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, unconscious 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 housekeeper’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.