A sudden dread 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 disapproved; he had been led on by circumstances.  There was a sort of implicit confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence 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 marred the consoling prospect.  Arthur’s cheeks even burned in mingled shame and irritation at the thought.  But what could a man do in such a dilemma?  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 determined 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 deliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left himself at ease.  Even a movement of jealousy 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 undo everything.  Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift gallop.