 CHAPTER XXXVII. Heddy was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions to be addressed to her, too ill even to think, with any distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt that all her hope was crushed, and that instead of having found a refuge, she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness, where no gull lay before her. The sensations of bodily sickness in a comfortable bed and with the tendons of the good-natured landlady made a sort of respite for her. Such a respite, as there is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw himself on the sand, instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun. But when sleep and rest brought back the strength necessary for the keenness of mental suffering, when she lay the next morning looking at the growing light, which was like a cruel taskmaster returning to urge from her a fresh round of hated hopeless labor. She began to think what course she must take to remember that all her money was gone, to look at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with the new clearness shed on it by the experience of her journey to Windsor. But which way should she turn? It was impossible for her to enter into any service, even if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediate beggary before her. She thought of a young woman who had been found against the church wall of Hastelope on Sunday, nearly dead with cold and hunger, a tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued and taken to the parish. The parish? You can perhaps hardly understand the effect of that word on a mind like Hattie's, brought up among people who were somewhat hard in their feelings, even towards poverty, who lived among the fields and had little pity for wanton rags as a cruel, inevitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities. But held them a mark of idleness and vice, and it was idleness and vice that brought burdens on the parish. To Hattie, the parish was next to the prison in Oblikoy, and to ask anything of strangers, to beg, lay in the same far-off hideous region of intolerable shame that Hattie had all her life thought it impossible she could ever come near. As now the remembrance of that wretched woman whom she had seen herself on her way from church, being carried into Joshua Wren's came back upon her with the new, terrible sense that there was very little now to divide her from the same lot, and the dread of bodily hardship mingles with the dread of shame, for Hattie had the luxurious nature of a round, soft-coated pet animal. Now she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and cared for as she had always been. Her aunt, scolding about trifles, would have been music to her ears now. She longed for it. She used to hear it in a time when she had only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hattie that used to make up the butter in the dairy with the gold-dress roses peeping in at the window? She a runaway whom her friends would not open their doors to again, lying in this strange bed with the knowledge that she had no money to pay for what she received, and must offer these strangers some of the clothes in her basket. It was then she thought of her locket and earrings, and seeing her pocket near she reached it and spread the contents on the bed before her. There were the locket and earrings in the little velvet line-boxes, and with them there was a beautiful silver thimble which Adam had brought her. The words remember me, making the ornament of the border, a steel purse with her one shelling in it, and a small red leather case fastening with a strap. Those beautiful little earrings with their delicate pearls and garnet that she had tried in her ears with such longing in the bright sunshine on the thirtieth of July. She had no longing to put them in her ears now. Her head, with its dark rings of hair, lay back languidly on the pillow, and the sadness that rested above her brow and eyes was something too hard for regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears. It was because there were some thin gold rings in them, which were also worth a little money. Yes, she could surely get some money for her ornaments. Those Arthur had given her must have cost a great deal of money. The landlord and the landlady had been good to her. Perhaps they would help her get the money for these things. But this money would not keep her long. What should she do when it was gone? Where should she go? The horrible thought of want and beggary drove her once to think she would go back to her uncle and aunt and asked them to forgive her and have pity on her. She shrank from that idea again, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal. She could never endure the shame before her uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge and the servants at the chase, and the people at Brockston, and everybody who knew her. They should never know what had happened to her. What could she do? She would go away from Windsor, travel again as she had done the last week, and get among the flat green fields with the high hedges round them, and nobody could see her or know her. And there, perhaps, when there was nothing else she could do, she could get courage to drown herself in some pond like that in the scant lens. Yes, she would get away from Windsor as soon as possible. She didn't like these people at the end to know about her, to know that she had come to look for Captain Donothorn. She must think of some reason to tell them why she had asked for him. With this thought, she began to put the things back into her pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the landlady came to her. She had her hand on the red leather case. When it occurred to her that there might be something in this case which she had forgotten, something worth selling. For without knowing what she should do with her life, she craved the means of living as long as possible, and when we desire eagerly to find something, we are apt to search for it in hopeless places. No, there was nothing but the common needles and pins and dried tulip petals between the paper leaves where she had written down her little money accounts. But on one of these leaves there was a name which, often as she had seen it before, now flashed on Hedy's mind like a newly discovered message. The name was Dinah Morris Snowfield. There was a text written above it, as well as the name, by Dinah's own hand, with a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting together, and Hedy happened to have the red case lying open before her. Hedy did not read the text now. She was only arrested by the name. Now for the first time, she remembered without indifference the affection of kindness Dinah had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bedchamber, that Hedy must think of her as a friend in trouble. So she were to go to Dinah and ask her to help. Dinah did not think about things as other people did. She was a mystery to Hedy, but Hedy knew she was always kind. She couldn't imagine Dinah's face turning away from her in dark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice willingly speaking ill of her, or rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to belong to that world of Heddies, whose glance she dreaded like scorching fire. But even to her, Hedy shrank from beseeching and confession. She could not prevail on herself to say, I will go to Dinah. She only thought of that as a possible alternative if she had not courage for death. A good landlady was amazed when she saw Hedy come downstairs, soon after herself, neatly dressed, and looking resolutely self-possessed. Hedy told her that she was quite well this morning. She had only been very tired and overcome with her journey, for she had come a long way to ask about her brother, who had run away, and they thought he was gone for a soldier, and Captain Donathon might know, for he had been very kind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and the landlady looked doubtfully at Hedy as she told it, but there was a resolute air of self-reliance about her this morning, so different from the helpless frustration of yesterday, but the landlady hardly knew how to make a remark that might seem like prying into other people's affairs. She only invited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in the course of it Hedy brought out her earrings and locket, and asked the landlord if he could help her to get money for them. Her journey, she said, had cost her much more than she expected, and now she had no money to get back to her friends, which she wanted to do at once. It was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for she had examined the contents of Hedy's pocket yesterday, and she and her husband had discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautiful things, with a stronger conviction than ever that Hedy had been miserably deluded by the fine young officer. Well, said the landlord when Hedy had spread the precious trifles before him, we might take him to the jeweler's shop, for there's one not far off, but Lord Blessy, they wouldn't give you a quarter of what the things are worth, and you wouldn't like to part with him, he added, looking at her inquiringly. Oh, I don't mind, said Hedy hastily, so as I can get money to go back. And they might think the things were stolen as you wanted to sell them, he went on, for it isn't usual for a young woman like you to have fine jewelry like that. The blood rushed to Hedy's face with anger. I belong to respectable folks, she said, I'm not a thief. No, that you aren't, I'll be bound, said the landlady, and you'd no call to say that, looking indignantly at her husband. The things were give to her, that's plain enough to be seen. I didn't mean, as I thought so, said the husband apologetically, but I said it was what the jeweler might think, and so he wouldn't be offering much money for him. Well, said the wife, suppose you were to advance some money on the things yourself, and then if she liked to redeem them when she got home, she could. But if we heard nothing from her after two months, we might do as we like with them. I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady had no regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature in the ultimate possession of the locket and earrings indeed. The effect they would have, in that case on the mind of the grossest wife, had presented itself with remarkable vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlord took up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. He wished heady well doubtless, but pray how many of your well wishes would decline to make a little gain out of you. Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and would really rejoice if anyone else is generous to you. But at the same time, she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a percentage as possible. How much money do you want to get home with, young lady? said the well-wisher at Lamp. Three guineas answered heady, fixing on the sum she set out with for one of any other standard and afraid of asking too much. Well, I have no objections to advance you three guineas, said the landlord, and if you like to send it me back and get the jewellery again, you can, you know. The green man isn't going to run away. Oh, yes, I'll be very glad if you'll give me that, said heady, relieved at the thought that she would not have to go to the jewellers and be stared at and questioned. But if you want the things again, you'll right before long, said the landlady, because when two months are up, we shall make up our minds as you don't want them. Yes, said heady, indifferently. The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. The husband thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could make a good thing of it by taking them to London and selling them. The wife thought she would coax the good man into letting her keep them. And they were accommodating heady, poor thing, a pretty respectable looking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anything for her food and bed. She was quite welcome. And at eleven o'clock heady said goodbye to them with the same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles back along the way she had come. There is a strength of self-possession, which is the sign that the last hope is departed. Despair no more leans on others than perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the sense of dependence. Heady felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would make life hateful to her, and no one, she said to herself, should ever know her misery and humiliation. No, she would not confess even to Dinah. She would wander out of sight and drown herself where her body would never be found, and no one should know what had become of her. When she got off this coach she began to walk again and take cheap rides and carts and get cheap meals going on and on without distinct purpose, yet strangely by some fascination taking the way she had come, though she was determined not to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire fields with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a hiding place even in this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, often getting over the stiles and sitting for hours under the hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes, fancying herself at the edge of a hidden pool, low down, like that in the scant lens, wondering if it were very painful to be drowned, and if there would be anything worse after death than that which she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines had taken no hold on Hedy's mind. She was one of those numerous people who had godfathers and godmothers learn their catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and yet for any practical result of strength in life or trust in death have never appropriated a single Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would misunderstand her thoughts during those wretched days if you imagine that they were influenced either by religious fears or religious hopes. She chose to go to Stratford on Avon again, where she had gone before by mistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her plumber way towards it, fields among which she thought she might find just the sort of pool she had in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still. She carried her basket. Death still seemed a long way off, and life was so strong in her. She craved food and rest. She hastened towards them at the very moment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she would leap towards death. It was already five days since she had left Windsor, for she had wondered about always avoiding speech or questioning looks and recovering her rare of proud self-dependence whenever she was under observation, choosing her decent lodging at night and dressing herself neatly in the morning and setting off on her way steadily or remaining under shelter if it rained as if she had a happy life to cherish. And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was sadly different from that which had smiled at itself in the old speckled glass or smiled at others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had come into the eyes, though the lashes were as long as ever, and they had all their dark brightness, and the cheek was never dimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting, childish prettiness, but with all love and belief and love departed from it, the sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa face with the passionate, passionless lips. At last she was among the field she had been dreaming of, on a long, narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a pool in that wood, it would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was not a wood, only a wild break, where there had once been gravel pits, leaving mounds and hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow before she came to it, till her limbs were weary and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun was setting behind it. After a little while, Hedy started up again, feeling that darkness would soon come on, and she must put off finding the pool till tomorrow and make her way to some shelter for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and might as well go in one direction as another for what she knew. She walked through field after field, and no village, no house was in sight, but there, at the corner of this pasture, there was a break in the hedges, the land seemed to dip down a little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the opening. Hedy's heart gave a great beat, as she thought there must be a pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the tufted grass with pale lips and a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were common spite of herself, instead of being the object of her search. There it was, black under the darkening sky, no motion, no sound near. She set down her basket and then sank down herself on the grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry depth now. By the time it got shallow, as she remembered the pool's did at Hastelup in the summer, no one could find out that it was her body. Then there was her basket. She must hide that too. She must throw it into the water, make it heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look about for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid down beside her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need to hurry. There was all the night to drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in her basket three, which she had supplied herself with at the place where she ate her dinner. She took them out now, and ate them eagerly, and then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed, dreamy attitude brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank down on her knees. She was fast asleep. When she awoke, it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was frightened at this darkness, frightened at the long night before her, if she could but throw herself into the water. No, not yet. She began to walk about that she might get warm again, as if she would have more resolution then. Oh, how long the time was in that darkness. The bright hearth, and the warmth, and the voices of home, the secure uprising and lying down, the familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and holidays with their simple joys of dress and feasting, all the sweets of her young life rushed before her now. She seemed to be stretching her arms towards them across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of Arthur. She cursed him without knowing what her cursing would do. She wished he too might know desolation and cold and a life of shame that he dared not in by death. The horror of this cold and darkness and solitude out of all human reach became greater every long minute. It was almost as if she were dead already and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to life again. But no, she was alive still. She had not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation, wretchedness that she did not dare to face death, exultation that she was still in life, that she might yet know light and warmth again. She walked backwards and forwards to warm herself, beginning to discern something of the objects around her as her eyes became accustomed to the night, the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living creature, perhaps a field mouse, rushing across the grass. She no longer felt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk back across the field and get over the style, and then, in the very next field, she thought she remembered there was a hovel of furs near a sheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. She could pass the night there. That was what Alec did at haste-loop and lambing time. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a new hope. She took up her basket and walked across the field, but it was some time before she got in the right direction for the style. The exercise and the occupation of finding the style were a stimulus to her, however, and lightened the horror of the darkness and solitude. There was sheep in the next field, and she startled a group as she set down her basket and got over the style and the sound of their movement comforted her. For it assured her that her impression was right. This was the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the field where the sheep were. Right on along the path, and she would get to it. She reached the opposite gate and felt her way along the rails and the rails of the sheepfold till her hand counted the pricking of the gorsy wall. Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped her way, touching the prickly gorse to the door, and pushed it open. It was an ill-smelling close place, but warm, and there was straw on the ground. Headies sank down on the straw with a sense of escape. Tears came. She had never shed tears before she left Windsor. Tears and sobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that she was still on the familiar earth with the sheep near her. The very consciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her. She turned up her sleeves and kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soon warmth and weariness lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fell continually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the pool again, fancying that she had jumped into the water, and then awaking with the start and wondering where she was. But at last deep, dreamless sleep came. Her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow against the gorsy wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two equal terrors, found the one relief that was possible to it, the relief of unconsciousness. Alas, that relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It seemed to heady as if those dozing dreams had only passed into another dream, that she was in the hobble and her aunt was standing over her with a candle in her hand. She trembled under her aunt's glance and opened her eyes. There was no candle, but there was light in the hobble, the light of early morning through the open door, and there was a face looking down on her. But it was an unknown face belonging to an elderly man in a smock-frock. Why, what do you do here, young woman? The man said roughly. Heady trembled still worse under this real fear and shame that she had done in her momentary dream under her aunt's glance. She felt that she was like a beggar already, found sleeping in that place. But in spite of her trembling, she was so eager to account to the man for her presence here that she found words at once. I lost my way, she said. I'm traveling northward, and I got away from the road into the fields and was overtaken by the dark. Will you tell me the way to the nearest village? She got up as she was speaking and put her hands to her bonnet to adjust it, and then let hold of her basket. The man looked at her with the slow bovine gaze without giving her any answer for some seconds. Then he turned away and walked towards the door of the hobble. But it was not till he got there that he stood still and turning his shoulder half-round towards her, said, Ah, I can show you the way to Norton, if you like. But what do you do getting out of the high road? He added with a tone of gruff for proof. You'll be getting into mischief if you don't mind. Yes, said Hedy, I won't do it again. I'll keep in the road, and if you'll be so good as to show me how to get to it. Why don't you keep, where there's finger-poses and folks to ask the way on, the man said still more gruffly. Anybody would think you was a wild woman and look at you. Hedy was frightened at this gruff old man and still more at his last suggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As she followed him out of the hobble, she thought she would give him sixpence for telling her the way, and then he would not suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road to her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the sixpence ready, and when he was turning away, without saying good morning, she held it out to him and said, Thank you, were you pleased