Adam Bede
by George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans)
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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Chapter XXV

The Games

THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any
lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then,
there was music always at hand--for was not the band of the
Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and
hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from
Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-
out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys
and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an
act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case
any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to
a solo on that instrument.

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front
of the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped
poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the
old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by
the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious
attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg--
feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the
lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be pre-
eminent. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race--that
sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of
everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest
donkey winning.

And soon after four o ciock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her
damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur,
followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the
striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the
victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that
queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with
this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for
stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely
scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia,
looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and
Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend
of the family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was
to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow,
but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of
the tenants.

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn
from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the
passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or
seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the
open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence.

"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep
voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene
with its dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm
likely to see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But
take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die
without seeing her."

"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm
afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice."

"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put
off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making
for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly;
that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly
woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with
the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such
care of that tall old woman by the side of him--his mother, of
course. I like to see that."

"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is
Seth Bede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow.
Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was
because of his father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann
tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher
who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him."

"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people
here that I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since
I used to go about."

"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was
holding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of
that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale
blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when
we come to look close. I can read small print without
spectacles."

"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and
those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong
spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and
better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live
another fifty years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't
out of other people's sight, like a man who stands in a well and
sees nothing but the stars."

"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their
race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"

"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats,
and then the little wiry one may win."

"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,"
said Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice
of her."

"To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to
Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is
not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is
holding on her knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"

"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin
Poyser's niece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too.
My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some
lace of mine very respectably indeed--very respectably."

"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother;
you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine.

"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now," said
Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed!
She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since
my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown
away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the
good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man
who would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round
eyes and red hair."

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was
speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with
something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough
without looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard
her beauty praised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a
native climate to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they
thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn
any man's head: any man in his place would have done and felt the
same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do,
would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride.

"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't
agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid
as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and
feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate
woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their
presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain
the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels
it."

"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about
it?"

"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser
than married men, because they have time for more general
contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his
judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what
I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now
told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never
been treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by
them. The reason is--though she doesn't know it--that there's so
much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman
as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the coarsest
fellow is not insensible to."

"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to
receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one
of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we came."

The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage,
otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person
had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had
happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime.
Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since
Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small
finery as she could muster. Any one who could have looked into
poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between
her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,
perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling.
But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would
have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed
to kiss Hetty.

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere
hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said
there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she
approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but
with exultation sparkling in her round eyes.

"Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia,
taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid
and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent
grogram gown and a piece of flannel."

"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?"
said Arthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and
save that grim-looking gown for one of the older women?"

"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said
Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of
encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have
a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins."

This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression
in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up
and dropped a series of curtsies.

"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad
Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"

"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your
prize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had
hard work to win them this warm day."

Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so
hot and disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great
ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without
looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the corners of
her mouth, and then turned away.

"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it
had been something more to her taste."

"She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at
all one I should like to encourage."

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of
money before the day was over, that she might buy something more
to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for
her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the
marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began
to cry--very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In
this situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin,
who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her
husband's charge.

"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the
bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon,
running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good
grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good rights to
them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might
spare me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad--ye war
ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that on ye."

"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with
a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover
herself.

"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said
the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle,
lest Chad's Bess should change her mind.

But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of
spirits that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time
the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment
was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to
stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the
argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in
adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well
considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct
sequence; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of
his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the
blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant
the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate
rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in
the midst of its triumph.

Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was
made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and
gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had
hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when
it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the
company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and
gratuitous performance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which
was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer
in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the
praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an
accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake--had
needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to
convince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his
performance of his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged
in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it was nothing but
right to do something to please the young squire, in return for
what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this
opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had
requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt
quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the
music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of
the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben
he had better not make a fool of himself--a remark which at once
fixed Ben's determination: he was not going to let anything alone
because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it.

"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it
something you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with
his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole."

"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going
to dance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this
moment."

"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine;
"rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-
scraping is too much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take
you in now, that you may rest till dinner."

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away,
while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White
Cockade," from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by
a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to
execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact
to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too
thoroughly absorbed by Ben's dancing for any one to give much heed
to the music.

Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance?
Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry
countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and
insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real
thing as the "Bird Waltz" is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben
never smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkey--as serious
as if he had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his
own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity
that could be given to the human limbs.

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee,
Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!"  But Ben
had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid
gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was
seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs.

"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat
to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a
pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could
niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that."

"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turned
Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver
come jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for
the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can
see."

"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser,
who did not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're
going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a
bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look
after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun."

Chapter XXVI

The Dance

ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely,
for no other room could have heen so airy, or would have had the
advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a
ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor
was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers
had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen
quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the
surrounding rooms look like closets--with stucco angels, trumpets,
and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of
miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in
niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green
boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his
hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone
staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the
children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-
maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the
chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights
were charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, high up among
green boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped
in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they knew now quite
well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their
thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances
who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in
the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had
not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which
we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.

