Chapter XLI
The Eve of the Trial
AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one
laid on the floor. 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. Irwine.
Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine
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 Broxton than
I intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I
arrived. I have done everything now, however--everything that can
be done to-night, 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?" said 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. Irwine, with some hesitation, "I spoke of you. I
said you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented."
As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning
eyes.
"You know she shrinks from seeing any one, 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. Irwine said, "I don't
like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now
urge you strongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even
without her consent. It is just possible, notwithstanding
appearances to the contrary, that the interview might affect her
favourably. 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. Irwine, 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. Irwine, 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 to-day."
"You needn't deceive me, sir," said Adam, looking hard at Mr.
Irwine 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 'ud ha' gone t'
anybody's heart to look at...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 just God, he shall feel what it is t' ha'
brought a child like her to sin and misery."
"I'm not deceiving you, Adam," said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur
Donnithorne 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 a struggle. He may be weak, but he is not
callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this will be a
shock of which he 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--O God, no," Adam groaned out, sinking on his 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 Hetty...she can
never be my sweet Hetty 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 hoarse undertone,
as if he were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly,
looking at Mr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You
don't think she is, sir? She can't ha' done it."
"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam," Mr. Irwine
answered gently. "In these cases we sometimes form our judgment
on what seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing
some small 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 unforeseen consequences of his own
deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The
evil consequences that may lie folded 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 ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand
by and see 'em punish her while they let me alone; and all for a
bit o' pleasure, as, if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd ha'
cut his hand off sooner than he'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't
foresee what's happened? He foresaw enough; he'd no right to
expect anything but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to
smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' 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 as makes things easy t'
himself and knows all the while the punishment 'll fall on
somebody else."
"There 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 every one
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. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to
Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne'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 'em at th'
Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?"
"He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. 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 'em, sir? Seth said they'd sent for
her."
"No. Mr. Poyser 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 'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha'
been sorely against it, since they won't come nigh her themselves.
But I think she would, for the Methodists are great folks for
going into the prisons; and Seth said he thought she would. She'd
a very tender way with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha'
done any good. You 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 Hetty to
open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather harsh in his manner."
"But it's o' no use if she doesn't come," said Adam sadly.
"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures
for finding her out," said Mr. Irwine, "but it's too late now, I
fear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night.
God bless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning."
