by George Eliot
AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one laidon the floor. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the dark wallopposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggledwith the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey ispretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles atAdam Bede, seated near the dark window.
You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face hasgot thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected beardof a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over hisforehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him topush it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has onearm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at hisclasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door.
"There he is," said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening thedoor. It was Mr. Irwine.
Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwineapproached him and took his hand.
"I'm late, Adam," he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placedfor him, "but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I intendedto be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I have doneeverything 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 wasno 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 saidyou 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 onlyyou--some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against herfellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than 'No' eitherto me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentionedto her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family whom shewould like to see--to whom she could open her mind--she said, with aviolent shudder, 'Tell them not to come near me--I won't see any ofthem.'"
Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There wassilence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, "I don't liketo advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge youstrongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without her consent.It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, thatthe interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I havescarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentionedyour 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, uselesssuffering to you--severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed..."
Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on thetable. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had aquestion to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rosequietly, 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 youhave not been out again to-day."
"You needn't deceive me, sir," said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine andspeaking 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 hiswork...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybody's heart to lookat...I don't care what she's done...it was him brought her to it. And heshall know it...he shall feel it...if there's a just God, he shall feelwhat it is t' ha' brought a child like her to sin and misery."
"I'm not deceiving you, Adam," said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur Donnithorne isnot come back--was not come back when I left. I have left a letter forhim: he will know all as soon as he arrives."
"But you don't mind about it," said Adam indignantly. "You think itdoesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knowsnothing about it--he suffers nothing."
"Adam, he WILL know--he WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heartand a conscience: I can't be entirely deceived in his character. I amconvinced--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 ampersuaded that this will be a shock of which he will feel the effectsall his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount oftorture that you could inflict on him could benefit her."
"No--O God, no," Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; "butthen, that's the deepest curse of all...that's what makes the blacknessof it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty...she can never be mysweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing God had made--smiling up atme...I thought she loved me...and was good..."
Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as ifhe were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking atMr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You don't think sheis, sir? She can't ha' done it."
"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam," Mr. Irwineanswered gently. "In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on whatseems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some smallfact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right tosay that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bearthe punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moralguilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes even indetermining who has committed a single criminal act, and the problem howfar a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences ofhis 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 selfishindulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken somefeeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mindthat can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don't supposeI can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this stateof revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey yourpassion--for it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling itjustice--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'dsooner do it--I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myselfthan ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand by and see 'empunish 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 thanhe'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresawenough; he'd no right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. Andthen he wanted to smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' thingsfolks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what hewill, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't half sobad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t' himself and knowsall the while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else."
"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort ofwrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can'tisolate 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 theybreathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel theterrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others;but so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commitit. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply beanother evil added to those we are suffering under: you could not bearthe punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on every onewho loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that wouldleave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils tothem. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance, butthe feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and aslong as you indulge it, as long as you do
not see that to fix your mindon Arthur's punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in dangerof being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what youtold me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur inthe 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 Masseyabout old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other matters of an indifferentkind. 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 tosee you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is besthe 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 afraidthe 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 sorelyagainst it, since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think shewould, 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 agentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jailchaplain 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 measuresfor finding her out," said Mr. Irwine, "but it's too late now, Ifear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night. Godbless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning."