Adam Bede
and look after Adam till this business is over. I’ll pretend I’m come
to look on at the assizes; he can’t object to that. What do you think
about it, sir?”
“Well,” said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, “there would be some real
advantages in that... and I honour you for your friendship towards him,
Bartle. But... you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I’m
afraid you have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his
weakness about Hetty.”
“Trust to me, sir—trust to me. I know what you mean. I’ve been a fool
myself in my time, but that’s between you and me. I shan’t thrust
myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good
food, and put in a word here and there.”
“Then,” said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle’s discretion,
“I think you’ll be doing a good deed; and it will be well for you to
let Adam’s mother and brother know that you’re going.”
“Yes, sir, yes,” said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles,
“I’ll do that, I’ll do that; though the mother’s a whimpering thing—I
don’t like to come within earshot of her; however, she’s a
straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you
good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you’ve spared me. You’re
everybody’s friend in this business—everybody’s friend. It’s a heavy
weight you’ve got on your shoulders.”
“Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.”
Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll’s conversational
advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs
pattered beside him on the gravel, “Now, I shall be obliged to take you
with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You’d go fretting yourself to
death if I left you—you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by
some tramp. And you’ll be running into bad company, I expect, putting
your nose in every hole and corner where you’ve no business! But if you
do anything disgraceful, I’ll disown you—mind that, madam, mind that!”
Chapter XLI
The Eve of the Trial
An upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it—one laid
on the floor. It is ten o’clock on Thursday night, and the dark wall
opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled
with the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey is
pretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles at
Adam Bede, seated near the dark window.
You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face
has got thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected
beard of a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs
over his forehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines
him to push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He
has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down
at his clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door.
“There he is,” said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the
door. It was Mr. Irwine.
Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine
approached him and took his hand.
“I’m late, Adam,” he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle
placed for him, “but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I
intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I
have done everything now, however—everything that can be done to-night,
at least. Let us all sit down.”
Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was
no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background.
“Have you seen her, sir?” said Adam tremulously.
“Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening.”
“Did you ask her, sir... did you say anything about me?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, “I spoke of you. I said
you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented.”
As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning eyes.
“You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only
you—some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against her
fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than ‘No’ either
to me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were
mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family
whom she would like to see—to whom she could open her mind—she said,
with a violent shudder, ‘Tell them not to come near me—I won’t see any
of them.’”
Adam’s head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was
silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, “I don’t like to
advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you
strongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without her consent.
It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, that
the interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I have
scarcely any hope of that. She didn’t seem agitated when I mentioned
your name; she only said ‘No,’ in the same cold, obstinate way as
usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure,
useless suffering to you—severe suffering, I fear. She is very much
changed...”
Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on the
table. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had
a question to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey
rose quietly, turned the key in the door, and put it in his pocket.
“Is he come back?” said Adam at last.
“No, he is not,” said Mr. Irwine, quietly. “Lay down your hat, Adam,
unless you like to walk out with me for a little fresh air. I fear you
have not been out again to-day.”
“You needn’t deceive me, sir,” said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine
and speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. “You needn’t be afraid of
me. I only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It’s his
work... she was a child as it ’ud ha’ gone t’ anybody’s heart to look
at... I don’t care what she’s done... it was him brought her to it. And
he shall know it... he shall feel it... if there’s a just God, he shall
feel what it is t’ ha’ brought a child like her to sin and misery.”
“I’m not deceiving you, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine. “Arthur Donnithorne is
not come back—was not come back when I left. I have left a letter for
him: he will know all as soon as he arrives.”
“But you don’t mind about it,” said Adam indignantly. “You think it
doesn’t matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knows
nothing about it—he suffers nothing.”
“Adam, he _will_ know—he _will_ suffer, long and bitterly. He has a
heart and a conscience: I can’t be entirely deceived in his character.
I am convinced—I am sure he didn’t fall under temptation without a
struggle. He may be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I
am persuaded that this will be a shock of which he will feel the
effects all his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount
of torture that you could inflict on _him_ could benefit _her_.”
“No—O God, no,” Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; “but
then, that’s the deepest curse of all... that’s what makes the
blackness of it... _it can never be undone_. My poor Hetty... she can
never be my sweet Hetty again... the prettiest thing God had
made—smiling up at me... I thought she loved me... and was good...”
Adam’s voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if
he were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking at
Mr. Irwine, “But she isn’t as guilty as they say? You don’t think she
is, sir? She can’t ha’ done it.”
“That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam,” Mr. Irwine
answered gently. “In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on what
seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some small
fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right
to say that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to
bear the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of
moral guilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes
even in determining who has committed a single criminal act, and the
problem how far a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen
consequences of his own deed is one that might well make us tremble to
look into it. The evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act
of selfish indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to
awaken some feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You
have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm.
Don’t suppose I can’t enter into the anguish that drives you into this
state of revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey your
passion—for it _is_ passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it
justice—it might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay,
worse; your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible crime.”
“No—not worse,” said Adam, bitterly; “I don’t believe it’s worse—I’d
sooner do it—I’d sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself
than ha’ brought _her_ to do wickedness and then stand by and see ’em
punish her while they let me alone; and all for a bit o’ pleasure, as,
if he’d had a man’s heart in him, he’d ha’ cut his hand off sooner than
he’d ha’ taken it. What if he didn’t foresee what’s happened? He
foresaw enough; he’d no right to expect anything but harm and shame to
her. And then he wanted to smooth it off wi’ lies. No—there’s plenty o’
things folks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do
what he will, if he knows he’s to bear the punishment himself, he isn’t
half so bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t’ himself
and knows all the while the punishment ’ll fall on somebody else.”
“There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of
wrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can’t
isolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall not
spread. Men’s lives are as thoroughly blended with each other as the
air they breathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I
feel the terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur’s has caused
to others; but so does every sin cause suffering to others besides
those who commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur
would simply be another evil added to those we are suffering under: you
could not bear the punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows
on every one who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind
fury that would leave all the present evils just as they were and add
worse evils to them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of
vengeance, but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such
actions, and as long as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that
to fix your mind on Arthur’s punishment is revenge, and not justice,
you are in danger of being led on to the commission of some great
wrong. Remember what you told me about your feelings after you had
given that blow to Arthur in the Grove.”
Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the
past, and Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to Bartle
Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne’s funeral and other matters of an
indifferent kind. But at length Adam turned round and said, in a more
subdued tone, “I’ve not asked about ’em at th’ Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr.
Poyser coming?”
“He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise him to
see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is
best he should not see you till you are calmer.”
“Is Dinah Morris come to ’em, sir? Seth said they’d sent for her.”
“No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They’re afraid
the letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address.”
Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, “I wonder if Dinah