It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their
families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs,
or along the broad straight road leading from the east front,
where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here
and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir
sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of
paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually
diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights
that were beginning to gleam from the windows of the gallery in
the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the
sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of
these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial
attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in
dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had
never been more constantly present with him than in this scene,
where everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more
vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured
dresses of the young women--just as one feels the beauty and the
greatness of a pictured Madonna the more when it has been for a
moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this
presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better
with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more
querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a
strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour
paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the
conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when
Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join
the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of
her reach; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it
mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did.

"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not
a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o'
bein' left to take up merrier folks's room above ground."

"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was
determined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I
shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there,
it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd
rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day."

"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right
t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st
slipped away from her, like the ripe nut."

"Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it
hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo'
that account: he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm
willing." He said this with some effort, for he really longed to
be near Hetty this evening.

"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be
angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth
'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked
on--an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the
cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?"

"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when
you get home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the
pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the
Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that
he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a
distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the
house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet
them.

"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser,
who was carrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o'
fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has
promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if
she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no."

"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night," said Adam, already
tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-
night, all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been
tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young
squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball:
so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the
Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand
still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as
anybody."

"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the
dancin's nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's
nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-
made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the
broth alone."

"Then if Hetty 'ull d'ance with me," said Adam, yielding either to
Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever
dance she's free."

"I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll
dance that with you, if you like."

"Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam,
else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to
pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men
stan' by and don't ask 'em."

Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do
for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that
Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to
ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no
other partner.

"There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must
make haste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore
us, an' that wouldna look well."

When they had entered the hall, and the three children under
Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of
the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his
regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais
ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to
be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the
dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put
on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much
of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the
premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in
that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure.

The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to
greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was
always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling,
that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was
observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser
to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending
her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all
drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-
command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband,
"I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old
Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'."  Mr. Poyser had no time
to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come
to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr.
Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as
her partner."

The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted
honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser,
to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his
good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly,
secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a
partner in HER life who could lift her off the ground as he would.
In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss
Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and
Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his
sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with
Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was
prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had
taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig,
and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the
glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.

Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of
the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry
stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal
of the hand--where can we see them now? That simple dancing of
well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house
and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but
proud of the young maidens by their side--that holiday
sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to
their wives, as if their courting days were come again--those lads
and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners,
having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to see all
that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and
scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered
boots smiling with double meaning.

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this
dance: it was that he was always in close contact with Luke
Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little
glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then,
as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke,
he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to
hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.

How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly
looked at her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press
it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave
her no sign of feeling. Now he was there--he had taken her hand--
yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at
him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him
away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a
dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and
joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he
had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he should
be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so
much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the
desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray
the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that
transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges
with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul
that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of
foregone generations--eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless
has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes--perhaps
paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national
language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use
it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet
had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she
loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that
moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for
the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion
for Hetty.

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs.
Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that
neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to
take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out
for the guests to come and take it as they chose.

"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you,
sir," said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless,
she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So
I told her not to promise too many."

"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge.
"Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready
to give you what you would like best."

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour
must be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young
ones; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious
nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously.

At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the
strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of
eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first
love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than
a transient greeting--had never danced with her but once before.
His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself,
and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved
so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all
she smiled less than usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about
her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly; "I'd make her life a
happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love
her, could do it."

And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home
from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek
softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the
music and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain
and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew.

But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and
claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the
staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping
Totty into her arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets
from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into
the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in
the cart with Grandfather and Molly was to follow as fast as
possible.

"Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the
children are so heavy when they're asleep."

Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms,
standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this
second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who
was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an
unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her
in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened
her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's
arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round
Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next
moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and
locket scattered wide on the floor.

"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to
Adam; "never mind the beads."

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted
his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the
raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and
as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light
locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the
glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw the
enamelled gold back.

"It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was
unable to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who
had been pale and was now red.

"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened
about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it," he added,
quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he
wanted to look at it again.

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as
she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She
took it with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in
her heart vexed and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but
determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation.

"See," she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us
go."

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of
him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her
relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and
none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the
position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must
be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility of finding any
person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel with a
terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to
him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she
would come to love him, she was already loving another. The
pleasure of the dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they
rested on her, had an uneasy questioning expression in them; he
could think of nothing to say to her; and she too was out of
temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the
dance was ended.

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no
one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of
doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along
without knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory
of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned
for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he
stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After all, he
might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty,
fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself.
It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the things on
white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam
had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he
thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps
Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no
knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in
that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving
finery! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at
first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to
care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his seeing that she
had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it was wrong for
her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved
of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and
disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity
afterwards that he was very much displeased with her, that he was
inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he
walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only
uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill
Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter
must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover,
quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's house
for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not
come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It
would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a
lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he
could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not
seen it very distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or
mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would
naturally put a bit of her own along with it.

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an
ingenious web of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can
place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts
melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm,
and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so cold and
silent.

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the
dance and saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the
wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can."
And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a
little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering
back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first
time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours.
Arthur wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge
in; and a man never lies with more delicious languor under the
influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he
shall subdue it to-morrow.

But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her
mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of
to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours.
Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the
young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come
back to fetch them, for it was half-past ten o'clock, and
notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad
manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute
on the point, "manners or no manners."

"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as
she came to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part
with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are
elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then."

"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to
stay up by candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds.
We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know
as they mustn't want to be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So,
if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave."

"Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd
sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these
pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an'
starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and
keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for
fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing
to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin'
things as disagree."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and
felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for
thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll
back thee against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot an'
ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee
first--I reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an'
made the speech. An' Hetty too--she never had such a partner
before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'll serve you to
talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you danced wi' th'
young squire the day he come o' age."

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.

Chapter XXVIII

A Dilemma

IT was only a few minutes measured by the clock--though Adam
always thought it had been a long while--before he perceived a
gleam of consciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver
through his frame. The intense joy that flooded his soul brought
back some of the old affection with it.

"Do you feel any pain, sir?" he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur's
cravat.

Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way
to a slightly startled motion as if from the shock of returning
memory. But he only shivered again and said nothing.

"Do you feel any hurt, sir?" Adam said again, with a trembling in
his voice.

Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had
unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. "Lay my head down," he
said, faintly, "and get me some water if you can."

Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the
tools out of the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the
edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below
the bank.

When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full,
Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened
consciousness.

"Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?" said Adam, kneeling
down again to lift up Arthur's head.

"No," said Arthur, "dip my cravat in and souse it on my head."

The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised
himself a little higher, resting on Adam's arm.

"Do you feel any hurt inside sir?" Adam asked again

"No--no hurt," said Arthur, still faintly, "but rather done up."

After a while he said, "I suppose I fainted away when you knocked
me down."

"Yes, sir, thank God," said Adam. "I thought it was worse."

"What! You thought you'd done for me, eh? Come help me on my
legs."

"I feel terribly shaky and dizzy," Arthur said, as he stood
leaning on Adam's arm; "that blow of yours must have come against
me like a battering-ram. I don't believe I can walk alone."

"Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along," said Adam. "Or, will you
sit down a bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll prop y' up.
You'll perhaps be better in a minute or two."

"No," said Arthur. "I'll go to the Hermitage--I think I've got
some brandy there. There's a short road to it a little farther
on, near the gate. If you'll just help me on."

They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking
again. In both of them, the concentration in the present which
had attended the first moments of Arthur's revival had now given
way to a vivid recollection of the previous scene. It was nearly
dark in the narrow path among the trees, but within the circle of
fir-trees round the Hermitage there was room for the growing
moonlight to enter in at the windows. Their steps were noiseless
on the thick carpet of fir-needles, and the outward stillness
seemed to heighten their inward consciousness, as Arthur took the
key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand, for him to
open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur had
furnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and
it was a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug
room with all the signs of frequent habitation.

Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman.
"You'll see my hunting-bottle somewhere," he said. "A leather
case with a bottle and glass in."

Adam was not long in finding the case. "There's very little
brandy in it, sir," he said, turning it downwards over the glass,
as he held it before the window; "hardly this little glassful."

"Well, give me that," said Arthur, with the peevishness of
physical depression. When he had taken some sips, Adam said,
"Hadn't I better run to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy?
I can be there and back pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home
for you, if you don't have something to revive you."

"Yes--go. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell
him to get it from Mills, and not to say I'm at the Hermitage.
Get some water too."

Adam was relieved to have an active task--both of them were
relieved to be apart from each other for a short time. But Adam's
swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinking--of living
again with concentrated suffering through the last wretched hour,
and looking out from it over all the new sad future.

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but
presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly
in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of
wax candle that stood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing
materials. There was more searching for the means of lighting the
candle, and when that was done, he went cautiously round the room,
as if wishing to assure himself of the presence or absence of
something. At last he had found a slight thing, which he put
first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again
and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was a woman's
little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table,
and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the
effort.

When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur
from a doze.

"That's right," Arthur said; "I'm tremendously in want of some
brandy-vigour."

"I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir," said Adam. "I've been
thinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn."

"No, no; the candle will last long enough--I shall soon be up to
walking home now."

"I can't go before I've seen you safe home, sir," said Adam,
hesitatingly.

"No: it will be better for you to stay--sit down."

