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 o' the world the better; and the men that help 'em to do mischief had better go along with 'em for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that 'ud 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, poor 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. Irwine. '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 Stoniton again to-morrow, 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. Irwine, 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 to-wards 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. Irwine 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 Stoniton 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,' said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, 'there would be some real advantages in that…and I honour 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 in what you consider his weakness about Hetty.'
'Trust to me, sir — trust to me. I know what you mean. I've been a fool myself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shan't thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and put in a word here and there.'
'Then,' said Mr. Irwine, 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 slatterns. 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 Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.'
Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll'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!'
Chapter XLI
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