to take something for your trouble? He looked slowly at the sixpence and then said, I want none of your money, you'd better take care of it, else you'll get it stooled from you, if you go traipsing about and it feels like a mad woman of that way. The man left her without further speech, and Hedy held on her way. Another day had risen and she must wander on. It was no use to think of drowning herself. She could not do it, at least while she had money left to buy food and strength to journey on, but the incident on her waking this morning heightened her dread of that time when her money would be all gone. She would have to sell her basket and clothes then, and she would really look like a beggar or a wild woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life that she had felt in the night after escaping from the brink of the black cold death in the pool was gone now. Life now, by the morning light, with the impression of that man's hard wandering look at her, was as full of dread as death. It was worse. It was a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank and shrank as she did from the black pool, and yet could find no refuge from it. She took out her money from her purse and looked at it. She had still two and twenty shillings. It would serve her for many days more, or it would help her to get on faster to stony shir within reach of Dinah. The thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since the experience of the night had driven her shuddering imagination away from the pools. If it had been only going to Dinah, if nobody besides Dinah would ever know, Hedy could have made up her mind to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn her. But afterwards the other people must know, and she could know more rush on that chain than she could rush on death. She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair to give her courage. Perhaps death would come to her, for she was getting less and less able to bear the day's weariness, and yet, such is the strange action of our souls, drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very ends we dread. Hedy, when she set out again from Norton, asked the straightest road northwards towards Stony Shir, and kept it all that day. Poor, wandering Hedy, with the rounded childish face, and the hard, unloving, despairing soul looking out of it, with the narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but her own, tasting that sorrow with the more intense bitterness. My heart bleeds for her as I can see her toiling along on her weary feet, or seated in a cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, never thinking or caring wither it ends till hunger comes, and makes her desire that a village may be near. What will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart from all love, caring for human beings, only through her pride, clinging to life only is the hunted, wounded, brute clings to it? God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such misery. CHAPTER 38 OF ADAM BEED This is a LibriBox recording. All LibriBox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriBox.org. ADAM BEED by George Elliott CHAPTER 38 THE QUEST The first ten days after Heddy's departure passed as quietly as any other days with the family at Hall Farm and with Adam at his daily work, they had expected Heddy to stay away a week or ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if Diner came back with her, because there might be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had passed, they began to feel a little surprise that Heddy did not return. She must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Diner than anyone could have supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient to see her, and he resolved that if she did not appear the next day, Saturday, he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light and perhaps getting a lift and a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty early at Snowfield and bring back Heddy the next day and Diner too if she were coming. It was quite time Heddy came home, and he could afford to lose his Monday for the sake of bringing her. His project was quite approved at the farm, when he went there on Saturday evening, Mrs. Poiser desired him emphatically not to come back without Heddy, for she had been quite too long away considering the things she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week was surely enough for anyone to go out for their health. As for Diner, Mrs. Poiser had small hope of her bringing her. Unless they could make her believe the folks at Hayslop would twice as miserable as the folks at Snowfield. Though, said Mrs. Poiser by way of conclusion, you might tell her she's got but one aunt left, and she's wasted pretty night to a shatter, and we shall perhaps all be gone twenty miles further off her next mechlemess, and she'll die of broken hearts among strange folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless. Nay, nay, said Mr. Poiser, who certainly had the air of a man perfectly hard-haul, it isn't so bad as that. They'd look in rarely now and getting flesh every day, but I'd be glad for Diner to come, and she'd help thee with the little ones, and they took to her wonderful. So at daybreak on Sunday Adam set off, Seth went with him the first mile or two, but the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Diner might come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the last morning in February with a low gray sky, and a slight whorefrost on the green border of the road and on the black hedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the hill and the faint twittering of the early birds, for they walked in silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship. Good-bye, lad, said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and looking at him affectionately as they were about to part. I wished he was going all the way with me, and as happy as I am. I'm content, Addy, I'm content, said Seth cheerfully. I'll be an old bachelor-belike and make a fuss with thy children. They turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward, mentally repeating one of his favorite hymns. He was very fond of hymns. Dark and cheerless is the morn unaccompanied by thee. Joyless is the day's return till thy mercies beams I see. Till thou inward light, in part, glad my eyes and warm my heart. But then this soul of mine pierced the gloom of sin and grief. Fill me, radiancy divine, scatter all my unbelief. More and more of thy self-display shining to the perfect day. Adam walked much faster, and anyone coming along the oak-born road at sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tall, broad-chested man striding along with a carriage as upright and firm as any soldier's, glancing with keen, glad eyes at the dark blue hills as they began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam's life had his face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning, and this freedom from care, as as usual with constructive, practical minds like his, made him all the more observant of the objects round him, and all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his own favorite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love, the knowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hedy, who was soon to be his, was to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was to his sensations. It gave him a consciousness of well-being that made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of more intense feeling toward her, which chased away other images than Hedy, and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness that all this happiness was given to him, that this life of ours had such sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the other. But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would come back with the greatest vigor, and this morning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country gentleman if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in his own district. It seemed a very short walk the ten miles to Oakborne, that pretty town within sight of the Blue Hills where he breakfasted. After this the country grew barra and barra, no more rolling woods, no more wide branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedge-froes, but gray stone walls intersecting the meager pastures and dismal wide-scattered gray stone houses on broken lands where mines had been and were no longer. A hungry land, said Adam to himself, I'd rather go southward where they say it's as flat as a table than to come to live here, though if Diana likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfort to folks, she's in the right way to live on this side, for she must look as if she'd come straight from heaven like the angels in the desert to strengthen them as has got nothing to eat. And when at last he came inside of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was fellow to the country, though the stream through the valley where the great hill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town lay grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to find Diana. It was at a thatch cottage outside the town, a little away from the mill, an old cottage standing sideways toward the road with a little bit of potato ground before it. Here Diana lodged with an elderly couple, and if she and Heady happened to be out, Adam could learn where they were gone and when they would be at home again. Diana might be out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Heady at home. Adam could not help hoping this as he recognized the cottage by the roadside before him. He was shone out in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the expectation of a near joy. He hurried his step along the narrow causeway and wrapped at the door. It was opened by a very clean old woman with a slow, palsy shake of the head. "'Is Diana Maris at home?' said Adam. "'Aye, no,' said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger with a wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "'Were you pleased to come in?' she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself. "'Why, yea, brother, to the young man has come before, aren't ye?' "'Yes,' said Adam, entering. "'That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam. He told me to give his respects to you and to your good master. "'Aye, the same to him, he was a gracious young man, and he featured him only year darker. "'Sit ye down, the armchair. My man isn't to come home from meeting.' Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman with questions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in one corner, for he thought it was possible Hedy might have heard his voice and would come down them. "'So ye'll come to see Diana Maris,' said the old woman, standing opposite to him, and ye didn't know she was away from home then.' "'No,' said Adam, but I thought it likely she might be away seeing as it's Sunday. But the other young woman, is she at home, or gone along with Diana?' The old woman looked at Adam with the bewildered air. "'Gone along with her,' she said. "'Ah, Diana's gone to Leeds, a big town ye may hear it on, where there's many of the Lord's people. She's been gone since Friday was a fortnight. They sent her the money for her journey. You may see her room here,' she went on, opening a door, and not noticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance into the little room, with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the large Bible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He could not speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty. An undefined fear had seized him. Something had happened to Hetty on the journey. Still the old woman was so slow of speech and apprehension that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all. "'It's a pity ye didn't know,' she said. "'Have ye come from your own country of purpose to see her?' "'Hetty, Hetty Sorrell,' said Adam abruptly. "'Where is she?' "'I know nobody by that name,' said the old woman, wonderingly. "'Is it anybody you've heard on at Snowfield?' "'Did there come no young woman here, very young and pretty? Friday was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?' "'Nay, I see no young woman.' "'Think, are ye quite sure a girl eighteen years old with dark eyes and curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? You couldn't forget her if you saw her.' "'Nay, Friday was a fortnight. It was the day as Dinah went away. There come nobody. There's never been nobody asking for her till you come. For the folks about know as she's gone. Oh, dear, oh, dear, is there some at the matter?' The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But he was not stunned or confounded. He was thinking eagerly where he could inquire about Hetty. "'Yes. A young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something has happened to her. I can't stop. Good-bye.'" He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at the place where the oak-born coach stopped. "'No, no young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No, and there was no coach to take him back to oak-born that day? Well, he would walk. He couldn't stay here and wretched in action. But the innkeeper seen that Adam was in great anxiety and entering into this new incident with the eagerness of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pockets, looking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back to oak-born in his own taxed cart this very evening. It was not five o'clock there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to get to oak-born before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he really wanted to go to oak-born and might as well go to oak-born tonight. He should have all Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in his pocket and drinking a draft of ale, declared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage it occurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman where Dinah was to be found in Leeds. If there was trouble at the Hall Farm, he only half admitted the foreboding that there would be, the poises Mike liked to send for Dinah. Dinah had not left any address, and the old woman whose memory for names was infirm could not recall the name of the blessed woman who was Dinah's chief friend in the society at Leeds. During that long, long journey in the taxed cart there was time for all the conjectures of unfortunate fear and struggling hope. In the very first shock of discovering that Hedy had not been to Snowfield the thought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but he tried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with modes of accounting for the alarming fact quite apart from that intolerable thought. Some accident had happened. Hedy had, by some strange chance, got into the wrong vehicle from oak-born. She had been taken ill and did not want to frighten them by letting them know. This frail fence of vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct agonizing fears. Hedy had been deceiving herself in thinking that she could love and marry him. She had been loving Arthur all the while, and now in her desperation at the nearness of their marriage she had run away, and she was gone to him. The old indignation and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing falsely, had written to Hedy, had tempted her to come to him, being unwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besides himself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had given her directions how to follow him to Ireland, where Adam knew that Arthur had been gone through the three weeks ago, having recently learned it at the chase. Every sad look of Hedy's, since she had been engaged to Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thing hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while. Had thought that she could forget Arthur, had been momentarily drawn towards the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to blame her. She never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man, who had selfishly played with her heart, and perhaps even deliberately lured her away. At Oakbourne, the Osler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young woman as Adam described getting out of the Treadleston coach more than a fortnight ago, wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that in a hurry. We're sure she had gone on by the Buxton coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went away with the horses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight to the house from which the Stunnington coach started. Stunnington was the most obvious place for Hedy to go first, whatever might be the destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief coach roads. She had been noticed here too and was remembered to have sat on the box by the coachman. But the coachman could not be seen. For another man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three or four days. He could probably be seen at Stunnington through inquiry at the end where the coach put up. So the anxious, heart-stricken Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till morning, nay till eleven o'clock when the coach started. At Stunnington another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had driven Hedy would not be in town again till night. When he did come he remembered Hedy well and remembered his own joke addressed to her, quoting it many times to Adam and observing with equal frequency that he thought there was something more than common because Hedy had not laughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost sight of Hedy directly she got down. Part of the next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from which a coach started, all in vain, for you know Hedy did not start from Stunnington by coach but on foot in the gray morning. And then in walking out to the first toll gates on the different lines of road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there, no she was not to be traced any farther, and the next hard task for Adam was to go home and carry the wretched tidings to the hall farm. As to what he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions amidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within him while he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of Arthur Darnathon's behavior to Hedy till there was a clear necessity for it. It was still possible Hedy might come back, and the disclosure might be an inquiry or an offense to her. And as soon as he had been home and done what was necessary there to prepare his further absence, he would start off to Ireland. If he found no trace of Hedy on the road he would go straight to Arthur Darnathon and make himself certain how far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thought occurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwin. But that thought would be useless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seemed strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind about Hedy, should never have alighted on the probability that she had gone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the reason was that he could not conceive Hedy's throwing herself on Arthur uncalled. He imagined no cause that could have driven her to such a step after that letter written in August. There were but two alternatives in his mind. Either Arthur had written to her again and enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriage with himself because she found, after all, she could not love him well enough, and yet was afraid of her friend's anger if she retracted. With this last determination on his mind of going straight to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved to be almost useless was torturing to Adam, and yet since he would not tell the poisers his conviction as to where Hedy was gone, or his intention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that he had traced her as far as possible. It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached Treadleston, and unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth and also to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself without undressing on a bed at the wagon overthrown, and slept hard from pure weariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five o'clock he set out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept a key at the workshop door in his pocket so that he could let himself in, and he wished to enter without awakening his mother, for he was anxious to avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and asking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gently along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door. But, as expected, Jip, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided when he saw Adam holding up his finger to him to impose silence, and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his body against his master's legs. Adam was too heartsick to take notice of Jip's fondling. He threw himself on the bench, and stared dully at the wood and the signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in them again. While Jip dimly aware that there was something wrong with his master, laid his rough gray head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his brows to look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constantly among strange people and in strange places, having no associations with the details of his daily life, and now that by the light of this new morning he was come back to his home and surrounded by the familiar objects that seemed forever robbed of their charm, the reality, the hard, inevitable reality, of his troubles pressed upon him with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for Hedy's use, when his home should be hers. Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been aroused by Jip's bark, and Adam heard him moving in the room above, dressing himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother. He would come home today, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly by tomorrow. But it was pleasant to think that he had had a longer holiday than he had expected. And would Dina come, too? Seth felt that that was the greatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, although he had no hope left that she would ever love him well enough to marry him. But he had often said to himself it was better to be Dina's friend and brother than any other woman's husband if he could but be always near her instead of living so far off. He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitchen to the workshop, intending to let out Jip. But he stood still in the doorway, smitten with the sudden shock at the sight of Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant what the marks meant, not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up at him without speaking, and Seth moved forwards toward the bench, himself trembling so that speech did not come readily. God of mercy on us, Adi, he said in a low voice, sitting down on the bench beside Adam. What is it? He was unable to speak. The strong man accustomed to suppress the signs of sorrow had felt his heart swell like a child's at this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed. Seth was prepared for the worst now, for even in his recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before. Is it death, Adam? Is she dead? He asked, in a low tone, when Adam raised his head and was recovering himself. No, lad, but she's gone, gone away from us. She's never been to Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was a fortnight. The very day, had he set out. I can't find out where she went after she got to Stoninton. Seth was silent from utter astonishment. He knew nothing that could suggest to him a reason for headies going away. Has she any notion what she's done it for, he said at last? She kind of loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it came nigh. That must be it, said Adam. He had determined to mention no further reason. I hear mother stirring, said Seth. Must we tell her? No, not yet, said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair from his face as if he wanted to rouse himself. I can't have her told yet, and I must set out on another journey directly after I've been to the village and the Hall of Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, and they must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody is to know anything about. I'll go and wash myself now. Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and meeting Seth's eyes with a calm, sad glance, he said. I must take all the money out of the tin box, lad, but if anything happens to me, all the rest will be thine to take care of mother with. Seth was pale and trembling. He felt there was some terrible secret under all this. Brother, he said faintly. He never called Adam brother except in solemn moments. I don't believe you'll do anything as you can ask God's blessing on. No, lad, said Adam. Don't be afraid. I'm fordoing not but what's a man's duty. The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would only distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half of irrepressible triumph that had he proved as unfit to be his wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of his abitual firmness and self-command. He had felt ill on his journey home, he told her when she came down, had stayed all night at Treadleston for that reason, and a bad headache that still hung about him this morning accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes. He determined to go to the village in the first place, attend to his business for an hour, and give notice to burge of his being obliged to go on a journey which he must beg him not to mention to anyone, for he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast time, when the children and servants would be in the house-place, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about his having returned without heady. He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard at the village and set off through the fields towards the farm. It was an immense relief to him as he came near the home close to see Mr. Poiser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going to the house. Mr. Poiser was walking briskly this March morning with a sense of spring business on his mind. He was going to cast the master's eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse carrying his spud as a useful companion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil. Why, Adam lads, chew, have you been all this time away and not brought the lasses back after all? Where are they? No, I have not brought him, said Adam, turning round to indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poiser. Why, said Martin, looking with sharp attention at Adam, he looked bad. Is there anything happened? Yes, said Adam heavily. The sad things happened. I didn't find Hedy at Snowfield. Mr. Poiser's good-natured face shows signs of trouble dishonestment. Not find her. What's happened to her? He said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident. That I can't tell whether anything's happened to her. She never went to Snowfield. She took a coach to Stoneington, but I can't learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoneington coach. Why, you don't mean she's run away, said Martin, standing still so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make it so felt as a trouble by him. She must have done, said Adam. She didn't like our marriage when it came to the point. That must be it. She mistook her feelings. Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting up the grass with his spud without knowing what he was doing. His usual slowness was always troubled when the subject of speech was painful. At last he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, then she didn't deserve to have ye, my lad. And I feel if fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was always hot for her marrying ye. There's no amends I can make ye, lad. The more's the pity. It's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt. Adam could say nothing, and Mr. Poiser, after pursuing his walk for a little while, went on. I'll be bound she's gone after trying to get a lady maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago and wanted me to give my consent. But I'd thought better on her, he added, shaking his head slowly and sadly. I thought better on her not to look for this after she giny ye her word, and everything's been got ready. Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr. Poiser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to Arthur. It was better it should be so, he said, as quietly as he could, if she felt she couldn't like me for a husband, better run away before than repent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back as she may do if she finds it hard to get on away from home. I cannot look on her as I've done before, said Martin decisively. She's acted bad by you and by all of us. But I'll not turn my back on her. She's but a youngin, and it's the first harm I've known on her. It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why didn't Dina come back with ye? She'd have helped to pacify her aunt a bit. Dina was in that snow field. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and I couldn't learn from the old woman any direction where she is at Leeds. Else I should have brought it to you. She's a deal better staying with her own kin, said Mr. Poiser indignantly, than going preaching among strange folks of thaton. I must leave you now, Mr. Poiser, said Adam, for I've a deal to see to. I—you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the Mrs. when I go home. It's a hard job. But said Adam, I beg in particular. You'll keep what's happened quiet for a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's no knowing how things may turn out. I—I—at least said soon as mended. We'd no need to say where the matches broke off, and we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands with me, lad. I wish I could make the amends. There was something in Martin Poiser's throat at that moment which caused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken fashion, yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the two honest men grasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding. There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Seth to go to the chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that Adam Beed had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journey, and to say as much and no more to anyone else who made inquiries about him. If the Poisers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew that they were in fur that he was gone in search of Hedy. He had intended to go right on his way from Hall Farm, but now the impulse which had frequently visited him before to go to Mr. Irwin and make a confidant of him recurred with a new force which belongs to the last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey, a difficult one by sea, and no soul would know where he was gone. If anything happened to him, or if he absolutely needed help in any matter concerning Hedy, Mr. Irwin was to be trusted, and the feeling which made Adam shrink from telling anything which was her secret must give way before the need there was that she should have someone else besides himself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity. Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hedy's interest called on him to speak. I must do it, said Adam, when these thoughts which had spread themselves through hours of his sad journeying now rushed upon him in an instant like a wave that had been slowly gathering. It's the right thing. I can't stand alone in this way any longer. CHAPTER 39 Adam turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest stride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwin might be gone out hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of strong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he saw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel. But the hooves were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though there was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwin's. It had evidently had a journey this morning and must belong to someone who had come on business. Mr. Irwin was at home then. But Adam could hardly find breath and calmness to tell Carol that he wanted to speak to the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had begun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him, wonderingly, as he threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the clock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said, but he heard the study door open. The stranger seemed to be coming out. And as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at once. Adam sat looking at the clock. The minute hand was hurrying along the last five minutes to 10 with a loud, hard, indifferent tick. And Adam watched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some reason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering, there are almost always these pauses, when our consciousness is benumb to everything but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiosy came to give us rest from the memory and the dread which refused to leave us in our sleep. Carol, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He was to go into the study immediately. I can't think what that strange person's come about, the butler added, from mere incontinence of remark as he proceeded Adam to the door. He's gone in the dining room, and master looks unaccountable as if he was frightened. Adam took no notice of the words. He could not care about other people's business, but when he entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwin's face, he felt in an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely different from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open on the table, and Mr. Irwin's hand was on it, but the changed glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation with some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him. You want to speak to me, Adam, he said, in that low constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation. Sit down here. He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr. Irwin's gave an additional unexpected difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperative reasons. I come to you, sir, he said, as the gentleman I look up to most of anybody. I've something very painful to tell you, something as it'll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak of the wrong other people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till I'd good reason. Mr. Irwin nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously. You was to have married me and Hetty's soul, you know, sir, or the fifteenth of this month. I thought she loved me, and I was the happiest man near the parish, but a dreadful blows come upon me. Mr. Irwin started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out. She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was going to Snowfield on Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday to fetch her back, but she'd never been there, and she took the coach to Stonerton, and beyond that I can't trace her, but now I'm going a long journey to look for her, and I can't trust anybody but you where I'm going. Mr. Irwin came back from the window and sat down. Have you no idea of the reason why she went away, he said? It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir, said Adam. She didn't like it when it came so near, but that isn't all, I doubt. There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody else concerned besides me. A gleam of something, it was almost like relief or joy, came across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwin's face at that moment. Adam was looking on the ground and paused a little. The next words were hard to speak, but when he went on he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. Irwin. He would do the thing he had resolved to do without flinching. You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend, he