Chapter XLIII
The Verdict
THE place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old
hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the
close pavement of human heads was shed through a line of high
pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tints of old painted
glass. Grim dusty armour hung in high relief in front of the dark
oaken gallery at the farther end, and under the broad arch of the
great mullioned window opposite was spread a curtain of old
tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing
indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that through the
rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of old
kings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all
those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the
presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm
hearts.
But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt
hitherto, now when Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly seen being
ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight
of the great hall, among the sleek shaven faces of other men, the
marks of suffering in his face were startling even to Mr. Irwine,
who had last seen him in the dim light of his small room; and the
neighbours from Hayslope who were present, and who told Hetty
Sorrel's story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot
to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by
the head than most of the people round him, came into court and
took his place by her side.
But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position
Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed over each other and
her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the
first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was
withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face towards her with a
resolution not to shrink.
Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is
the likeness we see--it is the likeness, which makes itself felt
the more keenly because something else was and is not. There they
were--the sweet face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the
long dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting lips--pale and
thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she
looked as if some demon had cast a blighting glance upon her,
withered up the woman's soul in her, and left only a hard
despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that completest
type of the life in another life which is the essence of real
human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the
debased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking
culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under
the apple-tree boughs--she was that Hetty's corpse, which he had
trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn
away his eyes from.
But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and
made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the
witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct
voice. She said, "My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep
a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church
Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman
who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and
asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th of
February. She had taken the house for a public, because there was
a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't take in
lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to
go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And
her prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about
her clothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me
as I couldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked
her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she
was going, and where her friends were. She said she was going
home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, and
she'd had a long journey that had cost her more money than she
expected, so as she'd hardly any money left in her pocket, and was
afraid of going where it would cost her much. She had been
obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd
thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I
shouldn't take the young woman in for the night. I had only one
room, but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay
with me. I thought she'd been led wrong, and got into trouble,
but if she was going to her friends, it would be a good work to
keep her out of further harm."
The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and
she identified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in
which she had herself dressed the child.
"Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by
me ever since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble
both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the
little thing and being anxious about it. I didn't send for a
doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the day-
time she must tell me the name of her friends, and where they
lived, and let me write to them. She said, by and by she would
write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay, but she
would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say.
She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what
spirit she showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about
her, and towards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after Meeting
was over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house
about half-past eight o'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door,
but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only
got the ground-floor of the house, and the kitchen and bedroom
both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the
fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or
seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I thought she had
a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards
evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and
ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back
with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't
fasten the door behind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with
a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house I always
went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in
leaving it unfastened that little while. I was longer than I
meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman that came back with
me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we
went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but
the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak
and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I
was dreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't
go to give information, because I'd no thought she meant to do any
harm, and I knew she had money in her pocket to buy her food and
lodging. I didn't like to set the constable after her, for she'd
a right to go from me if she liked."
The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him
new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime--her heart must
have clung to her baby--else why should she have taken it with
her? She might have left it behind. The little creature had died
naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to
death--and there might be the strongest suspicions without any
proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied with imaginary arguments
against such suspicions, that he could not listen to the cross-
examination by Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to
elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of
maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this witness
was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no
word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next
witness's voice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave
a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned
away her head and looked down at her hands as before. This
witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said:
"My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's
Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one
o'clock in the afternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and
about a quarter of a mile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in
a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack not far off the
stile. She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she'd be
walking on the other way. It was a regular road through the
fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman there, but
I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I
should have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good
clothes. I thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business
of mine. I stood and looked back after her, but she went right on
while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the
coppice to look after some stakes. There's a road right through
it, and bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been
cut down, and some of 'em not carried away. I didn't go straight
along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a
shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got far
out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a
strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but
I wasn't for stopping to look about just then. But it went on,
and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn't help
stopping to look. I began to think I might make some money of it,
if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which way it
came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs.
And then I thought it came from the ground; and there was a lot of
timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a
trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find
nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up,
and I went on about my business. But when I came back the same
way pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down my
stakes to have another look. And just as I was stooping and
laying down the stakes, I saw something odd and round and whitish
lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the side of me. And I
stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw it was a
little baby's hand."
At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly
trembling; now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to
what a witness said.
"There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the
ground went hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out
from among them. But there was a hole left in one place and I
could see down it and see the child's head; and I made haste and
did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the child. It
had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I
thought it must be dead. I made haste back with it out of the
wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it was dead, and I'd
better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And I said,
'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to
the coppice.' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And
I took the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and
we went on to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the
young woman till dark at night, and we went and gave information
at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning,
another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot where I
found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner a-
sitting against the bush where I found the child; and she cried
out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd got a
big piece of bread on her lap."
Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was
speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the
boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of his
suffering: Hetty was guilty; and he was silently calling to God
for help. He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious
when the case for the prosecution had closed--unconscious that Mr.
Irwine was in the witness-box, telling of Hetty's unblemished
character in her own parish and of the virtuous habits in which
she had been brought up. This testimony could have no influence
on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy
which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to
speak for her--a favour not granted to criminals in those stern
times.
At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement
round him. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were
retiring. The decisive moment was not far off Adam felt a
shuddering horror that would not let him look at Hetty, but she
had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference. All eyes were
strained to look at her, but she stood like a statue of dull
despair.
'There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing
throughout the court during this interval. The desire to listen
was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to
express in undertones. Adam sat looking blankly before him, but
he did not see the objects that were right in front of his eyes--
the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool business,
and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the judge--did not
see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake his head
mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward action was
too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong
sensation roused him.
It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour,
before the knock which told that the jury had come to their
decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is
sublime--that sudden pause of a great multitude which tells that
one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the silence seemed
to become, like the deepening night, while the jurymen's names
were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her hand,
and the jury were asked for their verdict.
"Guilty."
It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of
disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no
recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not
with the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the
more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate
silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to
move her, but those who were near saw her trembling.
The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black
cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him.
Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command
silence. If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of
beating hearts. The judge spoke, "Hester Sorrel...."
The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she
looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him,
as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her,
there was a deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at
the words "and then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead," a
piercing shriek rang through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek.
Adam started to his feet and stretched out his arms towards her.
But the arms could not reach her: she had fallen down in a
fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.
