 Chapter 42 of Adam Bede. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth, Brisbane, Australia. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Chapter 42. The Morning of the Trial. At one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull, upper room. His watch lay before him on the table, as if he were counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be said by the witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particulars connected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave, active man who would have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an apprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplate irremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility which would have been an impelling force where there was any possibility of action became helpless anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an active outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energetic nature, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the overmastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because he thought the meeting might possibly be a good to her, might help to melt away this terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will for what she had done to him, she might open her heart to him, but this resolution had been an immense effort. He trembled at the thought of seeing her changed face as a timid woman trembles at the thought of the surgeon's knife, and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspense rather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable agony of witnessing her trial. Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state, the yearning memories, the bitter regret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the invisible right, all the intense emotions which had filled the days and nights of the past week, and were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd into the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all the previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only now awaked to full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he had always before thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all that he had himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's stroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a soul full of new war and new pity. Oh God, Adam groaned as he leaned on the table and looked blankly at the face of the watch, and men have suffered like this before, and poor, helpless young things have suffered like her. Such a little while ago, looking so happy and so pretty, kissing him all, her grandfather and all of them, and they wishing her luck. Oh, my poor, poor Hetty. Does think on it now? Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun to whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all over? Bartle entered quietly, and going up to Adam grasped his hand and said, I've just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are gone out of court for a bit. Adam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speak. He could only return the pressure of his friend's hand, and Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his hat and his spectacles. That's the thing never happened to me before, he observed, to go out of the door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take him off. The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respond at all to Adam's agitation. He would gather in an indirect way that there was nothing decisive to communicate at present. And now he said, rising again, I must see to your having a bit of the loaf, and some of that wine Mr Irwin sent this morning. He'll be angry with me if you don't have it. Come now, he went on, bringing forward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine into a cup. I must have a bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad, drink with me. Adam pushed the cup gently away and said entreatingly, Tell me about it, Mr Massey, tell me all about it. Was she there? Have they begun? Yes, my boy, yes, it's taken all the time since I first went, but they're slow, they're slow, and there's the counsel they've got for her, puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do with cross-examining the witnesses and quarrelling with the other lawyers. That's all he can do for the money, they give him. And it's a big sum, it's a big sum, but he's a cute fellow with an eye that had picked the needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it'd be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in court, but a tender heart makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures forever, only to have had some good news to bring to you, my poor lad. But does it seem to be going against us, said Adam? Tell me what they've said. I must know it now, I must know what they have to bring against them. Why, the chief evidence, yet, has been the doctors, all but Martin Poiser, poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for him, it was like one sob the sound they made when he came down again. The worst was when they told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor fellow, it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily on him as well as you. You must help, poor Martin, you must show courage, drink some wine now and show me you mean to bear it like a man. Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet obedience, took up the cup and drank a little. Tell me how she looked, he said presently. Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in. It was the first sight of the crowd and the judge, poor critter. And there's a lot of foolish women in fine clothes, with giggers all up their arms and feathers on their heads, sitting near the judge. They've dressed themselves out in that way, one would think, to be scarecrows and warnings against any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up their glasses and stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a white image, staring down at her hands and seeming neither to hear nor see anything. And she's as white as a sheet. The judges speak when they asked her if she'd plead guilty or not guilty. And they pleaded not guilty for her. But when she heard her uncle's name, there seemed to go a shiver right through her. And when they told him to look at her, she hung her head down and cowered and hid her face in her hands. He'd much ado to speak, poor man, his voice trembled so. And the counsellors, who look as hard as nails mostly, I saw, spared him as much as they could. But when he put himself near him and went with him out of court, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by a neighbour and uphold him in such trouble as that. God bless him, and you too, Mr. Mass, he said, Adam in a low voice, laying his hand on Bartle's arm. Aye, aye, he's good metal. He gives the right ring when you try him, our parson does. A man o' sense, says no more than's needful. He's not one of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as if folks who stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble was than those who have to bear it. I've had to do with such folks in my time, in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwin is to be a witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her character and bringing up. But the other evidence, does it go hard against her, said Adam? What do you think, Mr. Mass, he tell me the truth? Yes, my lad, yes, the truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at last. The doctor's evidence is heavy on her, is heavy. But she's gone on denying she's had a child from first to last. These poor, silly women things. They've not the sense to know it's no use denying what's proved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate. They may be less for recommending her to mercy. If the verdict's against her. But Mr. Irwin will leave no stone unturned with the judge. You may rely upon that, Adam. Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the court, said Adam? There's the chaplain of the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp, ferrity-faced man. Another sort of flesh and blood to Mr. Irwin. