<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter XVI </h2>
<h3> Links </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Good-bye, Adam, good-bye."</p>
<p>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 AEschylus, 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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of
circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 fete 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?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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