Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other
word passed between them till they were at the side
entrance, where he hoped to get in without being seen
by any one. He said then, “Thank you; I
needn’t trouble you any further.”
“What time will it be conven’ent for me
to see you to-morrow, sir?” said Adam.
“You may send me word that you’re here
at five o’clock,” said Arthur; “not
before.”
“Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But
he heard no reply; Arthur had turned into the house.
The Next Morning
Arthur did not pass a sleepless night; he slept
long and well. For sleep comes to the perplexed—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 mare 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 mortified pride
weigh lighter 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 deference, was a reassurance
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 suffused his imagination with the sense that
he had sunk in all eyes—as a sudden shock
of fear from some real peril 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 pitcher of broth,
from no motive 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
