Chapter XLV
In the Prison
NEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with
his back against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail,
saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain
walked away, but the elderly gentleman stood still, looking down
on the pavement and stroking his chin with a ruminating air, when
he was roused by a sweet clear woman's voice, saying, "Can I get
into the prison, if you please?"
He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few
moments without answering.
"I have seen you before," he said at last. "Do you remember
preaching on the village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?"
"Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on
horseback?"
"Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?"
"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been
condemned to death--and to stay with her, if I may be permitted.
Have you power in the prison, sir?"
"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did
you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?"
"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser.
But I was away at Leeds, and didn't know of this great trouble in
time to get here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love
of our heavenly Father, to let me go to her and stay with her."
"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just
come from Leeds?"
"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to
his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech
you to get leave for me to be with her."
"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is
very sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to."
"Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don't let us
delay."
"Come, then," said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining
admission, "I know you have a key to unlock hearts."
Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they
were within the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing
them off when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and
when they entered the jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair
unthinkingly. There was no agitation visible in her, but a deep
concentrated calmness, as if, even when she was speaking, her soul
was in prayer reposing on an unseen support.
After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and
said, "The turnkey will take you to the prisoner's cell and leave
you there for the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a
light during the night--it is contrary to rules. My name is
Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, ask the jailer for
my address and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty
Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, Adam Bede. I happened
to see him at Hayslope the same evening I heard you preach, and
recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked."
"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me
where he lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with
trouble to remember."
"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He
lodges over a tinman's shop, in the street on the right hand as
you entered the prison. There is an old school-master with him.
Now, good-bye: I wish you success."
"Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you."
As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn
evening light seemed to make the walls higher than they were by
day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a
white flower on this background of gloom. The turnkey looked
askance at her all the while, but never spoke. He somehow felt
that the sound of his own rude voice would be grating just then.
He struck a light as they entered the dark corridor leading to the
condemned cell, and then said in his most civil tone, "It'll be
pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I can stop with my light
a bit, if you like."
"Nay, friend, thank you," said Dinah. "I wish to go in alone."
"As you like," said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock
and opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light
from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where
Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in her
knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of
the lock would have been likely to waken her.
The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of
the evening sky, through the small high grating--enough to discern
human faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to
speak because Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless
heap with a yearning heart. Then she said, softly, "Hetty!"
There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's frame--a start
such as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock--but
she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger
by irrepressible emotion, "Hetty...it's Dinah."
Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty's frame,
and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as
if listening.
"Hetty...Dinah is come to you."
After a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly
from her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were
looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the
other full of sad yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her
arms and stretched them out.
"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you
think I wouldn't come to you in trouble?"
Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's face--at first like an animal
that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.
"I'm come to be with you, Hetty--not to leave you--to stay with
you--to be your sister to the last."
Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward,
and was clasped in Dinah's arms.
They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse
to move apart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it,
hung on this something that was come to clasp her now, while she
was sinking helpless in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in
the first sign that her love was welcomed by the wretched lost
one. The light got fainter as they stood, and when at last they
sat down on the straw pallet together, their faces had become
indistinct.
Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous
word from Hetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only
clutching the hand that held hers and leaning her cheek against
Dinah's. It was the human contact she clung to, but she was not
the less sinking into the dark gulf.
Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that
sat beside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven
the poor sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as
she afterwards said, that she must not hurry God's work: we are
overhasty to speak--as if God did not manifest himself by our
silent feeling, and make his love felt through ours. She did not
know how long they sat in that way, but it got darker and darker,
till there was only a pale patch of light on the opposite wall:
all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divine presence more
and more--nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the
Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was willing the
rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak
and find out how far Hetty was conscious of the present.
"Hetty," she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by your
side?"
"Yes," Hetty answered slowly, "it's Dinah."
"And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm
together, and that night when I told you to be sure and think of
me as a friend in trouble?"
"Yes," said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, "But you can
do nothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. They'll hang
me o' Monday--it's Friday now."
As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah,
shuddering.