said, and used to be proud to think as I should pass my life in working for him and had felt so ever since we were lads? Mr. Irwin, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm which lay on the table and clutching it tightly like a man in pain, said with pale lips and a low hurried voice, no, Adam, no. Don't say it for God's sake. Adam surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwin's feeling, repented of the words that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwin threw himself back in his chair, saying, go on, I must know it. That man played with Hetty's feelings and behaved to her as he'd no right to do to a girl in her station alive, made her presence unused to go and meet her out of walking. I found it out only two days before he went away, found him a kissing her as they were parting in the grove. There'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I'd loved her for a long while and she knew it, but I reproached him with his wrong actions and words and blows passed between us, and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no more than a bit of flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty he'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and I thought she'd be like go on thinking of him and never come to love another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter and she seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected, and she behaved kinder and kinder to me. I daresay she didn't know her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too late. I don't want to blame her. I can't think as she meant to deceive me, but I was encouraged to think she loved me. And you know the rest, sir, but it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and ticed her away, and she's gone to him, and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to work again till I know what's become of her. During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwin had had time to recover his self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him. It was a bit of a remembrance to him now, that morning when Arthur breakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess, and if their words had taken another turn, if he himself had been less fastidious about intruding on another man's secrets, it was cruel to think how thinner film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which the present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon his presence was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man who sat before him, already so bruised going forth with sad, blind residedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was close upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes over us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he must inflict on Adam was already present to him. Then he put his hand on the arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said solemnly, Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You conveyor sorrow manfully as well as act manfully. God requires both tasks at your hands. But there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than any you have yet known. But you are not guilty. You have not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who has. The two pale faces looked at each other. In Adam's there was trembling suspense. In Mr. Irwin's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on, I have had news of Hetty this morning. She has not gone to him. She is in Stonyshire at Stonerton. Adam started up from his chair as if he thought he could have leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwin laid hold of his arm again and said persuasively, Wait, Adam, wait! So he sat down. She is in a very unhappy position, one which will make it worse for you to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her forever. Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again and he whispered, Tell me. She has been arrested. She is in prison. It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his face and he said loudly and sharply, For what? For a great crime, the murder of her child. It can't be, Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair and making a stride towards the door. But he turned round again, setting his back against the bookcase and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwin. It isn't possible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. Who says it? God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is. But who says she is guilty, said Adam violently? Tell me everything. Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken and the constable who arrested her is in the dining room. She will not confess her name or where she comes from, but I fear, I fear there can be no doubt it is Hettie. The description of her person corresponds only that she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red leather pocketbook in her pocket with two names written in it, one at the beginning, Hettie Sorrell, Heyslope, and the other near the end, Dinah Morris Snowfield. She will not say which is her own name. She denies everything and will answer no questions, and application has been made to me as a magistrate that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own name. But what proof have they got against her if it is Hettie, said Adam, still violently with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame? I'll not believe it. Couldn't have been. And none of us know it. Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime, but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and read that letter, Adam. Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Erwin, meanwhile, went out to give some orders. When he came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page. He couldn't read. He could not put the words together and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last and clenched his fist. It's his doing, he said. If there's been any crime, it's at his door, not at hers. He taught her to deceive. He deceived me first. Let him put him on his trial. Let him stand in court beside her and I'll tell him how he got hold of her heart and ties her to evil. And then lied to me. Is he to go free while they lay all the punishment on her so weak and young? The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor Adam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again in a tone of appealing anguish. I can't bear it. Oh God, it's too hard to lay upon me. It's too hard to think she's wicked. Mr. Erwin had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter soothing words at present and indeed the sight of Adam before him with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in moments of terrible emotion, the hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow, the sight of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two. In that short space he was living through all his love again. She can't have done it, he said, still without moving his eyes as if he were only talking to himself. It was fear made her hide it. I forgive her for deceiving me. I forgive the hetty. The was deceived too. It's gone hard with thee, my poor hetty, but they'll never make me believe it. He was silent again for a few moments and then he said with fierce abruptness, I'll go to him, I'll bring him back. I'll make him go and look at her in her misery. He shall look at her till he can't forget it. It shall follow him night and day. As long as he lives it shall follow him. He shard escape, we're lies this time. I'll fetch him, I'll drag him myself. In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was present with him. Mr. Irwin had followed him and now took him by the arm saying in a quiet but decided tone, no Adam, no. I'm sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be done for her instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall without your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his way home or would be long before you arrived for his grandfather I know wrote for him to come at least 10 days ago. I want you now to go with me to Stonerton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us as soon as you can compose yourself. While Mr. Irwin was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his furrow and listened. Remember, Mr. Irwin went on, there are others to think of and act for besides yourself, Adam. There are Hettie's friends, the good poises on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to think. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam, from your sense of duty to God and man that you will try to act as long as action can be of any use. In reality, Mr. Irwin proposed this journey to Stonerton for Adam's own sake. Movement with some object before him was the best means of counteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours. You will go with me to Stonerton, Adam, he said again after a moment's pause. We have to see if it is really Hettie who is there, you know. Yes, sir, said Adam, I'll do what you think right, but the folks at the whole farm? I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shall have ascertained things then, which I am uncertain about now, and I shall return as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready. End of chapter 39, recording by Tony Ashworth, Brisbane. Chapter 40 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. Adam Bede by George Elliott. Chapter 40, The Bitter Waters Spread. Mr. Irwin returned from Stonerton in a post-shaze that night, and the first words Carol said to him as he entered the house were that Squire Donothorn was dead, found dead in his bed at 10 o'clock that morning, and that Mrs. Irwin desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. Irwin came home, and she begged him not to go to bed without seeing her. Well, Dofan, Mrs. Irwin said, as her son entered her room, you'll come at last, so the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits which made him send for Arthur in that sudden way really meant something. I suppose Carol has told you that Donothorn was found dead in his bed this morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, though I dare say I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death. What have they done about Arthur, said Mr. Irwin, sent a messenger to await him at Liverpool? Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at the chase, and making good times on the estate like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happy as a king now. Mr. Irwin could not help giving a slight groan. He was worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almost intolerable. What are you so dismal about, Dofan? Is there any bad news, or are you thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful Irish Channel at this time of year? No, mother, I'm not thinking of that, but I'm not prepared to rejoice just now. You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stoniton about. What in the world is it that you can't tell me? You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell you at present. Good night, you'll sleep now, or you have no longer anything to listen for. Mr. Irwin gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return. The news of his grandfather's death would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go to bed now and get some needful rest before the time came for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and to Adam's home. Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton. For though he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again. It's no use, sir, he said to the rector. It's no use for me to go back. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I couldn't bear the sight of the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a room here where I can see the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get in time to bear seeing her. Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwin feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from him the facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwin had parting only said, if the evidence should tell too strongly against her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other circumstances will be a plea for her. Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into the wrong ways, said Adam, with bitter earnestness. It's right they should know it was a fine gentleman made love to her and turned her head with notions. You'll remember, sir, you've promised to tell my mother and Seth and the people at the farm who it was has led her wrong, else they will think harder of her than she deserves. You will be doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God that her had done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose him. I think your demand is just, Adam, said Mr. Irwin, that when you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in other hands than ours. Mr. Irwin felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur's sad part in the story of sin and sorrow. He who cared for Arthur with fatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart from Adam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mind to withhold nothing from the poisers but to tell them the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the tidings of their suddenness. Hetty's trial must come on at the length of sizes, and they were to be held at Stonerton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poiser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was better he should know everything as long beforehand as possible. Before 10 o'clock on Thursday morning, the home at the Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. The sense of family dishonor was too keen even in the kind-hearted Martin Poiser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished character, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head and paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish register. And Hetty had brought disgrace on them all, disgrace that could never be wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both the father and son, the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralized all other sensibility. And Mr. Owen was struck with surprise to observe that Mrs. Poiser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions. The reason is that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditional impressions. I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her off, said Martin the younger, when Mr. Owen was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite chair. But I'll not go nigh her, nor ever see her again by my own will. She's made our bread bitter to us for all our lives to come, and we shall never hold up our heads if this parish nor in any other. The parson talks of folks pitying us. It's poor amends, pity will make us. Pity, said the grandfather sharply, I ne'er wanted folks as pity in my life before, and I'm unbeginned to be looked down on now, and me turn 72 last St. Thomas's. And all the underbearers and pallbearers, as I'm picked for my funeral, are in this parish and the next to it. It's of no use now, I'm unbetened to the grave by strangers. Don't fret so far, said Mrs. Poiser, who had spoken very little, being almost over-awed by her husband's unusual hardness and decision. You'll have your children with you, and there's the lads, and the little one will grow up in a new parish as well as the olden. Ah, there's no stain in this country for us now, said Mr. Poiser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. We thought it would be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this lady-day, but I must keep notice myself now, and see if there can be anybody begot to come and take to the crops, as I'm put here the ground, for I want to stay upon that man's land a day longer, nor I'm forced to it. And me has thought him such a good, upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to be our landlord. I'll now lift my hat to him again, nor sit here the same church with him. A man has brought shame on respectable folks, and pretended to be such a friend to everybody. Poor Adam there, a fine friend he's been to Adam, making speeches and talking so fine. And all the while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay in this country any more than we can. And you to her go into court, and own your egg in to her, said the old man, why they'll cast it up to the little one, as isn't four-year-old someday, they'll cast it up to her as she'd a cousin tried at the sizes for murder. It'll be their own wickedness then, said Mrs. Poiser, with a sob in her voice, but there's one above will take care of the innocent child. Else it's but little truth they tell us at church. It'll be harder nor ever to die and leave the little ones, and nobody to be a mother to them. We'd better have sent for diner if we'd known where she is, said Mr. Poiser, but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be at Leeds. Why she'd be with that woman as was a friend to her Aunt Judith, said Mrs. Poiser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husband. I've often heard diner talk of her, but I can't remember what name she called her by. But there's Seth Bede, he's like enough to know for she's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on. I'll send to Seth, said Mr. Poiser. I'll send Alec to tell him to come, or else to send up word of the woman's name, and thee can stride a letter ready to send off to Treadlson as soon as we can make out a direction. It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you in trouble, said Mrs. Poiser. Happen it'll be ever so long on the road and never reach her at last. Before Alec arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had already flown to diner, and she had said to Seth, hey, there's no comfort for us in this world anymore where out thee could get diner Morris to come to us as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to come in and take me by the hand again and talk to me. She'd tell me the rights on't be like. She'd happen to know some good, all this trouble and heartbreak coming upon that poor lad as near done a bit of wrong in slife, but were better nor anybody else's son pick the country round. Amen, lad, Adam, my poor lad. thee wouldst not like me to leave thee to go and fetch diner, said Seth as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro. Fetch her, said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief like a crying child who hears some promise of consolation. Why, what place is it she's at, do they say? It's a good way off, mother, Leeds, a big town, but I could be back in three days if thee could spare me. Nay, nay, I cannot spare thee. thee must go and see thy brother and bring me word what he's are doing. Mr. Irwin said he'd come and tell me, but I cannot make out so well what it means when he tells me. thee must go thy sin, since Adam want us let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah Kansner. thee'd fond enough o' writing when nobody wants thee. I'm not sure where she'd be in that big town, said Seth. If I'd gone myself, I could have found out by asking the members of the society, but perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher Leeds, or the outside, it might get to her, for most like she'd be with Sarah Williamson. Alec came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poiser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself, but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address of the letter and warn them that there might be some delay in the delivery from his not knowing an exact direction. On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwin had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also acclaimed to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away from business for some time. And before six o'clock that evening, there were few people in Brockston and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwin had not mentioned Arthur's name to Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his grandfather was dead and that he was come into the estate. For Martin Poiser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbors who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his trouble, and Carol, who kept his ears open to all that past at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story and found early opportunities of communicating it. One of those neighbors who came to Martin Poiser and shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about half past seven in the evening, and sending his duty to Mr. Irwin, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into the study where Mr. Irwin soon joined him. Well, Bartle, said Mr. Irwin, putting out his hand. That was not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. Sit down. You know what I'm come about, as well as I do, sir, I daresay, said Bartle. You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you about Hetty Sorrel. No, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at Stonerton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what's the state of the poor lad's mind and what he means to do. For as for that bit of pink and white they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't value her a rotten nut, not a rotten nut, only for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest man. A lad I've set such store by, trusted to that he'd make my bitter knowledge go a good way in the world. Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid country that ever had the will or the headpiece for mathematics. If he hadn't had so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher branches. And then this might never have happened, might never have happened. Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes also. You'll excuse me, sir, he said, when this pause had given him time to reflect, for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself, if you'll take the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's doing. Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle, said Mr Irwin. The fact is, I'm very much in the same condition as you just now. I have a great deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stonerton till after the trial. It will come on probably a week tomorrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better he should be away from his own home at present. And poor fellow, he still believes that he is innocent. He wants to summon up courage to see her if he can. He is unwilling to leave the spot where she is. Do you think the creeders guilty then, said Bartle? Do you think they'll hang her? I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong, and one bad symptom is that she denies everything, denies that she has had a child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately silent to me. She shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as at the change in her, but I trust that in the worst case we may obtain a pardon for the sake of the innocent who are involved. Stuff and nonsense, said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was speaking. I beg your pardon, sir. I mean it's stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such women are put out of the world the better, and the men that helped them to do mischief had better go along with them for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the vital that had feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to care about it, I don't want him to suffer more than's needful. Is he very much cut up, or fellow? Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and putting them on as if they would assist his imagination. Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep, said Mr Irwin. He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stonerton again tomorrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of Adam's principle to trust that he will be able to endure the worst without being driven to anything rash. Mr Irwin, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance towards Arthur, which was the form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward to Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr Irwin was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm. I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir, he said, and I hope you'll approve of it. I'm going to shut up my school. If the scholars come, they must go back again, that's all, and I shall go to Stonerton and look after Adam till this business is over. I'll pretend I'm come to look on at the assizes. He can't object to that. What do you think about it, sir? Well, sir, Mr Irwin, rather hesitatingly, there would be some real advantages in that, and I honor you for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I'm afraid you have too little fellow feeling and what you consider his weakness about Hetty. Trust me, sir, trust me. I know what you mean. I've been a fool myself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shall not thrust myself on him or only keep my eye on him and see that he gets some good food and put in a word here and there. Then, sir, Mr Irwin, reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion. I think you'll be doing a good deed, and it will be well for you to let Adam's mother and brother know that you're going. Yes, sir, yes, said Bartle, rising and taking off his spectacles. I'll do that, I'll do that. Though the mother's a whimpering thing, I don't like to come within earshot of her. However, she's a straight-backed clean woman, none of your slattens. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spared me. You're everybody's friend in this business, everybody's friend. It's a heavy weight you've got on your shoulders. Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stonerton, as I dare say we shall. Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carol's conversational advances and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, Now I shall be obliged to take you with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You'd go fretting yourself to death if I left you, you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by some tramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting your nose in every hole and corner where you've no business. But if you do anything disgraceful, I'll disown you. Mind that, madam, mind that. End of Chapter 40, Recording by Tony Ashworth, Brisbane. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the dark wall opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled with the light of the one-dip candle by which Bartle Massey is pretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles at Adam Bede, seated near the dark window. You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face has got thinner this last week. He has the sunken eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from a sick bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his forehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at his clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door. There he is, said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the door. It was Mr. Irwin. Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwin approached him and took his hand. I'm late, Adam, he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placed for him. But I was later in setting off from Brockston than I intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I have arrived. I have done everything now, however. Everything that can be done tonight, at least. Let us all sit down. Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background. Have you seen her, sir? Asked Adam tremulously. Yes, Adam. I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening. Did you ask her, sir? Did you say anything about me? Yes, said Mr. Irwin with some hesitation. I spoke of you. I said you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented. As Mr. Irwin paused, Adam looked at him, with eager, questioning eyes. You know she shrinks from seeing anyone, Adam. It is not only you. Some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against her fellow creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than no, either to me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family whom she would like to see, to whom she could open her mind, she said with a violent shudder, tell them not to come near me. I won't see any of them. Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwin said, I don't like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you strongly to go and see her tomorrow morning, even without her consent. It is possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, that the interview might affect her favorably. But I grieve to say I have scarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned your name. She only said no in the same cold, obstinate way as usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless suffering to you. Severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed. Adam started up from his chair, and seized his hat which lay on the table. But he stood still then and looked at Mr. Irwin, as if he had a question to ask, which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key in the door, and put it in his pocket. Is he come back? said Adam at last. No, he is not, said Mr. Irwin quietly. Lay down your hat, Adam, unless you like to walk out with me for a little fresh air. I fear you have not been out again today. You needn't deceive me, sir, said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwin and speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. You needn't be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It's his work. She was a child, as it have gone to anybody's heart to look at it. I don't care what she's done. It was him brought her to it. And he shall know it. He shall feel it. If there's a God, he shall feel what it is have brought a child like her to sin. And misery. I'm not deceiving you, Adam, said Mr. Irwin. Arthur Donothorn is not come back, was not come back when I left. I have left a letter for him. He will know all as soon as he arrives. But you don't mind about it, said Adam indignantly. You think it doesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knows nothing about it. He suffers nothing. Adam, he will know. He will suffer long and bitterly. He has a heart and a conscience. I can't be entirely deceived in his character. I am convinced. I am sure he didn't fall under temptation without struggle. He may be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this will be a shock of which we will feel the effects all his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount of torture that you could inflict on him could benefit her. No, oh God, no, Adam groaned out, sinking on the chair again. But then that's the deepest curse of all. That's what makes the blackness of it. It can never be undone. My poor heady. She can never be my sweet heady again. The prettiest thing God had made, smiling up at me. I thought she loved me and was good. Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a horse undertone, as if he were only talking to himself. But now he said abruptly, looking at Mr. Irwin. But she isn't as guilty as they say. You don't think she is, sir? She can't have done it. That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam. Mr. Irwin answered gently. In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on what seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some smaller fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst. You have no right to say that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bear the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moral guilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes, even in determining who has committed a single criminal act. And the problem, how far a man is to be held responsible for the unseen consequences of his own deed, is one that might well surely make us tremble to look into it. The evil consequences that may life-fold it in a single act of selfish indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken some feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don't suppose I can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this state of revengeful hatred. But think of this. If you were to obey your passion, for it is passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it justice, it might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur. Nay, worse, your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible crime. No, not worse, said Adam bitterly. I don't believe it's worse. I'd sooner do it. I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself than it brought her to do wickedness, and then stand by and see him punish her while they let me alone, and all for a bit of pleasure, as if he'd had a man's heart in him. He'd have cut his hand off sooner than he had taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresaw enough. He'd know right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to smooth it off with lies. No, there's plenty of things folks are hanged for. Not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what he will. If he knows he's to bear the punishment himself. He isn't half so bad as a mean selfish coward makes things easy to himself and knows all the while the punishment will fall on somebody else. There and again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone. You can't isolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall not spread. Men's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other as the air they breathe. Evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know. I feel the terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others. But so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply be another evil added to those we are suffering under. You could not bear the punishment alone. You would entail the worst sorrows on everyone who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that would leave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils to them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions and as long as you indulge it as long as you do not see that to fix your mind on Arthur's punishment is revenge and not justice you are in danger of being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you told me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in the grove. Adam was silent. The last words had called up a vivid image of the past and Mr. Irwin left him to his thoughts. While he spoke to Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donothorn's funeral and other matters of an indifferent kind. But at length Adam turned round and said in a more subdued tone I've not asked about him at the Hall Farm, Sir. Is Mr. Poiser coming? He has come. He is in Stoniton tonight. But I could not advise him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state and it is best he should not see you till you are calmer. Is Dinah Morris come to him, Sir? Seth said they'd sent for her. No, Mr. Poiser tells me she was not come when he left. They're afraid the letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address. Adam sat ruminating a little while and then said I wonder if Dinah had gone to see her. But perhaps the Poisers would have been sorely against it since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think she would, for the Methodists are great folk for going into the prisons. And Seth said he thought she would. She's a very tender way with her, Dinah had. I wonder if she could have done any good. He never saw her, Sir, did you? Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her. She pleased me a good deal. And now you mention it. I wish she would come, for it is possible that a gentle, mild woman like her might move heady to open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather harsh in his manner. But it's in no use if she doesn't come, said Adam sadly. If I thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measure for finding her out, said Mr. Irwin. But it's too late now, I fear. Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest tonight. God bless you. I'll see you early tomorrow morning. End of Chapter 41