Adam Bede
evil feeling in his mind towards any human being: he was happy, and
would make every one else happy that came within his reach.
And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a
quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and opposite
to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish
blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the
Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for
the heir’s return. “Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. _He_ was
a young fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So
the world goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing;
but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido.”
The wheels of Arthur’s chaise had been anxiously listened for at the
Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred
two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the
servants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave,
decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it
would have been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable
sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession;
but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for another
cause than the death of the old squire, and more than one of them was
longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to
become of Hetty Sorrel—pretty Hetty Sorrel—whom they used to see every
week. They had the partisanship of household servants who like their
places, and were not inclined to go the full length of the severe
indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to make
excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on
terms of neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could
not help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire’s coming
into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness.
To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and
sad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, and
feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort of
pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it—which is
perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man,
conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelled
agreeably as he said, “Well, Mills, how is my aunt?”
But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever since
the death, came forward to give deferential greetings and answer all
questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where his
Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in the
house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughter was
unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral
arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women,
she mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the
more because she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for
him in other hearts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done
in his life before.
“Dear Aunt,” he said affectionately, as he held her hand, “_your_ loss
is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up
to you all the rest of your life.”
“It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur,” poor Miss Lydia began,
pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with
impatient patience. When a pause came, he said:
“Now, Aunt, I’ll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my
own room, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything.”
“My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?” he said to the butler,
who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall.
“Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the
writing-table in your dressing-room.”
On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, but
which Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast his
eyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were several letters and
packets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty condition of
a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really refresh
himself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his
letters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, with
a delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new
day, he went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level
rays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and as
Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth
upon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps you
and I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth and
health, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows of
activity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was
no need for hurrying to look at, because it was all our own.
The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr.
Irwine’s handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address was
written, “To be delivered as soon as he arrives.” Nothing could have
been less surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that
moment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlier
than it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that
it was quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say.
Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the
writer.
_“I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I may
then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it
has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know
what I have to tell you without delay.
“I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the
retribution that is now falling on you: any other words that I
could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side
of those in which I must tell you the simple fact.
“Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the
crime of child-murder.”..._
Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a
single minute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole frame, as
if the life were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next
minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching the letter—he was
hurrying along the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills
was still there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted
man across the hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out
after him as fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew,
where the young squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur
was forcing himself to read the remaining words of the letter. He
thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that
moment caught sight of Mills’ anxious face in front of him.
“Tell them I’m gone—gone to Stoniton,” he said in a muffled tone of
agitation—sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.
Chapter XLV
In the Prison
Near sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his
back against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail, saying a few
last words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away, but the
elderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and
stroking his chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet
clear woman’s voice, saying, “Can I get into the prison, if you
please?”
He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments
without answering.
“I have seen you before,” he said at last. “Do you remember preaching
on the village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?”
“Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on
horseback?”
“Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?”
“I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned
to death—and to stay with her, if I may be permitted. Have you power in
the prison, sir?”
“Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you
know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?”
“Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I
was away at Leeds, and didn’t know of this great trouble in time to get
here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenly
Father, to let me go to her and stay with her.”
“How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come
from Leeds?”
“I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his home
now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leave
for me to be with her.”
“What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is very
sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to.”
“Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don’t let us
delay.”
“Come, then,” said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining
admission, “I know you have a key to unlock hearts.”
Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were
within the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing them off
when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they entered
the jailer’s room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There
was no agitation visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as
if, even when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an
unseen support.
After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and said,
“The turnkey will take you to the prisoner’s cell and leave you there
for the night, if you desire it, but you can’t have a light during the
night—it is contrary to rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I can
help you in anything, ask the jailer for my address and come to me. I
take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine
fellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening I
heard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, ill as he
looked.”
“Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me where he
lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with trouble to
remember.”
“Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges over
a tinman’s shop, in the street on the right hand as you entered the
prison. There is an old school-master with him. Now, good-bye: I wish
you success.”
“Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.”
As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn evening
light seemed to make the walls higher than they were by day, and the
sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a white flower on
this background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all the
while, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rude
voice would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered the
dark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his most
civil tone, “It’ll be pretty nigh dark in the cell a’ready, but I can
stop with my light a bit, if you like.”
“Nay, friend, thank you,” said Dinah. “I wish to go in alone.”
“As you like,” said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and
opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from his
lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was
sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It
seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock would
have been likely to waken her.
The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the
evening sky, through the small high grating—enough to discern human
faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because