Adam Bede

  Chapter XLVIII

  Another Meeting in the Wood

  THE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite pointstowards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene wasthe Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were.

  The old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will had beenread, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had comeout for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new futurebefore him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he coulddo that best in the Grove.

  Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he hadnot left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tellthem everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with thePoysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, whereverthat might be, for he meant to give up the management of the woods,and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business withJonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home withinreach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow.

  "Seth and me are sure to find work," he said. "A man that's got ourtrade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a newstart. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's told me, since I camehome, she'd made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if Iwished it, and if I'd be more comfortable elsewhere. It's wonderfulhow quiet she's been ever since I came back. It seems as if the verygreatness o' the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all bebetter in a new country, though there's some I shall be loath to leavebehind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr.Poyser. Trouble's made us kin."

  "Aye, lad," said Martin. "We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's name.But I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough for folks not to find out aswe've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er the seas, andwere like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in our faces, andour children's after us."

  That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam'senergies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his oldoccupations till the morrow. "But to-morrow," he said to himself, "I'llgo to work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; andit's right whether I like it or not."

  This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow:suspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolvednot to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him.He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur.And Adam distrusted himself--he had learned to dread the violence of hisown feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what hehad felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remainedwith him.

  These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged withstrong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called upthe image of the Grove--of that spot under the overarching boughs wherehe had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessedby sudden rage.

  "I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time," he said; "it'lldo me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when I'd knockedhim down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it,before I began to think he might be dead."

  In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards thesame spot at the same time.

  Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off theother with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had hadthe basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, withhis pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered theGrove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket oftools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenlyround him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyesrested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and nowhe paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundarymark of his youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of hisearliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would neverreturn. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affectionat the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed inbefore he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affectionfor the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer.

  He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beechstood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was cominguntil the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him atonly two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each otherin silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himselfas close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be asharrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in themisery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such ameeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had alwaysseen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid,careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him withthe signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was--he could not laya cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed toresist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first tospeak.

  "Adam," he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met here,for I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow."

  He paused, but Adam said nothing.

  "I know it is painful to you to meet me," Arthur went on, "but it is notlikely to happen again for years to come."

  "No, sir," said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to youto-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an endbetween us, and somebody else put in my place."

  Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that hespoke again.

  "It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't wantto lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything formy sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen theevil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't meanconsequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, Iknow. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may bedone, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?"

  "Yes, sir," said Adam, after some hesitation "I'll hear what it is. IfI can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know.We've had enough o' that."

  "I was going to the Hermitage," said Arthur. "Will you go there with meand sit down? We can talk better there."

  The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, forArthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened thedoor, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was thechair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was thewaste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt inan instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would havebeen painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had beenless painful.

  They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said,"I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army."

  Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by thisannouncement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him. ButAdam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his faceunchanged.

  "What I want to say to you," Arthur continued, "is this: one of myreasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may leavetheir home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrificeI would not make, to prevent any further injury to others throughmy--through what has happened."

  Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he hadanticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion ofcompensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt tomake evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused hisindignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right inthe face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, hehad the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a richman. He felt his old severity returning as he said, "The time's past forthat, sir. A man should make sacrifices to kee
p clear of doing a wrong;sacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have gota deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours."

  "Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I meantthat? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave theplace where they have lived so many years--for generations. Don't yousee, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome thefeeling that drives them away, it would be much better for them in theend to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who knowthem?"

  "That's true," said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings arenot so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to astrange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the HallFarm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a manwith his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's to be made anyother than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made upfor."

  Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant inhim this evening, his pride winced under Adam's mode of treating him.Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his mostcherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months ago--Adam wasforcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his ownwrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the mostirritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subduedby the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confrontedeach other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. Themomentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great dealfrom Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; butthere was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said,"But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct--by givingway to anger and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinkingwhat will be the effect in the future.

  "If I were going to stay here and act as landlord," he added presently,with still more eagerness--"if I were careless about what I'vedone--what I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, forgoing away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse thenfor trying to make the evil worse. But when I tell you I'm going awayfor years--when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off everyplan of happiness I've ever formed--it is impossible for a sensibleman like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poysersrefusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine hastold me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out ofthis idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours,and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in hisefforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods."

  Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know that's agood work to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. Andyou don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you willlike to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate andtake my name. He is a good fellow."

  Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feelthat this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he hadloved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not bethrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face thatinduced him to go on, with growing earnestness.

  "And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk thematter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and then ifyou would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....Iknow, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me--I meannothing of that kind--but I'm sure they would suffer less in the end.Irwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authorityon the estate--he has consented to undertake that. They will really beunder no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the samewith you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worsepain that could incline you to go."

  Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with someagitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so towards you, I know. If youwere in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do thebest."

  Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthurwent on, "Perhaps you've never done anything you've had bitterly torepent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous.You would know then that it's worse for me than for you."

  Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of thewindows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued,passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday?Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? Anddon't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?"

  There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mindwas not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have littlepermanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcamebefore he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard themovement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with whichAdam said, "It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature.I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t'everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her sufferingcut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hardwith her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feelingovermuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known whatit is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been tooharsh to my father when he was gone from me--I feel it now, when I thinkof him. I've no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong andrepent."

  Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who isresolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went onwith more hesitation.

  "I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but ifyou're willing to do it now, for all I refused then..."

  Arthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and withthat action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyishaffection.

  "Adam," Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would neverhave happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have helped to saveme from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceivedyou afterwards--and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forcedupon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letterI told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think Iwould not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from thevery first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give mylife if I could undo it."

  They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously,"How did she seem when you left her, sir?"

  "Don't ask me, Adam," Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I should gomad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that Icouldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save her from that wretchedfate of being transported--that I can do nothing for her all thoseyears; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any more."

  "Ah, sir," said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged insympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing,when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as Ipray him to help me."

  "But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris," Arthur said, pursuinghis own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam'swords, "she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment--tillshe goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfortin her. I could worship that woman; I don't know what I should do if shewere not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could saynothing to her yesterday--nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her,"Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with whichhe spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked youto give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she is theone source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn't care aboutsuch things--or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But shewill use the watch--I shall like to think of her using it."

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p; "I'll give it to her, sir," Adam said, "and tell her your words. Shetold me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm."

  "And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur, remindedof the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchangeof revived friendship. "You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine tocarry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?"

  "There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of," saidAdam, with hesitating gentleness, "and that was what made me hang backlonger. You see, it's the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay,it's for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we'd put up withanything for the sake o' that. I know that's what they'll feel, andI can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got anhonourable independent spirit, they don't like to do anything that mightmake 'em seem base-minded."

  "But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reasonstrong enough against a course that is really more generous, moreunselfish than the other. And it will be known--it shall be made known,that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try tomake things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that."

  "No, sir, no," Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection."God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I coulddo it, in my passion--but that was when I thought you didn't feelenough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got tothink of now--to do my work well and make the world a bit better placefor them as can enjoy it."

  "Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, andconsult with him about everything."

  "Are you going soon, sir?" said Adam.

  "As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements.Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place."

  "Good-bye, sir. God bless you."

  The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feelingthat sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.

  As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to thewaste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.

  Book Six