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

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

“It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you.  I don’t want to lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything for my sake.  I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable.  I don’t mean consequences to myself, but to others.  It is but little I can do, I know.  I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be done, and you can help me.  Will you listen to me patiently?”

“Yes, sir,” said Adam, after some hesitation; “I’ll hear what it is.  If I 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 me and sit down?  We can talk better there.”

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk.  And now, when he opened the door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the chair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was the waste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief.  It would have been painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had been less 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 this announcement—­ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him.  But Adam’s lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face unchanged.

“What I want to say to you,” Arthur continued, “is this:  one of my reasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope—­may leave their home on my account.  I would do anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to prevent any further injury to others through my—­through what has happened.”

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