Adam Bede
a pool, if I could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the
dark. And when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to
do anything... I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go back
home, and never let ’em know why I ran away. I put on my bonnet and
shawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby under my cloak;
and I walked fast till I got into a street a good way off, and there
was a public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I
walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and it got
lighter, for there came the moon—oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it
first looked at me out o’ the clouds—it never looked so before; and I
turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid o’ meeting
anybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I
thought I could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a
place cut into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable,
and the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a
good while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light, and the
baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off... I thought there’d
perhaps be a ditch or a pond there... and it was so early I thought I
could hide the child there, and get a long way off before folks was up.
And then I thought I’d go home—I’d get rides in carts and go home and
tell ’em I’d been to try and see for a place, and couldn’t get one. I
longed so for it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I don’t know
how I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it—it was like a heavy
weight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I
daredn’t look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood,
and I walked about, but there was no water....”
Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began
again, it was in a whisper.
“I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I sat
down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And all of a
sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little grave. And it
darted into me like lightning—I’d lay the baby there and cover it with
the grass and the chips. I couldn’t kill it any other way. And I’d done
it in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, Dinah—I _couldn’t_ cover it quite
up—I thought perhaps somebody ’ud come and take care of it, and then it
wouldn’t die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it
crying all the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if
I was held fast—I couldn’t go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I
sat against the haystack to watch if anybody ’ud come. I was very
hungry, and I’d only a bit of bread left, but I couldn’t go away. And
after ever such a while—hours and hours—the man came—him in a
smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste
and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and would perhaps find
the baby. And I went right on, till I came to a village, a long way off
from the wood, and I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got
something to eat there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to
stay. I heard the baby crying, and thought the other folks heard it
too—and I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting towards dark.
And at last, by the roadside there was a barn—ever such a way off any
house—like the barn in Abbot’s Close, and I thought I could go in there
and hide myself among the hay and straw, and nobody ’ud be likely to
come. I went in, and it was half full o’ trusses of straw, and there
was some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where
nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep....
But oh, the baby’s crying kept waking me, and I thought that man as
looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a
long while at last, though I didn’t know, for when I got up and went
out of the barn, I didn’t know whether it was night or morning. But it
was morning, for it kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I’d
come. I couldn’t help it, Dinah; it was the baby’s crying made me
go—and yet I was frightened to death. I thought that man in the
smock-frock ’ud see me and know I put the baby there. But I went on,
for all that. I’d left off thinking about going home—it had gone out o’
my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I’d buried the
baby... I see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?”
Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long
before she went on.
“I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood.... I
knew the way to the place... the place against the nut-tree; and I
could hear it crying at every step.... I thought it was alive.... I
don’t know whether I was frightened or glad... I don’t know what I
felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don’t know
what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I’d put it there, I
thought I should like somebody to find it and save it from dying; but
when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never
thought o’ stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn’t run away, and
everybody as saw me ’ud know about the baby. My heart went like a
stone. I couldn’t wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I
should stay there for ever, and nothing ’ud ever change. But they came
and took me away.”
Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still
something behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that
tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob,
“Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the place in
the wood, now I’ve told everything?”
“Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to
the God of all mercy.”
Chapter XLVI
The Hours of Suspense
On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for
morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam’s room, after a short
absence, and said, “Adam, here’s a visitor wants to see you.”
Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he started up and
turned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His face
was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was
washed and shaven this Sunday morning.
“Is it any news?” he said.
“Keep yourself quiet, my lad,” said Bartle; “keep quiet. It’s not what
you’re thinking of. It’s the young Methodist woman come from the
prison. She’s at the bottom o’ the stairs, and wants to know if you
think well to see her, for she has something to say to you about that
poor castaway; but she wouldn’t come in without your leave, she said.
She thought you’d perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These
preaching women are not so back’ard commonly,” Bartle muttered to
himself.
“Ask her to come in,” said Adam.
He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered,
lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the great
change that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tall
man in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she put
her hand into his and said, “Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not
forsaken her.”
“Bless you for coming to her,” Adam said. “Mr. Massey brought me word
yesterday as you was come.”
They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each
other in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his
spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah’s face. But he recovered
himself first, and said, “Sit down, young woman, sit down,” placing the
chair for her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.
“Thank you, friend; I won’t sit down,” said Dinah, “for I must hasten
back. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, Adam
Bede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid her
farewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you
should see her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time
will be short.”
Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.
“It won’t be,” he said, “it’ll be put off—there’ll perhaps come a
pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn’t quite give
it up.”
“That’s a blessed thought to me,” said Dinah, her eyes filling with
tears. “It’s a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast.”
“But let what will be,” she added presently. “You will surely come, and
let her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul
is very dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is
no longer hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride
of her heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires to
be taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that the
brethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner’s
knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the Hall
Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were
here, she said, ‘I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to
forgive me.’ You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back
with me.”
“I can’t,” Adam said. “I can’t say good-bye while there’s any hope. I’m
listening, and listening—I can’t think o’ nothing but that. It can’t be
as she’ll die that shameful death—I can’t bring my mind to it.”
He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while
Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turned
round and said,
“I _will_ come, Dinah... to-morrow morning... if it must be. I may have
more strength to bear it, if I know it _must_ be. Tell her, I forgive
her; tell her I will come—at the very last.”
“I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart,” said Dinah.
“I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, and
was not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any
return to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her
heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen
you to bear all things.” Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in
silence.
Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for
her, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, “Farewell,
friend,” and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.
“Well,” said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into
his pocket, “if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it’s
but fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she’s
one—she’s one. It’s a pity she’s a Methodist; but there’s no getting a
woman without some foolishness or other.”
Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,
heightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment,
was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises
that he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.
“What does it matter to me, lad?” Bartle said: “a night’s sleep more or
less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keep
thee company in trouble while I can.”
It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would
sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space
from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no
sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or the
falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully
tended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech,
“If I could ha’ done anything to save her—if my bearing anything would
ha’ done any good... but t’ have to sit still, and know it, and do
nothing... it’s hard for a man to bear... and to think o’ what might
ha’ been now, if it hadn’t been for _him_.... O God, it’s the very day