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag end of the clergy. There's one man who's ought to be there, said Adam, bitterly. Presently he drew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently turning over some new idea in his mind. Mr. Massey, he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead. I'll go back with you. I'll go into court. It's cowardly of me to keep away. I'll stand by her. I'll own her for all she's been deceitful. They oughtn't to cast her off her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to God's mercy and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes. I'll never be hard again. I'll go, Mr. Massey. I'll go with you. There was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented Bartle from opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only said, take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must stop and eat a morsel. Now you take some. Nerv'd by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and drank some wine. He was haggard and unshaven as he had been yesterday, but he stood upright again and looked more like the Adam-bead of former days. End of Chapter 42, Recording by Tony Ashworth, Brisbane, Australia. Chapter 43 of Adam-bead. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Adam-bead by George Elliott. The Verdict. The place fitted up that day as the Court of Justice was a grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the closed pavement of human heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tents of old painted glass. Grim dusty armor hung in high relief in front of the dark oak and gallery. At the farther end, and under the broad arch of the great million windows opposite, was spread a curtain of old tapestry covered with dim melancholy figures like a dozing indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that, through the rest of the year, was haunted with the shadowy memories of old kings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned. But today all those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts. But that sorrow seemed to have made itself feebly felt hither too. Now, when Adam Beed's tall figure was suddenly seen being ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock, in the broad sunlight of the great hall among the sleek-shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face were startling even to Mr. Irvine, who had last seen him in the dim light of a small room, and the neighbors from Hayslope who were present, and who told heady sorrel story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot to say how much it moved them when Adam Beed, poor fellow, taller by the head than most of the people around him, came into court and took his place by her side. But heady did not see him. She was standing in the same position Bartle Massey had described. Her hands crossed over each other, and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings, he turned his face toward her with a resolution not to shrink. Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the likeness we see. It is the likeness which makes itself felt the more keenly because someone else was and is not. There they were, the sweet face and neck with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting lips, pale and thin, yes, but like heady and only heady. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, and left only a hard despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that completest type of the life in another life, which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the cherished child, even in the debased, degraded man, and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culprit, was the heady who had smiled at him in the garden under the apple-tree boughs. She was that heady's corpse, which he had trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his eyes from. But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm, distinct voice. She said, my name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church Lane, Stoneton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman, who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and asking for a lodging at my house, on Saturday evening, the 27th of February. She had taken the house for a public, because there was a figure against the door. And when I said I did not take in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. At her prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about her clothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in, made me, as I couldn't find it in my heart, to send her away at once. I asked her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was going, and where her friends were. She said she was going home to her friends. They were farming folks in a good way off, and she had a long journey that had cost her more money than she expected. So, as she'd hardly any money left in her pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much, she had been obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn't take the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I thought she'd been led wrong, and got into trouble. But if she was going to her friends, it would be a good work to keep her out of further harm. The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and she identified the baby clothes then shown to her as those in which she had herself dressed the child. Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by me ever since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble, both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the little thing, and being anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the daytime she must tell me the name of her friends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She said by and by she would write herself, but not today. She would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough, and it was wonderful what spirit she showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, and toward evening I made my mind I'd go, after meeting was over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house about half past eight o'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door, but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only got the ground floor of the house, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or seemed low at all. I thought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flush toward evenings. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the door behind me. There was no lock. It was a latch with a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house, I always went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in leaving it unfast in that little while. I was longer gone than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman that came back with me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it. I was dreadful frightened and angry with her for going. I didn't go to give information because I'd no thought that she meant to do any harm, and I knew she had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't like to set the constable after her, for she'd a right to go for me if she liked. The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical. It gave him a new force, had he could not be guilty of the crime. Her heart must have clung to her baby. Else why should she have taken it with her? She might have left it behind. The little creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to death, and there might be the strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied with imaginary arguments against such suspicions that he could not listen to the cross-examination by Heddy's counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this witness was being examined. Heddy had stood as motionless as before. No words seemed to arrest her ear, but the sound of the next witness's voice touched a cord that was still sensitive. She gave a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and looked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough peasant, he said. My name is John Olding. I am a laborer, and I live at Ted's Hole, two miles out of Stonyton. A week last Monday, toward one o'clock in the afternoon, I was going toward Hetton-Coppus, and about a quarter of a mile from the compass, I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack, not far off the style. She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she'd be walking on the other way. It was