"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the
suffering less hard when you have somebody with you, that feels
for you--that you can speak to, and say what's in your
heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on me: you are glad to have me with
you."
"You won't leave me, Dinah? You'll keep close to me?"
"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the
last....But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides
me, some one close to you."
Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?"
"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and
trouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where
you went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds
you have tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't
follow you--when my arms can't reach you--when death has parted
us--He who is with us now, and knows all, will be with you then.
It makes no difference--whether we live or die, we are in the
presence of God."
"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me
for certain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live."
"My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it's
dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care of you after
death--in that other world--some one whose love is greater than
mine--who can do everything?...If God our Father was your friend,
and was willing to save you from sin and suffering, so as you
should neither know wicked feelings nor pain again? If you could
believe he loved you and would help you, as you believe I love you
and will help you, it wouldn't be so hard to die on Monday, would
it?"
"But I can't know anything about it," Hetty said, with sullen
sadness.
"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by
trying to hide the truth. God's love and mercy can overcome all
things--our ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our
past wickedness--all things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling
to, and will not give up. You believe in my love and pity for
you, Hetty, but if you had not let me come near you, if you
wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me, you'd have shut me out
from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel my love; I
couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God's love
out in that way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while
you have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't
reach you until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have done
this great wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.'
While you cling to one sin and will not part with it, it must drag
you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you to misery
here in this world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings
dread, and darkness, and despair: there is light and blessedness
for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our souls then, and
teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast it off now,
Hetty--now: confess the wickedness you have done--the sin you have
been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down
together, for we are in the presence of God."
Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still
held each other's hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah
said, "Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell
the truth."
Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of
beseeching--
"Dinah...help me...I can't feel anything like you...my heart is
hard."
Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her
voice:
"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all
sorrow: thou hast entered that black darkness where God is not,
and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather
of the fruits of thy travail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy
hand, thou who art mighty to save to the uttermost, and rescue
this lost one. She is clothed round with thick darkness. The
fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannot stir to come to
thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is helpless.
She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour! It is a blind cry
to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy
face of love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied
thee, and melt her hard heart.
"See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and
helpless, and thou didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and
carry her before thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her,
but she trembles only at the pain and death of the body. Breathe
upon her thy life-giving Spirit, and put a new fear within her--
the fear of her sin. Make her dread to keep the accursed thing
within her soul. Make her feel the presence of the living God,
who beholds all the past, to whom the darkness is as noonday; who
is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for her to turn to him, and
confess her sin, and cry for mercy--now, before the night of death
comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday
that returneth not.
"Saviour! It is yet time--time to snatch this poor soul from
everlasting darkness. I believe--I believe in thy infinite love.
What is my love or my pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can
only clasp her in my weak arms and urge her with my weak pity.
Thou--thou wilt breathe on the dead soul, and it shall arise from
the unanswering sleep of death.
"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like
the morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony
are upon thee--I see, I see thou art able and willing to save--
thou wilt not let her perish for ever. "Come, mighty Saviour!
Let the dead hear thy voice. Let the eyes of the blind be opened.
Let her see that God encompasses her. Let her tremble at nothing
but at the sin that cuts her off from him. Melt the hard heart.
Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her whole soul, 'Father,
I have sinned.'..."
"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck,
"I will speak...I will tell...I won't hide it any more."
But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently
from her knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by
her side. It was a long time before the convulsed throat was
quiet, and even then they sat some time in stillness and darkness,
holding each other's hands. At last Hetty whispered, "I did do
it, Dinah...I buried it in the wood...the little baby...and it
cried...I heard it cry...ever such a way off...all night...and I
went back because it cried."
She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone.
"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die--there might somebody find
it. I didn't kill it--I didn't kill it myself. I put it down
there and covered it up, and when I came back it was gone....It
was because I was so very miserable, Dinah...I didn't know where
to go...and I tried to kill myself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I
tried so to drown myself in the pool, and I couldn't. I went to
Windsor--I ran away--did you know? I went to find him, as he might
take care of me; and he was gone; and then I didn't know what to
do. I daredn't go back home again--I couldn't bear it. I
couldn't have bore to look at anybody, for they'd have scorned me.