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy
silence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visibly
renovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position,
and looked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations.
Adam was keenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety
about Arthur's condition began to be allayed, he felt more of that
impatience which every one knows who has had his just indignation
suspended by the physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one
thing on his mind to be done before he could recur to
remonstrance: it was to confess what had been unjust in his own
words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make this confession,
that his indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs
of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his
lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be better
to leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they were silent
they did not look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam
that if they began to speak as though they remembered the past--if
they looked at each other with full recognition--they must take
fire again. So they sat in silence till the bit of wax candle
flickered low in the socket, the silence all the while becoming
more irksome to Adam. Arthur had just poured out some more
brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind his head and drew up
one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was an
irresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind.

"You begin to feel more yourself again, sir," he said, as the
candle went out and they were half-hidden from each other in the
faint moonlight.

"Yes: I don't feel good for much--very lazy, and not inclined to
move; but I'll go home when I've taken this dose."

There was a slight pause before Adam said, "My temper got the
better of me, and I said things as wasn't true. I'd no right to
speak as if you'd known you was doing me an injury: you'd no
grounds for knowing it; I've always kept what I felt for her as
secret as I could."

He paused again before he went on.

"And perhaps I judged you too harsh--I'm apt to be harsh--and you
may have acted out o' thoughtlessness more than I should ha'
believed was possible for a man with a heart and a conscience.
We're not all put together alike, and we may misjudge one another.
God knows, it's all the joy I could have now, to think the best of
you."

Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too
painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to
wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet it was a
relief to him that Adam reopened the subject in a way the least
difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the wretched position
of an open, generous man who has committed an error which makes
deception seem a necessity. The native impulse to give truth in
return for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, must be
suppressed, and duty was becoming a question of tactics. His deed
was reacting upon him--was already governing him tyrannously and
forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitual feelings.
The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive Adam
to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved.
And when he heard the words of honest retractation--when he heard
the sad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice in
the remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer
immediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful.

"Say no more about our anger, Adam," he said, at last, very
languidly, for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; "I
forgive your momentary injustice--it was quite natural, with the
exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be none the
worse friends in future, I hope, because we've fought. You had
the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I've
been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shake hands."

Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still.

"I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir," he said, "but I can't
shake hands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I
spoke as if you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong
in what I said before, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't
shake hands with you as if I held you my friend the same as ever
till you've cleared that up better."

Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his
hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, as
indifferently as he could, "I don't know what you mean by clearing
up, Adam. I've told you already that you think too seriously of a
little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there is any
danger in it--I'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end
of it. As for the pain it has given you, I'm heartily sorry for
it. I can say no more."

Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face
towards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of the
moonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but
the conflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not
to speak till to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it
was several minutes before he turned round and stepped nearer to
Arthur, standing and looking down on him as he lay.

"It'll be better for me to speak plain," he said, with evident
effort, "though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle
to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go
making love first to one woman and then t' another, and don't
think it much odds which of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a
different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much
about but them as feel it and God as has given it to 'em. She's
more nor everything else to me, all but my conscience and my good
name. And if it's true what you've been saying all along--and if
it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it, as 'll be put
an end to by your going away--why, then, I'd wait, and hope her
heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speak
false to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look."

"You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it," said
Arthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving
away. But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying,
more feebly, "You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are
casting imputations upon her."

"Nay, sir," Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half-
relieved--for he was too straightforward to make a distinction
between a direct falsehood and an indirect one--"Nay, sir, things
don't lie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your
eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in
her mind? She's all but a child--as any man with a conscience in
him ought to feel bound to take care on. And whatever you may
think, I know you've disturbed her mind. I know she's been fixing
her heart on you, for there's a many things clear to me now as I
didn't understand before. But you seem to make light o' what she
may feel--you don't think o' that."

"Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I
feel it enough without your worrying me."

He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped
him.

"Well, then, if you feel it," Adam rejoined, eagerly; "if you feel
as you may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her
believe as you loved her, when all the while you meant nothing,
I've this demand to make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but
for her. I ask you t' undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't
going away for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion in
her head o' your feeling about her the same as she feels about
you, she'll be hankering after you, and the mischief may get
worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save her pain i'
th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeing
as she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself
for behaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't
your equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way.
There's nobody can take care o' Hetty in this thing but me."

"I can do what I think needful in the matter," said Arthur, more
and more irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, "without
giving promises to you. I shall take what measures I think
proper."

"No," said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I
must know what ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've
put an end to what ought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget
what's owing to you as a gentleman, but in this thing we're man
and man, and I can't give up."

There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see
you to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill." He rose as he
spoke, and reached his cap, as if intending to go.

"You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of
recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing
his back against it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife--
tell me you've been lying--or else promise me what I've said."

Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before
Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped,
faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of
them--that inward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, "I
promise; let me go."

Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur
reached the step, he stopped again and leaned against the door-
post.

"You're not well enough to walk alone, sir," said Adam. "Take my
arm again."

Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following.
But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, "I
believe I must trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may
be an alarm set up about me at home."

Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word,
till they came where the basket and the tools lay.

"I must pick up the tools, sir," Adam said. "They're my
brother's. I doubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a
minute."

Arthur stood still without sp