
several letters and packets lying there; but he was in the
uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had a long hurried
journey, and he must really refresh himself by attending to his
toilette a little, before he read his letters. Pym was there,
making everything ready for him, and soon, with a delightful
freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new day, he
went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level
rays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and
as Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant
warmth upon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which
perhaps you and I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our
brightest youth and health, life has opened a new vista for us,
and long to-morrows of activity have stretched before us like a
lovely plain which there was no need 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
was written, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives." Nothing
could have been less surprising to him than a letter from Mr.
Irwine at that moment: of course, there was something he wished
Arthur to know earlier than it was possible for them to see each
other. At such a time as that it was quite natural that Irwine
should have something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with
an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the writer.
"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I
may then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful
duty it has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that
you should know what I have to tell you without delay.
"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the
retribution that is now falling on you: any other words that I
could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side
of those in which I must tell you the simple fact.
"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the
crime of child-murder."...
Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a
single minute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole
frame, as if the life were going out of him with horrible throbs;
but the next minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching
the letter--he was hurrying along the corridor, and down the
stairs into the hall. Mills was still there, but Arthur did not
see him, as he passed like a hunted man across the hall and out
along the gravel. The butler hurried out after him as fast as his
elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where the young
squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and
Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining words of the
letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to
him, and at that moment caught sight of Mills' anxious face in
front of him.
"Tell them I'm gone--gone to Stoniton," he said in a muffled tone
of agitation--sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.
