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Arthur Donnithorne, you remember, is under an engagement with himself
to go and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and
dressing so early that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of
after. The rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the
ladies of the family having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will
have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say
everything best over a meal.
The progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy
and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable
ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father
confessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly
conscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in
an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an
appetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more
barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a
pistol-shot, is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has
become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between
the second and third glasses of claret.
Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they
committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed:
when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall and
are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more
likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if
you were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany
with a companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have
nothing particular to say.
However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on
horseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to open
his heart to the rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he
passes by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this
honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now,
for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and
there is something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general
and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts
on his state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A
man about town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to
be felt out of a child’s story-book; but when you are among the fields
and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to
simple natural pleasures.
Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching the
Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a
figure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to
mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no
grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his
usual rapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for
he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an
opportunity of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that
good fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: our
friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his
handsome deeds recognized.
Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse’s
heels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his head
with a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam
would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young
man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have
lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it
was Arthur’s present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a
fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam’s
lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the
house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had
quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling
had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into
the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the
influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect
to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a
philosopher or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a
stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his
nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he
saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about
setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of
damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber—by ignorant men in
fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops and the like
without knowing the bearings of things—by slovenly joiners’ work, and
by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining
somebody; and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such
doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against
the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he
felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people
who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how
ill the woods on the estate were managed, and the shameful state of the
farm-buildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect
of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without
flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a
“gentleman” would have been strong within him all the while. The word
“gentleman” had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he “couldn’t
abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to’s
betters.” I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the
peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century
ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete.
Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam’s was
assisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that
he thought far more of Arthur’s good qualities, and attached far more
value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the
qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it
would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire
came into the estate—such a generous open-hearted disposition as he
had, and an “uncommon” notion about improvements and repairs,
considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect
and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur
Donnithorne rode up.
“Well, Adam, how are you?” said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never
shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly.
“I could swear to your back a long way off. It’s just the same back,
only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?”
“Aye, sir, I remember. It ’ud be a poor look-out if folks didn’t
remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no
more about old friends than we do about new uns, then.”
“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, putting his horse on
at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. “Are you going to the
rectory?”
“No, sir, I’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They’re afraid of the
roof pushing the walls out, and I’m going to see what can be done with
it before we send the stuff and the workmen.”
“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn’t he? I
should think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he’s wise.”
“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he’d be much the better off for that. A
foreman, if he’s got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his
business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn’t give a penny for a
man as ’ud drive a nail in slack because he didn’t get extra pay for
it.”
“I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were
working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now,
and could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man must
give up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he’ll want
a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of
his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into
the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest
some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the
estate. I’m sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall
be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I’m
of age; and when I’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look
about me.”
“You’re very good to say so, sir, and I’m not unthankful. But”—Adam
continued, in a decided tone—“I shouldn’t like to make any offers to
Mr. Burge, or t’ have any made for me. I see no clear road to a
partnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that
’ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair
interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time.”
“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said
about a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge,
“we’ll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be
buried?”
“On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. I shall be
glad when it’s over, for I think my mother ’ull perhaps get easier
then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they’ve no way
o’ working it off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the
withered tree.”
“Ah, you’ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam.
I don’t think you’ve ever been hare-brained and light-hearted, like
other youngsters. You’ve always had some care on your mind.”
“Why, yes, sir; but that’s nothing to make a fuss about. If we’re men
and have men’s feelings, I reckon we must have men’s troubles. We can’t
be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they’ve got their
wings, and never know their kin when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot
every year. I’ve had enough to be thankful for: I’ve allays had health
and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it
a great thing as I’ve had Bartle Massey’s night-school to go to. He’s
helped me to knowledge I could never ha’ got by myself.”
“What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a pause, in
which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. “I
could hit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you
would knock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you.”
“God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, looking round at
Arthur and smiling. “I used to fight for fun, but I’ve never done that
since I was the cause o’ poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a
fortnight. I’ll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a
scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that’s got no shame nor conscience
to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up.”
Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that
made him say presently, “I should think now, Adam, you never have any
struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had
made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you
would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean,
you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won’t
do a thing, and then doing it after all?”
“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation, “no. I don’t
remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I’d made my mind up, as
you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for
things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I’ve
seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never
do what’s wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever
see. It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship—you never see th’ end o’ the
mischief it’ll do. And it’s a poor look-out to come into the world to
make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o’ better. But there’s a
difference between the things folks call wrong. I’m not for making a
sin of every little fool’s trick, or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let
into, like some o’ them dissenters. And a man may have two minds
whether it isn’t worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a
bit o’ fun. But it isn’t my way to be see-saw about anything: I think
my fault lies th’ other way. When I’ve said a thing, if it’s only to
myself, it’s hard for me to go back.”
“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur. “You’ve got an
iron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man’s
resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and
then. We may determine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands
sturdily in our pockets, but we can’t prevent our mouths from
watering.”
“That’s true, sir, but there’s nothing like settling with ourselves as
there’s a deal we must do without i’ this life. It’s no use looking on
life as if it was Treddles’on Fair, where folks only go to see shows
and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where’s the
use o’ me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Adam. You’ve had four or five years of
experience more than I’ve had, and I think your life has been a better
school to you than college has been to me.”
“Why, sir, you seem to think o’ college something like what Bartle
Massey does. He says college mostly makes people like bladders—just
good for nothing but t’ hold the stuff as is poured into ’em. But he’s
got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has—it never touches anything
but it cuts. Here’s the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as
you’re going to the rectory.”
“Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.”
Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked
along the gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew
that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on
the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small
low room, belonging to the old part of the house—dark with the sombre
covers of the books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery
this morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun
fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood
on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor
breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group
which would have made any room enticing. In the crimson damask
easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always
had when he came from his morning toilet; his finely formed plump white
hand was playing along Juno’s brown curly back; and close to Juno’s
tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups
were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On
a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady, who
looked on these familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as
little show as possible of observing. On the table, at Mr. Irwine’s
elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis Æschylus, which Arthur knew
well by sight; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing
in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights of a
bachelor breakfast.
“Hallo, Arthur, that’s a good fellow! You’re just in time,” said Mr.
Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill.
“Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven’t you got some
cold fowl for us to eat with that ham? Why, this is like old days,
Arthur; you haven’t been to breakfast with me these five years.”
“It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast,” said Arthur;
“and I used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading with
you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at
any other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn’t agree with
him.”
Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose.
He had no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine’s presence than the
confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared
the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of
shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he
make Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little
scenes in the wood; and how could he tell them without looking like a
fool? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine’s, and doing
the very opposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a
shilly-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an
unpremeditated way; the conversation might lead up to it.
“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,” said
Mr. Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind then, and it presents a
clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by
me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that
regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become
studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has
killed a hare, and when I’ve got through my ‘justicing,’ as Carroll
calls it, I’m inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I
meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a
mutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I’m always the
same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the
stimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D’Oyley left
Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should
have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn’t run
in your family blood.”
“No indeed. It’s well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to
adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ‘Cras
ingens iterabimus aequor,’ and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps
stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them.
But I don’t think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a
country gentleman; as far as I can see, he’d much better have a
knowledge of manures. I’ve been reading your friend Arthur Young’s
books lately, and there’s nothing I should like better than to carry
out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of
their land; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the
same dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My
grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives, but
there’s nothing I should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire
side of the estate—it’s in a dismal condition—and set improvements on
foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I
should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats
to me with a look of goodwill.”
“Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn’t make
a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the
quantity of food to maintain scholars—and rectors who appreciate
scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I
be there to see. You’ll want a portly rector to complete the picture,
and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard
work. Only don’t set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to
get in consequence. I’m not sure that men are the fondest of those who
try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the
whole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it
quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old
boy—popularity or usefulness—else you may happen to miss both.”
“Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn’t make himself
personally agreeable to his tenants. I don’t believe there’s anything
you can’t prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I
couldn’t live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved.
And it’s very pleasant to go among the tenants here—they seem all so
well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since
I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if
fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one
could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.”
“Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t get a wife
who will drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself.
My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says,
‘I’ll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he
falls in love with.’ She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the
moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil
you know, and I maintain that you’re not of that watery quality. So
mind you don’t disgrace my judgment.”
Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s opinion
about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be
sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and
getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this
point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination
to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and
lived a great deal in other people’s opinions and feelings concerning
himself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate
friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such
serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own
belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a
thing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he
could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s
lameness—go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the
old hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next
minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how
thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He
would not be vacillating again—he _would_ do what he had meant to do,
this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the
conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics,
his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause
for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, “But I think
it is hardly an argument against a man’s general strength of character
that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution
doesn’t insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable
diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a
sort of witchery from a woman.”
“Yes; but there’s this difference between love and smallpox, or
bewitchment either—that if you detect the disease at an early stage and
try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any
further development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative
doses which a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant
consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass
through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her
true outline; though I’m afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to
be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a
man fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an
imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in
the Prometheus.”
The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, and
instead of following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, quite
seriously—“Yes, that’s the worst of it. It’s a desperately vexatious
thing, that after all one’s reflections and quiet determinations, we
should be ruled by moods that one can’t calculate on beforehand. I
don’t think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into
doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions.”
“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his
reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with
his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional
action; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any
particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we
carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.”
“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of
circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.”
“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note
lies within convenient reach; but he won’t make us think him an honest
man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way.”
“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against a temptation
into which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at
all?”
“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they
foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis.
Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible
consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went
before—consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it
is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what
may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined
for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you
are considering in this philosophical, general way?”
In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw
himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really
suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of
smoothing the way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken.
Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur
shrank back and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The
conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended—it
would quite mislead Irwine—he would imagine there was a deep passion
for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of
colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness.
“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. “I don’t know
that I am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there are
little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might
happen in the future.”
Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur’s
which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our
mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of
the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not
acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a
small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion
of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized
agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at this moment—possibly it was the
fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession
to the rector a serious annoyance, in case he should _not_ be able
quite to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was
not so. The human soul is a very complex thing.
The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as he looked
inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmed
the thought which had quickly followed—that there could be nothing
serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever
saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs.
Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no
more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to
rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic
drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far
away: no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur’s
character had not been a strong security against it. His honest,
patronizing pride in the good-will and respect of everybody about him
was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a
lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur’s
mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to
enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a
friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome,
and said, “By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fête there
were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour of
Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the
‘generous youth,’ the hero of the day. Don’t you think you should get
up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds?”
The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to
which he might have clung had drifted away—he must trust now to his own
swimming.
In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business,
and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense
of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set off
for Eagledale without an hour’s delay.
Book Second