a regular road through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman there. But I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I should've thought she was a beggar woman, only for her good clothes. I thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood and looked back at her, but she went right on while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the compass to look after some stakes. There's a road right through it, and bits of opening here and there, where the trees have been cut down, and some of them not carried away. I didn't go straight along the road, but turned off toward the middle, and took a shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got far out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't for stopping to look about just then. But it went on, and seemed so strange to me in that place. I couldn't help stopping to look. I began to think I might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had a hard work to tell which way it came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground, and there was a lot of timber choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was forgiving it up, and I went on about my business. But when I came back the same way, pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down my stakes to have another look. And just as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd, round, and whitish, lying on the ground under a nut bush by the side of me. And I stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up, and I saw it was a little baby's hand. At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hattie was visibly trembling, now for the first time she seemed to be listening to what the witness said. There was a lot of timber choppings put together just where the ground went hollow, like under the bush, and the hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left in one place, and I could see down it and see the child's head. And I made haste and did away the turf and the choppings and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made haste back with it out of the woods and took it home to my wife. She said it was dead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And I said, I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I meant going to the corpus. But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight, and I took the child on to Hatton Parish and told the constable. And we went on to Justice Hardy, and then we went looking after the young woman till dark at night. And we went and gave information at Stoneton as they might stop her. And the next morning another constable came to me to go with him to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner sitting against the bush where I found the child. And she cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd got a big piece of bread on her lap. Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of his suffering, had he was guilty, and he was silently calling to God for help. He heard no more of the evidence and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution had closed. Unconscious that Mr. Irvine was in the witness box, telling of Hettie's unblemished character in her own parish, and of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could have no influence on the verdict, but it was given as part of the plea for mercy, which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for her. A favor not granted to criminals in those stern times. At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was general movement round him. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. The decisive moment was not far off. Adam felt a shuttering horror that would not let him look at Hettie, but she had long relapsed into her blank heart and difference. 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 everyone 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. Irvine in low earnest conversation with the judge, did not see Mr. Irvine 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 juryman'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 everyone 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 his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepened again before the crier had time to command silence. If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge spoke. Hester Sorrell. The blood rushed to Hedi'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're dead, a piercing shrink ran through the hall. It was Hedi's shriek. Adam started to his feet and stretched out his arms toward her. But the arms could not reach her. She had fallen down in a feigning fit and was carried out of court. End of chapter forty-three. Recording by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Chapter forty-four of Adam Bede. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Arthur's Return. When Arthur Donnythorn landed at Liverpool and read the letter from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grandfather'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 last that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death. It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Bede and softened memory took place of the old antagonism and in his busy thoughts about the future as the chase 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 pretense 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 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 believe 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 loam-shire people what a fine country gentleman he was. He would not exchange this career for any other under the sun. He felt himself riding over the hills in a breezy autumn days, looking after favorite plans of drainage and enclosure, then admired on somber mornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt, spoken well of on market day as a first-rate landlord, by and by making speeches at election dinners and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture, the patron of new plows and drills, the severe operator of negligent landowners, and with all a jolly fellow that everyone must like. Happy faces greeted him everywhere on his own estate and the neighboring families on the best terms with him. The Irwind 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 and proprietor of the hastelow tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundred 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, mateish 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 traveling 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 color, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ready faces, long familiar to him. Martin Poiser was there, and the whole Poiser family. What, heady? Yes, for Arthur was at ease about heady. Not quite as ease about the past, for a certain burning of the years would come whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August. But at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwin, who had been a regular correspondent telling him all the news about the old places and people, had sent him a word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge as he had thought, but pretty heady sorrel. Martin Poiser and Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwin all about it. That Adam had been deeply in love with heady 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 and prospect. Yes, indeed. Arthur felt that 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 window. He rushed out of doors into the December air and greeted everyone who spoke to him with an egregiety 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 toward 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. Hedy's husband had a special claim on him. Hedy 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 Hedy 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 Hedy. 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 French 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 Hedy 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 a 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 Treadleston, where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor were born on a sign of the principal in. 