Adam Bede
would not let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her
blank hard indifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she
stood like a statue of dull despair.
There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout
the court during this interval. The desire to listen was suspended, and
every one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adam
sat looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that
were right in front of his eyes—the counsel and attorneys talking with
an air of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation
with the judge—did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and
shake his head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward
action was too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some
strong sensation roused him.
It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before the
knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a
signal for silence on every ear. It is sublime—that sudden pause of a
great multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and
deeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while
the jurymen’s names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold
up her hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict.
“Guilty.”
It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of
disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no
recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with
the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly
by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even the
verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who
were near saw her trembling.
The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap,
and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it
deepened again, before the crier had had time to command silence. If
any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts.
The judge spoke, “Hester Sorrel....”
The blood rushed to Hetty’s face, and then fled back again as she
looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as if
fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a
deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words “and
then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead,” a piercing shriek rang
through the hall. It was Hetty’s shriek. Adam started to his feet and
stretched out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her:
she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.
Chapter XLIV
Arthur’s Return
When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from
his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father’s death, his first
feeling was, “Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be
with him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at the
last that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death.”
It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity and
softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busy
thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along
towards the home where he was now to be master, there was a continually
recurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a regard
for his grandfather’s wishes, without counteracting his own cherished
aims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in human
nature—only in human pretence—for a young man like Arthur, with a fine
constitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that
others think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give
them more and more reason for that good opinion—it is not possible for
such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the death
of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything very
different from exultant joy. _Now_ his real life was beginning; now he
would have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. He
would show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; he
would not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felt
himself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking after
favourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombre
mornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well
of on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches
at election dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture;
the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligent
landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like—happy
faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouring
families on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him
every week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some very
delicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of the
Hayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the
vicar; and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on
living at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways—at
least until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct
background, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play the
lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman.
These were Arthur’s chief thoughts, so far as a man’s thoughts through
hours of travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which are
only like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a long
long panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces
Arthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddy
faces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there—the whole Poyser
family.
What—Hetty?
Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty—not quite at ease about the
past, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thought
of the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot.
Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all the
news about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly three
months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had
thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself had
both told Mr. Irwine all about it—that Adam had been deeply in love
with Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to be
married in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than
the rector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and
if it had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to
describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words with
which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would like
to hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect.
Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to
satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that passage in the
letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the
December air, and greeted every one who spoke to him with an eager
gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the
first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish
spirits. The load that had been pressing upon him was gone, the
haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitterness
towards Adam now—could offer him his hand, and ask to be his friend
again, in spite of that painful memory which would still make his ears
burn. He had been knocked down, and he had been forced to tell a lie:
such things make a scar, do what we will. But if Adam were the same
again as in the old days, Arthur wished to be the same too, and to have
Adam mixed up with his business and his future, as he had always
desired before the accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great
deal more for Adam than he should otherwise have done, when he came
into the estate; Hetty’s husband had a special claim on him—Hetty
herself should feel that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in
the past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could not
have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to marry Adam.
You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the
panorama of Arthur’s thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March
now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married.
And _now_ it was actually in his power to do a great deal for them.
Sweet—sweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn’t cared for him half as
much as he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still—was
almost afraid of seeing her—indeed, had not cared much to look at any
other woman since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards
him in the Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put
up to kiss him—that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of
months. And she would look just the same. It was impossible to think
how he could meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long
this sort of influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with
Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should
marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his
happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage. It was
the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat a
little more quickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing
again as she really was, as Adam’s wife, at work quite prosaically in
her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past
feelings. Thank heaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty
of affairs and interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of
playing the fool again.
Pleasant the crack of the post-boy’s whip! Pleasant the sense of being
hurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those round
his own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town—very
much like Treddleston—where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the
manor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and
hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable
suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look,
the woods were more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion
looked down from a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its
parapet and chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and
elms—masses reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the
village: the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even
among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with
nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening
round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the
gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village
Hayslope was! And it should not be neglected like this place: vigorous
repairs should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and
travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do
nothing but admire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all
the repairs, for he had a share in Burge’s business now, and, if he
liked, Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the old man
out in another year or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur’s life,
that affair last summer, but the future should make amends. Many men
would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but _he_
would not—he would resolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for
he had certainly been very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been
harsh and violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor
fellow was in love, and had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an