Adam Bede
Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a
yearning heart. Then she said, softly, “Hetty!”
There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty’s frame—a start such
as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock—but she did
not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by
irrepressible emotion, “Hetty... it’s Dinah.”
Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty’s frame, and
without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as if
listening.
“Hetty... Dinah is come to you.”
After a moment’s pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from
her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking at each
other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad
yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them
out.
“Don’t you know me, Hetty? Don’t you remember Dinah? Did you think I
wouldn’t come to you in trouble?”
Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face—at first like an animal that
gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.
“I’m come to be with you, Hetty—not to leave you—to stay with you—to be
your sister to the last.”
Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and
was clasped in Dinah’s arms.
They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to
move apart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it, hung on
this something that was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking
helpless in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign
that her love was welcomed by the wretched lost one. The light got
fainter as they stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw
pallet together, their faces had become indistinct.
Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from
Hetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the hand
that held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah’s. It was the human
contact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the dark
gulf.
Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat
beside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven the poor
sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwards
said, that she must not hurry God’s work: we are overhasty to speak—as
if God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his
love felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way,
but it got darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light
on the opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But she felt the
Divine presence more and more—nay, as if she herself were a part of it,
and it was the Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was
willing the rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to
speak and find out how far Hetty was conscious of the present.
“Hetty,” she said gently, “do you know who it is that sits by your
side?”
“Yes,” Hetty answered slowly, “it’s Dinah.”
“And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm together,
and that night when I told you to be sure and think of me as a friend
in trouble?”
“Yes,” said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, “But you can do
nothing for me. You can’t make ’em do anything. They’ll hang me o’
Monday—it’s Friday now.”
As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering.
“No, Hetty, I can’t save you from that death. But isn’t the suffering
less hard when you have somebody with you, that feels for you—that you
can speak to, and say what’s in your heart?... Yes, Hetty: you lean on
me: you are glad to have me with you.”
“You won’t leave me, Dinah? You’ll keep close to me?”
“No, Hetty, I won’t leave you. I’ll stay with you to the last.... But,
Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one close
to you.”
Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, “Who?”
“Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and
trouble—who has known every thought you have had—has seen where you
went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have
tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can’t follow you—when
my arms can’t reach you—when death has parted us—He who is with us now,
and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no difference—whether we
live or die, we are in the presence of God.”
“Oh, Dinah, won’t nobody do anything for me? _Will_ they hang me for
certain?... I wouldn’t mind if they’d let me live.”
“My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it’s dreadful.
But if you had a friend to take care of you after death—in that other
world—some one whose love is greater than mine—who can do
everything?... If God our Father was your friend, and was willing to
save you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither know wicked
feelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would
help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn’t be
so hard to die on Monday, would it?”
“But I can’t know anything about it,” Hetty said, with sullen sadness.
“Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by trying
to hide the truth. God’s love and mercy can overcome all things—our
ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness—all
things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling to, and will not give up.
You believe in my love and pity for you, Hetty, but if you had not let
me come near you, if you wouldn’t have looked at me or spoken to me,
you’d have shut me out from helping you. I couldn’t have made you feel
my love; I couldn’t have told you what I felt for you. Don’t shut God’s
love out in that way, by clinging to sin.... He can’t bless you while
you have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can’t reach
you until you open your heart to him, and say, ‘I have done this great
wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.’ While you cling to
one sin and will not part with it, it must drag you down to misery
after death, as it has dragged you to misery here in this world, my
poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and
despair: there is light and blessedness for us as soon as we cast it
off. God enters our souls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength
and peace. Cast it off now, Hetty—now: confess the wickedness you have
done—the sin you have been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let
us kneel down together, for we are in the presence of God.”
Hetty obeyed Dinah’s movement, and sank on her knees. They still held
each other’s hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah said,
“Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth.”
Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching—
“Dinah... help me... I can’t feel anything like you...my heart is
hard.”
Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice:
“Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow:
thou hast entered that black darkness where God is not, and hast
uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of
thy travail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art
mighty to save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is
clothed round with thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her,
and she cannot stir to come to thee. She can only feel her heart is
hard, and she is helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature....
Saviour! It is a blind cry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look
upon her with thy face of love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him
who denied thee, and melt her hard heart.
“See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and helpless,
and thou didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and carry her before
thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles only
at the pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her thy life-giving
Spirit, and put a new fear within her—the fear of her sin. Make her
dread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel the
presence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom the
darkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for
her to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercy—now, before
the night of death comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled,
like yesterday that returneth not.
“Saviour! It is yet time—time to snatch this poor soul from everlasting
darkness. I believe—I believe in thy infinite love. What is _my_ love
or _my_ pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my
weak arms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou—thou wilt breathe on the
dead soul, and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death.
“Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness, coming, like the
morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony are upon
thee—I see, I see thou art able and willing to save—thou wilt not let
her perish for ever. Come, mighty Saviour! Let the dead hear thy voice.
Let the eyes of the blind be opened. Let her see that God encompasses
her. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off from
him. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her
whole soul, ‘Father, I have sinned.’...”
“Dinah,” Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah’s neck, “I
will speak... I will tell... I won’t hide it any more.”
But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently from
her knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by her side.
It was a long time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and even then
they sat some time in stillness and darkness, holding each other’s
hands. At last Hetty whispered, “I did do it, Dinah... I buried it in
the wood... the little baby... and it cried... I heard it cry... ever
such a way off... all night... and I went back because it cried.”
She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone.
“But I thought perhaps it wouldn’t die—there might somebody find it. I
didn’t kill it—I didn’t kill it myself. I put it down there and covered
it up, and when I came back it was gone.... It was because I was so
very miserable, Dinah... I didn’t know where to go... and I tried to
kill myself before, and I couldn’t. Oh, I tried so to drown myself in
the pool, and I couldn’t. I went to Windsor—I ran away—did you know? I
went to find him, as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and
then I didn’t know what to do. I daredn’t go back home again—I couldn’t
bear it. I couldn’t have bore to look at anybody, for they’d have
scorned me. I thought o’ you sometimes, and thought I’d come to you,
for I didn’t think you’d be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I
thought I could tell you. But then the other folks ’ud come to know it
at last, and I couldn’t bear that. It was partly thinking o’ you made
me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going
wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and had nothing; and
sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the farm sooner than that.
Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah... I was so miserable... I wished I’d
never been born into this world. I should never like to go into the
green fields again—I hated ’em so in my misery.”
Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon
her for words.
“And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that night,
because I was so near home. And then the little baby was born, when I
didn’t expect it; and the thought came into my mind that I might get
rid of it and go home again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I was
lying in the bed, and it got stronger and stronger... I longed so to go
back again... I couldn’t bear being so lonely and coming to beg for
want. And it gave me strength and resolution to get up and dress
myself. I felt I must do it... I didn’t know how... I thought I’d find