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 wider 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 red 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-chase, nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curves of mysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village hastelope was, and it should not be neglected like this place. Figurist repairs should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in post-chases coming along the Rosseter Road should do nothing but admire as they went, and Adam Bede should be superintendent of all 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 vintictiveness toward 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 evil feeling in his mind towards any human being. He was happy, and would make everyone else happy, that came within his reach. And here was Daryl'd hastelope 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 Benton Hills, show 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 air's return. Poor grandfather, and he lies dead there. He was a young fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. 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 chase had been anxiously listened for at the chase, for today was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all 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 Heddy Sorrel, pretty Heddy 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 neighborly intercourse with the poisers for many years, could not help feeling that the long-for-event of the young squires 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's 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 Heady. 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 warned 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 and 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 planks, 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 out on the writing table in your dressing room. On entering the small ante-room, 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 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 the 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 tomorrows 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 Mr. Irwin's handwriting. Arthur saw it 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. Irwin 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 Irwin 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 Stonington, whether 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 one word of reproach to the retribution that is now falling on you. In 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. Heady 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 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 Stonenton. He said in a muffled tone of agitation, sprang into the saddle, and sat off at a gallop. Chapter 45 of Adam Bede This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Millward Adam Bede by George Elliott Chapter 45 In the Prison 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 Lomshire? 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 Hedi Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned to death, and 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, Hedi Sorrel? Yes. We are kin. My own aunt married her uncle Martin Poiser. But I was away at Leeds and didn't know of this great trouble in time to get here before today. 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 from Leeds? I have been to see my uncle since the trial, sir. He has gone back to his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leave from me to be with her. What? Have you the 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. Dina mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were within the prison court. From her 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 heady sorrel for the sake of that fine fellow Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Heysloth the same evening I heard you preach, and recognized him in court today, ill as he looked. Ah, sir, could 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. Irwin. He lodges over a tinman's shop in the street on the right hand as you entered the prison. There is an old schoolmaster with him. Now, good-bye. I wish you success. Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you. As Dina 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 to scans at her, all the while, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rude voice would be great he 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 already, but I can't stop with my like a bit if you like. Nay, friend, thank you, said Dina. 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 Dina, a jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell where Hedy was sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grading of the lock would have been likely to awaken her. The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the evening sky. Through the small high grading, enough to discern human faces by, Dina stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because Hedy might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart, then she said softly, Hedy? There was a slight movement perceptible in Hedy's frame, a start such as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock, but she did not look up. Dina spoke again in a tone made stronger by the irrepressible emotion. Hedy, it's Dina! Again, there was a slight startled movement through Hedy's frame, and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little as if listening. Hedy, Dina is come to you! After a moment's pause, Hedy 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 hard despair in it, the other full of sad yearning love. Dina unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them out. Don't you know me, Hedy? Don't you remember, Dina? Did you think I wouldn't come to you in trouble? Hedy kept her eyes fixed on Dina's face, at first like an animal that gazes and gazes and keeps aloof. I've come to be with you, Hedy, not to leave you, to stay with you, to be your sister at last. Slowly, while Dina was speaking, Hedy rose, took a step forward and was clasped in Dina's arms. They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to move apart again. Hedy, 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 Dina 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. Dina waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from Hedy. But she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the hand that held hers and leaning her cheek against Dina's. It was the human contact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the dark gulf. Dina began to doubt whether Hedy 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 over hasty 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, so 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 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 Hedy was conscious of the present. Hedy, she said gently, Do you know who it is that sits by your side? Yes, Hedy answered slowly. It's Dina. And do you remember the time when we were at the hall farmed together and that night when I told you to be sure and think of me as a friend in trouble? Yes, said Hedy. Then after a pause she added, But you can do nothing for me. You can't make them do anything. They'll hang me a Monday. It's Friday now. As Hedy said the last words, she clung closer to Dina, shuddering. No, Hedy. 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, Hedy. You lean on me. You are glad to have me with you. You won't leave me, Dina. You'll keep me close. No, Hedy. I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the last. But, Hedy, there is someone else in this jail besides me. Someone close to you. Hedy said in a frightened whisper, Someone who has been with you through all your hours of sin and trouble, who has known every thought you have ever 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, Dina, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me for certain? I wouldn't mind if they let me live. My poor Hedy, 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, someone 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, Hedy said, the sullen sadness. Because, Hedy, 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, our weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness, all things but our willful sin, sin that we cling to and will not give up. You believe in my love and pity for you, Hedy, 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 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 the world. My poor, poor Hedy, 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, Hedy. 