by George Eliot
Chapter XXXIX
The Tidings
ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swifteststride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be goneout--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state ofstrong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it hesaw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel.
But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and thoughthere was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: ithad evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some onewho had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam couldhardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speakto the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow hadbegun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, ashe threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at theclock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said,but he heard the study door open--the stranger seemed to be coming out,and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at once.
Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along thelast five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adamwatched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had somereason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almostalways these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everythingbut some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy cameto give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave usin our sleep.
Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. Hewas to go into the study immediately. "I can't think what that strangeperson's come about," the butler added, from mere incontinence ofremark, as he preceded Adam to the door, "he's gone i' the dining-room.And master looks unaccountable--as if he was frightened." Adam took nonotice of the words: he could not care about other people's business.But when he entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he feltin an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely differentfrom the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letterlay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changedglance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation withsome disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door,as if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him.
"You want to speak to me, Adam," he said, in that low constrainedlyquiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation."Sit down here." He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no morethan a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sensethat this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an additional unexpecteddifficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind toa measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperativereasons.
"I come to you, sir," he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most ofanybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as it'llpain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrongother people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till I'd good reason."
Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, "You wast' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o'this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' theparish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me."
Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then,determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out.
"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was goingto Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday tofetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach toStoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a longjourney to look for her, and I can't trust t' anybody but you where I'mgoing."
Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down.
"Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?" he said.
"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir," said Adam. "Shedidn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I doubt.There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody elseconcerned besides me."
A gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came across theeager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment. Adam was looking onthe ground, and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak.But when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr.Irwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without flinching.
"You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend," he said, "andused to be proud to think as I should pass my life i' working for him,and had felt so ever since we were lads...."
Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm,which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain,said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No, Adam, no--don't sayit, for God's sake!"
Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of thewords that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The graspon his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in hischair, saying, "Go on--I must know it."
"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd noright to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents and usedto go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only two days beforehe went away--found him a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove.There'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I'd lovedher for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with hiswrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he saidsolemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no morethan a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hettyhe'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things asI hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, andI thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to loveanother man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter, and sheseemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected...and shebehaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't know her ownfeelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was toolate...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceiveme. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and--you know the rest,sir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away,and she's gone to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go towork again till I know what's become of her."
During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover hisself-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him.It was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when Arthurbreakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of aconfession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. Andif their words had taken another turn...if he himself had been lessfastidious about intruding on another man's secrets...it was cruelto think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt andmisery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination whichthe present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as itrushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity,for the man who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sadblind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was closeupon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to havefeared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comesover us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he mustinflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand onthe arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he saidsolemnly:
"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. Youcan bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires bothtasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you thanany you have yet known. But you are not guilty--you have not the worstof all sorrows. God help him who has!"
The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was tremblingsuspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on.
"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to
him. She isin Stonyshire--at Stoniton."
Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leapedto her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm again and said,persuasively, "Wait, Adam, wait." So he sat down.
"She is in a very unhappy position--one which will make it worse for youto find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever."
Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, andhe whispered, "Tell me."
"She has been arrested...she is in prison."
It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistanceinto Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly andsharply, "For what?"
"For a great crime--the murder of her child."
"It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair andmaking a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting hisback against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. "It isn'tpossible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. WHO says it?"
"God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is."
"But who says she is guilty?" said Adam violently. "Tell me everything."
"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and theconstable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confessher name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be nodoubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, onlythat she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leatherpocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it--one at thebeginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'DinahMorris, Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own name--she denieseverything, and will answer no questions, and application has been madeto me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her,for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her ownname."
"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said Adam,still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame."I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it."
"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime;but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and readthat letter, Adam."
Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyessteadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. Whenhe came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page--he couldn'tread--he could not put the words together and make out what they meant.He threw it down at last and clenched his fist.
"It's HIS doing," he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his door,not at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me first. Let 'em putHIM on his trial--let him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell 'emhow he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied tome. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her...so weakand young?"
The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poorAdam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of theroom as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone ofappealing anguish, "I can't bear it...O God, it's too hard to lay uponme--it's too hard to think she's wicked."
Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to uttersoothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him,with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face inmoments of terrible emotion--the hard bloodless look of the skin, thedeep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow--the sightof this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow,moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless,with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in thatshort space he was living through all his love again.
"She can't ha' done it," he said, still without moving his eyes, asif he were only talking to himself: "it was fear made her hide it...Iforgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wastdeceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...but they'llnever make me believe it."
He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierceabruptness, "I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make him go andlook at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he can't forgetit--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he lives it shallfollow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--I'll fetch him, I'lldrag him myself."
In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically andlooked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who waspresent with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by thearm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No, Adam, no; I'm sure youwill wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead ofgoing on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fallwithout your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on hisway home--or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, Iknow, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to gowith me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, assoon as you can compose yourself."
While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of theactual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened.
"Remember," Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, andact for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the goodPoysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear tothink. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--from your sense ofduty to God and man--that you will try to act as long as action can beof any use."
In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam'sown sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the best means ofcounteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours.
"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a moment'spause. "We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know."
"Yes, sir," said Adam, "I'll do what you think right. But the folks atth' Hall Farm?"
"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shallhave ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now, and I shallreturn as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready."
