ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless1 night; he slept long and well. For sleep comes to the perplexed2 — if the perplexed are only weary enough. But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going to get up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.
“And see that my mare3 is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my grandfather when he’s down that I’m better this morning and am gone for a ride.”
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to the past — sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averages of feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting seasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified5 pride weigh lighter6 on country gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with the usual deference7, was a reassurance8 to him after the scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur’s sensitiveness to opinion, the loss of Adam’s respect was a shock to his self-contentment which suffused9 his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes — as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril10 makes a nervous woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense of danger.
Arthur’s, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn’t like to witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down an old gardener’s pitcher11 of broth12, from no motive13 but a kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was the old man’s dinner; but on learning that sad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife out of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the time was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress14 and self-reproach at discovering that Adam’s happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends15 — if deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored Adam’s contentment and regard for him as a benefactor16, Arthur would not only have executed them without hesitation17, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam could receive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and affection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing in — the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last conversation in the Hermitage — above all, the sense of having been knocked down, to which a man does not very well reconcile himself, even under the most heroic circumstances — pressed on him with a galling18 pain which was stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himself that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis19 can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciences — out of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good society and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person gives rough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam’s judgment20 of him, Adam’s grating words, disturbed his self-soothing arguments.
Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam’s discovery. Struggles and resolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He was distressed21 for Hetty’s sake, and distressed for his own, that he must leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breaking resolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedily end in separation; but his nature was too ardent22 and tender for him not to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty’s account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living — that she was to be a lady in silks and satins — and when he had first talked to her about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had given the most exasperating23 sting to Adam’s reproaches. He had said no word with the purpose of deceiving her — her vision was all spun24 by her own childish fancy — but he was obliged to confess to himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief25, on this last evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had been obliged to soothe26 her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw her into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the sorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety of the tenacity27 which her feelings might have in the future. That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he could evade28 by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret; the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew anything of what had passed — no one else was likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the least intimacy29 between them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use in making it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst consequence; he resolutely30 turned away his eyes from any bad consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable31. But — but Hetty might have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the advantage of his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had incurred32 now. So good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things!
Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate33 any more positive offence as possible for it?— who thought that his own self-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The same, I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or will be the peculiar34 combination of outward with inward facts, which constitutes a man’s critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion35 in our deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and then reconcile him to the change, for this reason — that the second wrong presents itself to him in the guise36 of the only practicable right. The action which before commission has been seen with that blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity37, through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures38 very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an individual character — until the placid39 adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because of that very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful to him — he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not been very much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity he was under of deceiving Adam — it was a course so opposed to the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable40 enough in consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter that he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across all this reflection would dart41 every now and then a sudden impulse of passionate42 defiance43 towards all consequences. He would carry Hetty away, and all other considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem4 in and press down upon him all the crowd of contradictory44 thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which would fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg’s back, in the fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the situation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the gravel45, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, and patted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing46 tone than usual. He loved her the better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But Meg was quite as well acquainted with her master’s mental state as many others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Then he threw the bridle47 on Meg’s neck and prepared to make up his mind.
Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur went away — there was no possibility of their contriving48 another without exciting suspicion — and she was like a frightened child, unable to think of anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put her face up to have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing but comfort her, and lull49 her into dreaming on. A letter would be a dreadfully abrupt51 way of awakening52 her! Yet there was truth in what Adam said — that it would save her from a lengthened53 delusion54, which might be worse than a sharp immediate55 pain. And it was the only way of satisfying Adam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have seen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a thorny56 hedge of hindrances57 between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet, if he COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him to suffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it. Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives58 to self-control.
A sudden dread50 here fell like a shadow across his imagination — the dread lest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon that dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them off with the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the future in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthur told himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. He had never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved59; he had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicit60 confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence61 would not treat him harshly.
At all events, he couldn’t help what would come now: all he could do was to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And he persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open between Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a while; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, since it was still Adam’s ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam was deceived — deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred62 the consoling prospect63. Arthur’s cheeks even burned in mingled64 shame and irritation65 at the thought. But what could a man do in such a dilemma66? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told or acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined67 not by excuses but by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur’s eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him to write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and this last thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could never deliberately68 have taken a step which inflicted69 pain on another and left himself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy70 at the thought of giving up Hetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set off home again in a canter. The letter should be written the first thing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business: he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by twelve o’clock the next day he should have left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this constant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that would undo71 everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift gallop72.
“I thought they said th’ young mester war took ill last night,” said sour old John, the groom73, at dinner-time in the servants’ hall. “He’s been ridin’ fit to split the mare i’ two this forenoon.”
“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the facetious74 coachman.
“Then I wish he war let blood for ’t, that’s all,” said John, grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five o’clock he was punctually there again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down with a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the captain was too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say. The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again before opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the inside of the cover Adam read:
“In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it to you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not taking a measure which may pain her more than mere75 silence.
“There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meet with better feelings some months hence.
A.D.”
“Perhaps he’s i’ th’ right on ’t not to see me,” thought Adam. “It’s no use meeting to say more hard words, and it’s no use meeting to shake hands and say we’re friends again. We’re not friends, an’ it’s better not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man’s duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as you’re to give up all thoughts o’ taking revenge: it can never mean as you’re t’ have your old feelings back again, for that’s not possible. He’s not the same man to me, and I can’t feel the same towards him. God help me! I don’t know whether I feel the same towards anybody: I seem as if I’d been measuring my work from a false line, and had got it all to measure over again.”
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed Adam’s thoughts. Arthur had procured76 some relief to himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way — to ascertain77 as well as he could what was Hetty’s state of mind before he decided78 on delivering the letter.
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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textures
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| n.手感( texture的名词复数 )；质感；口感；（音乐或文学的）谐和统一感 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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71
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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72
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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73
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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74
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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77
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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78
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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