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. Hedy obeyed Dina's movement and sank on her knees. They still had each other's hands, and there was a long silence. Then Dina said, Hedy, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth. Still there was silence. At last Hedy spoke in a tone of beseeching. Dina, help me, I can't feel anything like you. My heart is hard. Dina 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 has 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 the uttermost, and rescue this last 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 steal 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 forever 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 wilt breathe on the dead soul, and it shall rise from the unanswering sleep of death. Ye 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 at willing to save. Thou wilt not let her perish forever. 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. Dina, heady sobbed out, throwing her arms around Dina's neck. I will speak. I will tell. I won't hide it any more. But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dina 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 heady whispered, I did do it, Dina. 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, Dina. 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 daren'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 of 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 had come to know it at last, and I couldn't bear that. It was partly thinking of you made me come towards Donatan. 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 him so in my misery. Had he paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon her for words. And then I got to Donatan and 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 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 him 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 of 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, Dina, it frightened me when it first looked at me out of the clouds. It never looked so before, and I turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid of 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 clearly 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 and carts and go home and tell them I'd been to try and see for a place and couldn't get one. I longed so for it, Dina. 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 daren't look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, and I walked about, but there was no water. Hedy 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, Dina. I couldn't cover it quite up. I thought perhaps somebody would come and take care of it, and then it wouldn't die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear a 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 haste act to watch if anybody had 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 in a sim and 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 brought 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 toward dark. And at last, by the roadside, there was a barn ever such a way off any house, like the barn in Abbott's clothes, and I thought I could go in there and hide myself among the hay and straw, and nobody'd be likely to come. I went in, and it was half full of 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 the baby's crying kept waking me, and I thought that man has looked at me, so was to 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-frog could see me, and no, I put the baby there. But I went on. For all that, I'd left off thinking about going home. It had gone out of 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 all I see it? Heddy 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 of stirring. I felt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody I saw me had 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 forever, and nothing had ever changed. But they came and took me away. Heddy was silent, but she shuddered again as if there was still something behind. And Dina waited for her heart was so full that tears must come before words. At last Heddy burst out with a sob. Dina, do you think God will take away that crying and that 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. End of Chapter 45 Chapter 46 of Adam Bede. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Catherine Millward. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Chapter 46 The Hours of Suspense On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for morning service, Bartle Massie 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 of 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 backward commonly, Bartle muttered to himself. Ask her to come in, said Adam. He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dina entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes toward 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. Massie 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 Massie, too, who had put on his spectacles seemed transfixed, examining Dina'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 Dina, 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 for your forgiveness, and it is meat you should see her today, 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. Irwin said there was hope. He said I needn't quite give it up. That's a blessed thought to me, said Dina, 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 flesh, she is no longer hard. She is contrite. She has confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given away, 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 of 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 goodbye 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 goodbye while there's any hope. I'm listening and listening. I can't think of 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 Dina stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he churned round and said, I will come, Dina, tomorrow 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 Dina. 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 comforts you and strengthens you to bear all things. Dina 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 another. 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 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 was burst out into vehement speech. If I could have done anything to save her, if my bearing anything would have done any good. But to have desert still and know it and do nothing, it's hard for a man to bear, and to think of what might have been now, if it hadn't been for him. Oh, God, it's the very day we should have been married. I, my lad, said Bartle tenderly, it's heavy, it's heavy. But you must remember this, when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notion she'd got another sort of nature inside her. You didn't think she could have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done. I know, I know that, said Adam. I thought she was loving and tender-hearted and wouldn't tell a lie or act deceitful. How could I think any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd marry her, and been loving to her and to care of her, she might never have done anything bad. What would have signified my having a bit of trouble with her? It'd had been nothing to this. There's no knowing, my lad, there's no knowing what might have come. The smart's bad for you to bear now. You must have time. You must have time. But I've that opinion of you that you'll rise above it all and be a man again. And there my good come out of this that we don't see. Good come out of it, said Adam passionately. That doesn't alter the evil. Her ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk of people as if there was a way of making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought to see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man spoils his fellow creature's life, he's no right to comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter her shame and misery. Well lad, well, said Bartle in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast to his usual preemptoriness and impatience of contradiction. It's likely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a good many years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient. Mr. Massey, said Adam penitently. I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you something different, but you mustn't take it ill of me. Not I, lad. Not I. So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair. There would soon be no more suspense. Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey, said Adam, when he saw the hand of his watch at six. If there's any news come, we shall hear about it. The people were a stir already, moving rapidly in one direction, through the streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going as they hurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prison gates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing those eager people. No, there was no news come, no pardon, no reprieve. Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself to send word to Dinah that he has come. But a voice caught his ear. He could not shut out the words. The cart is to set off at half past seven. It must be said, the last goodbye. There was no help. In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah had sent him word that she could not come to him. She could not leave Hedy one moment. But Hedy was prepared for the meeting. He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after the door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied. But he began to see through the dimness, to see the dark eyes lifted up to him once more, but with no smile in them. Oh God, how sad they looked! The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with his heart full of joyous, hopeful love. And they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now. The sweet lips were pallid and half opening and quivering. The dimples were all gone, all but one that never went. And the eyes, oh, the worst of all, was the likeness they had to Hedy's. They were Hedy's eyes looking at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the dead to tell him of her misery. She was clinging close to Dinah. Her cheek was against Dinah's. It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visible pledge of the invisible mercy. When the sad eyes met, when Hedy and Adam looked at each other, she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to reflect the change in herself. Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him. Speak to him, Hedy, Dinah said. Tell him what is in your heart. Hedy obeyed her like a little child. Adam, I'm very sorry. I behaved very wrong to you. Will you forgive me before I die? Adam answered with a half sob. Yes, I forgive thee, Hedy. I forgave thee long ago. It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of meeting Hedy's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been less strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears came. They had never come before, since he had hung on Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow. Hedy made an involuntary movement towards him. Some of the love that she had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kept hold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked? Adam took the blanched, wasted hand she put out to him, And they gave each other the solemn, unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting. And tell him, Hedy said in a rather stronger voice, Tell him, for there's nobody else to tell him, As I went after him and couldn't find him, And I hated him and cursed him once, But Dinah says I should forgive him, And I try, for else God won't forgive me. There was a noise at the door of the cell now. The key was being turned in the lock, And when the door opened Adam saw indistinctly that there were several faces there. He was too agitated to see more, Even to see that Mr. Irwin's face was one of them. He felt that the last preparations were beginning, And he could stay no longer. Room was silently made for him to depart, And he went to his chamber in loneliness, Leaving Bartle-Massie to watch and see the end. CHAPTER 47 THE LAST MOMENT It was a sight that some people remembered better, Even than their own sorrows. The sight in that gray-clear morning, When the fatal cart with the two young women in it Was decried by the waiting, watching multitude, Cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately inflicted sudden death. All stonatin had heard of Dinah Morris, The young Methodist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal to confess, And there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hedy. But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hedy had caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, She had clutched Dinah convulsively. Close your eyes, Hedy, Dinah said, And let us pray without ceasing to God. And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along, Through the midst of the gazing crowd, She poured forth her soul with the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, For the trembling creature that clung to her and clutched her As the only visible sign of love and pity. Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, Gazing at her with the sort of awe. She did not even know how near they were to the fatal spot. When the cart stopped and she shrank, Appalled at a loud shout hideous to her ear, Like a vast yell of demons. Hedy's shriek mingled with the sound, And they clasped each other in mutual horror. But it was not a shout of execration, Not a yell of exultant cruelty. It was a shout of sudden excitement At the appearance of a horseman Cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and distressed, But answers to the desperate spurring. The rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by madness, And he saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has something in his hand. He is holding it up as if it were a signal. The sheriff knows him. It is Arthur Donathon carrying in his hand A hard one release from death. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 of Adam Bede This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Katherine Millward Adam Bede by George Elliott Chapter 48 Another Meeting in the Wood The next day at evening Two men were walking from opposite points toward the same scene, Drawn thither by a common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donathon Chase. You know who the men were. The old Squires funeral had taken place that morning. The will had been read, And now in the first breathing space, Arthur Donathon had come out for a lonely walk, That he might look fixedly at the new future before him, And confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove. Adam, too, had come from Staunton on Monday evening, And today he had not left home, Except to go to the family at Hall Farm And tell them everything that Mr. Irwin had left untold. He had agreed with the poisers That he would follow them to their new neighborhood, Wherever that might be, For he bent to give up the management of the woods, And, as soon it was practicable, He would wind up his business with Jonathan Burge And settle with his mother and Seth In a home within reach of the friends To whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow. Seth and me are sure to find work, he said. A man that's got our trade at his finger ends Is at home anywhere, And we must make a new start. My mother won't stand in the way For she's told me, Since I came home she'd made up her mind To be buried in another parish, If I wished it, And if I'd be more comfortable elsewhere. It's wonderful how quiet she's been Ever since I came back. It seems as if the very greatness Of the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be better in a new country, Though there's some I shall be loathed to leave behind. But I won't part from you and yours If I can help it, Mr. Poiser. Troubles made us kin. I, lad, said Martin, Will go out of here in that man's name, But I doubt we should there go far enough To folks not to find out, As we've got them belonging to us, Are transported o'er the seas, And would like to be hanged. We shall have that flying up in our faces, And our children's after us. That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, And drew too strongly on Adam's energies For him to think of seeing