I thought o' you sometimes, and thought I'd come to you, for I
didn't think you'd be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I
thought I could tell you. But then the other folks 'ud come to
know it at last, and I couldn't bear that. It was partly thinking
o' you made me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so
frightened at going wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and
had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the
farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah...I was so
miserable...I wished I'd never been born into this world. I
should never like to go into the green fields again--I hated 'em
so in my misery."
Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong
upon her for words.
"And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that
night, because I was so near home. And then the little baby was
born, when I didn't expect it; and the thought came into my mind
that I might get rid of it and go home again. The thought came
all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got stronger
and stronger...I longed so to go back again...I couldn't bear
being so lonely and coming to beg for want. And it gave me
strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I felt I must
do it...I didn't know how...I thought I'd find a pool, if I could,
like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And
when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do
anything...I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go
back home, and never let 'em know why I ran away I put on my
bonnet and shawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby
under my cloak; and I walked fast till I got into a street a good
way off, and there was a public, and I got some warm stuff to
drink and some bread. And I walked on and on, and I hardly felt
the ground I trod on; and it got lighter, for there came the moon--
oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it first looked at me out o' the
clouds--it never looked so before; and I turned out of the road
into the fields, for I was afraid o' meeting anybody with the moon
shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I could
lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut
into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable, and
the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a
good while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light,
and the baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off...I
thought there'd perhaps be a ditch or a pond there...and it was so
early I thought I could hide the child there, and get a long way
off before folks was up. And then I thought I'd go home--I'd get
rides in carts and go home and tell 'em I'd been to try and see
for a place, and couldn't get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I
longed so to be safe at home. I don't know how I felt about the
baby. I seemed to hate it--it was like a heavy weight hanging
round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I daredn't
look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, and
I walked about, but there was no water...."
Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she
began again, it was in a whisper.
"I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I
sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And
all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little
grave. And it darted into me like lightning--I'd lay the baby
there and cover it with the grass and the chips. I couldn't kill
it any other way. And I'd done it in a minute; and, oh, it cried
so, Dinah--I couldn't cover it quite up--I thought perhaps
somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and then it wouldn't die.
And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it crying all
the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I was
held fast--I couldn't go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I
sat against the haystack to watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very
hungry, and I'd only a bit of bread left, but I couldn't go away.
And after ever such a while--hours and hours--the man came--him in
a smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I
made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and
would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, till I came to
a village, a long way off from the wood, and I was very sick, and
faint, and hungry. I got something to eat there, and bought a
loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby crying, and
thought the other folks heard it too--and I went on. But I was so
tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the
roadside there was a barn--ever such a way off any house--like the
barn in Abbot's Close, and I thought I could go in there and hide
myself among the hay and straw, and nobody 'ud be likely to come.
I went in, and it was half full o' trusses of straw, and there was
some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where
nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to
sleep....But oh, the baby's crying kept waking me, and I thought
that man as looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I
must have slept a long while at last, though I didn't know, for
when I got up and went out of the barn, I didn't know whether it
was night or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting
lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I couldn't help it,
Dinah; it was the baby's crying made me go--and yet I was
frightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock 'ud
see me and know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all
that. I'd left off thinking about going home--it had gone out o'
my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I'd
buried the baby...I see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?"
Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed
long before she went on.
"I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood....I
knew the way to the place...the place against the nut-tree; and I
could hear it crying at every step....I thought it was alive....I
don't know whether I was frightened or glad...I don't know what I
felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't
know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I'd put
it there, I thought I should like somebody to find it and save it
from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone,
with fear. I never thought o' stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I
couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'ud know about the
baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or try for
anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, and
nothing 'ud ever change. But they came and took me away."
Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still
something behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that
tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a
sob, "Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the
place in the wood, now I've told everything?"
"Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and
pray to the God of all mercy."
