Adam could not help being moved:  it was impossible for him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be thrust away.  He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced him to go on, with growing earnestness.

“And then, if you would talk to the Poysers—­if you would talk the matter over with Mr. Irwine—­he means to see you to-morrow—­and then if you would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....I know, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me—­I mean nothing of that kind—­but I’m sure they would suffer less in the end.  Irwine thinks so too.  And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority on the estate—­he has consented to undertake that.  They will really be under no man but one whom they respect and like.  It would be the same with you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that could incline you to go.”

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some agitation in his voice, “I wouldn’t act so towards you, I know.  If you were in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the best.”

Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground.  Arthur went on, “Perhaps you’ve never done anything you’ve had bitterly to repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous.  You would know then that it’s worse for me than for you.”

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the windows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, “Haven’t I loved her too?  Didn’t I see her yesterday?  Shan’t I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will?  And don’t you think you would suffer more if you’d been in fault?”

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam’s mind was not easily decided.  Facile natures, whose emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur.  Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which Adam said, “It’s true what you say, sir.  I’m hard—­it’s in my nature.  I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong.  I’ve been a bit hard t’ everybody but her.  I felt as if nobody pitied her enough—­her suffering cut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard with her, I said I’d never be hard to anybody myself again.  But feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you.  I’ve known what it is in my life to repent and feel it’s too late.  I felt I’d been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me—­I feel it now, when I think of him.  I’ve no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong and repent.”

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on with more hesitation.