others, Or re-entering his old occupations till the morrow. But tomorrow, he said to himself, I'll go to work again. I shall learn to like it again sometime. Maybe. And it's right whether I like it or not. This evening was the last he would allow To be absorbed by sorrow. Suspense was gone now, And he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donothorn again, If it were possible to avoid him. He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, For Hetty had seen Arthur, And Adam distrusted himself. He had learned to dread the violence of his own feelings. That word of Mr. Irwin's, That he must remember what he had felt After giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove, Had remained with him. These thoughts about Arthur, Like all thoughts that are charged with strong feeling, Continually recurring, And they always called up the image of the Grove, Of that spot under the overarching boughs, Where he had caught sight of the two bending figures, And had been possessed by sudden rage. I'll go and see it again tonight, For the last time, he said. It'll do me good. It'll make me feel over again what I felt, What I'd knocked him down. I felt what poor empty work it was, As soon as I'd done it, Before I began to think he might be dead. In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam Were walking towards the same spot at the same time. Adam had on his working dress again, Now, for he had thrown off the other With a sense of relief as soon as he came home, And if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, He might have been taken with his pale, Wasted face for the specter of the Adam bead Who entered the Grove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of tools, And he was not walking with the old erectness Looking keenly around him. His hands were thrust in his side pockets, And his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, And now he paused before a beach. He knew that tree well. It was the boundary bark of his youth. The sign to him of the time when some of his earliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never return. And yet, at this moment, There was a stirring of affection at the Remembrance of that Arthur Donothorm, Whom he had believed in before He had come up to this beach eight months ago. It was affection for the dead. That Arthur existed no longer. He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps. But the beach stood at a turn in the road And he could not see who was coming Until the tall, slim figure in deep mourning Suddenly stood before him at only two yards distance. They both started and looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words That should be as harrowing as the voice of remorse. Forcing upon him a just share in the misery he had caused. And often, too, he had told himself That such a meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting He had always seen Arthur As he had met him on that evening in the grove. Florid, careless light of speech And the figure before him touched him With the signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was. He could not lay a cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first to speak. Adam, he said quietly, It may be a good thing that we have met here. For I wish to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow. He paused, but Adam said nothing. I know it is painful to you to meet me. Arthur went on. But it is not likely to happen again for years to come. No, sir, said Adam coldly. That was what I meant to write to you to-morrow. As it would be better all dealings Should be at an end between us And somebody else put in my place. Arthur felt the answer keenly. And it was not without an effort that he spoke again. It was partly on that subject I wish to speak to you. I don't want to lessen your indignation against me. Or ask you to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you If you will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, Which is unchangeable. I don't mean consequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, I know. I know the worst consequences will remain, But something may be done, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently? Yes, sir, said Adam after some hesitation. I'll hear what it is. If I can help to mend anything I will. Anger will mend nothing, I know. We've had enough of that. I was going to the ermatage, said Arthur. Will you go there with me and sit down? We can talk better there. The ermatage had never been entered since they left it together, For Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened the door, There was the candle burnt out in the socket, There was the chair in the same place where Adam remembered Siddiq, There was the waste-paper basket full of scraps, And deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, There was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have been painful to enter this place If their previous thoughts had been less painful. They sat down opposite each other in the old places, And Arthur said, I'm going away, Adam. I'm going into the army. Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this announcement, Ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him, But Adam's lips remained firmly closed, And the expression of his face unchanged. What I want to say to you, Arthur continued, Is this, one of my reasons for going away Is that no one else may leave Heyslope, May leave their home on my account. I would do anything. There is no sacrifice I would not make To prevent any further injury to others Through my—through what has happened. Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect To that he had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them That notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, That self-soothing attempt to make evil Bear the same fruit as good, Which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly impaled to look Painful facts right in the face as Arthur was To turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the wakeful, suspicious pride Of a poor man in the presence of a rich man. He felt his old severity returning as he said, The times passed for that, sir. A man should make sacrifices To keep clear of doing a wrong. Sacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got a deadly wound, They can't be cured with favors. Favors, said Arthur passionately. No, how can you suppose I meant that? But the poisers. Mr. Irwin tells me the poisers mean to leave the place Where they have lived for so many years. For generations. Don't you see, as Mr. Irwin does, That if they could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them away, It would be much better for them in the end To remain on the old spot Among the friends and neighbors who know them? That's true, said Adam Coldley. But then, sir, folks' feelings are not so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poiser to go to a strange place Among strange faces When he's been bred up on the Hall Farm And his father before him. But then it'd be harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the things to be made any other than hard. There's a sort of damage, sir, that can't be made up for. Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in him this evening, His pride winced under Adam's mode of treating him. Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes? It was now, as it had been eight months ago. Adam was forcing Arthur to feel more intensely The irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. He was presenting the sort of resistance That was the most irritating to Arthur's eager, ardent nature. But his anger was subdued by the same influence That it subdued Adam's when they first confronted each other. By the marks of suffering in a long, familiar face. The momentary struggled in and in the feeling That he could bear a great deal from Adam To whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much. But there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct By giving away to anger and satisfying that for the moment Instead of thinking what will be an effect in the future. If I were going to stay here and act as landlord He added presently with still more eagerness If I were careless about what I've done What I've been the cause of You would have some excuse Adam for going away and encouraging others to go You would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil worse But when I tell you I'm going away for years When you know what that means for me How it cuts off every plan of happiness I've ever formed It is impossible for a sensible man like you To believe that there is any real ground for the poisers refusing to remain I know their feeling about disgrace Mr. Irwin has told me all But he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of this idea That they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbors And that they can't remain on my estate If you would join him in his efforts If you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods Arthur paused a moment and then added pleadingly You know that's a good work to do for the sake of other people Besides the owner And you don't know but that they may have a better owner soon Whom you will like to work for If I die My cousin Tragit will have the estate and take my name He is a good fellow Adam cannot help being moved It was impossible for him not to feel That this was the voice of the honest, warm-hearted Arthur Whom he had loved and bid proud of in the old days But nearer memories would not be thrust away He was silent yet Arthur saw an answer in his face That induced him to go on with growing earnestness And then if you would talk to the poisers If you would talk the matter over with Mr. Irwin He means to see you tomorrow And then if you would join your arguments to his To prevail them not to go I know of course that they would not accept any favour from me I mean nothing of that kind But I'm sure they would suffer less in the end Mr. Irwin thinks so too And Mr. Irwin is to have the chief authority on the estate He has consented to undertake that They will really be under no man but one Whom they respect and like It would be the same with you Adam And it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain That could incline you to go Arthur was silent again for a little while And then he said with some agitation in his voice I wouldn't act so towards you, I know If you were in my place and I in yours I should try to help you to do the best Adam made a hasty movement on his chair And looked on the ground Arthur went on Perhaps you've never done anything You've had bitterly to repent of in your life Adam If you had you would be more generous You would know then that it's worse for me Than for you Arthur rose from his seat with the last words And went to one of the windows Looking out and turning his back on Adam As he continued passionately Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday? Shant I carry the thought of her About with me as much as you will? And don't you think you would suffer more If you'd been in fault? There was silence for several minutes For the struggle in Adam's mind Was not easily decided Facile natures whose emotions Have little permanence Can hardly understand how much inward resistance He overcame before he rose from his seat And turned towards Arthur Arthur heard the movement And turning round met the sad but softened look With which Adam said It's true what you say sir I'm hard, it's in my nature I was too hard with my father for doing wrong I've been a bit hard to everybody, but her I felt as if nobody pitied her enough Her suffering cut into me so And when I thought the folks at the farm Were too hard with her I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again But feeling over much about her Has perhaps made me unfair to you I've known what it is in my life To repent and feel it's too late I felt I'd been too harsh with my father When he was gone from me I feel it now when I think of him I've no right to be hard towards them As have done wrong and repent Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man Who was resolved to leave nothing unsaid That he is bound to say But he went on with more hesitation I wouldn't shake hands with you once sir When you asked me But if you're willing to do it now For all I refused then Arthur's white hand was an Adam's large grasp In an instant and with that action A strong rush on both sides Of the old boyish affection Adam Arthur said Impelled to full confession now It would never have happened If I'd known you loved her That would have helped to save me from it And I did struggle I never meant to injure her I deceived you afterwards And that led to worse But I thought it was forced upon me I thought it was the best thing I could do And in that letter I told her to let me know If she were in any trouble Don't think I would not have done everything I could But I was all wrong from the very first And horrible wrong has come of it God knows I'd give my life if I could undo it They sat down again opposite each other And Adam said trebulously How did she seem when you left her sir? Don't ask me Adam Arthur said I feel sometimes as if I should go mad With thinking of her looks and what she said to me And then that I couldn't get a full pardon That I couldn't save her from that wretched fate Of being transported That I can do nothing for her all those years And she may die under it And never know comfort anymore Ah sir said Adam for the first time Feeling his own pain merged in sympathy for Arthur You and me will often be thinking of the same thing When we're a long way off one another I'll pray God to help you As I pray him to help me But there's that sweet woman That Dinah Morris Arthur said Pursuing his own thoughts And not knowing what had been the sense of Adam's words She says she shall stay with her to the very last moment Till she goes And the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her I could worship that woman I don't know what I should do if she were not there Adam you will see her when she comes back I could say nothing to her yesterday Nothing of what I felt towards her Tell her Arthur went on hurriedly As if he wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke While he took off his chain and watch Tell her I asked you to give her this In remembrance of me Of the man to whom she is the one source of comfort When he thinks of I know she doesn't care about such things Or anything else I can give her for its own sake But she will use the watch I shall like to think of her using it I'll give it to her sir Adam said And tell her your words She told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm And you will persuade the poisers to stay Adam said Arthur Reminded of the subject which both of them had forgotten In the first interchange of revived friendship You will stay yourself and help Mr. Irwin to carry out the repairs And improvements on the estate There's one thing sir that perhaps you don't take account of Said Adam with hesitating gentleness And that was what made me hang back longer You see it's the same with both me and the poisers If we stay it's for our own worldly interest And it looks as if we put up with anything for the sake of that I know that's what they'll feel And I can't help feeling a little of it myself When folks have got an honorable independent spirit They don't like to do anything that might make them seem base minded But no one who knows you will think that Adam That is not a reason strong enough against a course that is really more generous More unselfish than the other And it will be known It shall be made known That both you and the poisers stayed at my entreaty Adam, don't try to make things worse for me I'm punished enough without that No sir, no Adam said looking at Arthur with mournful affection I forbid I should make things worse for you I used to wish I could do it in my passion But that was when I thought you didn't feel enough I'll stay sir, I'll do the best that I can It's all I've got to think of now To do my work well and make the world A bit better place for them as can enjoy it Then we'll part now Adam You will see Mr. Irwin tomorrow And consult with him about everything Are you going soon sir? said Adam As soon as possible After I've made the necessary arrangements Goodbye Adam I shall think of you going about the old place Goodbye sir God bless you The hands were clasped once more And Adam left the ermitage feeling the sorrow Was more bearable now Hatred was gone As soon as the door was closed behind him Arthur went to the waste-paper basket And took out the little pink silk handkerchief End of Chapter 48