by George Eliot
Chapter XLVI
The Hours of Suspense
ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing formorning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a shortabsence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you."
Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he started up andturned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His facewas even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he waswashed and shaven this Sunday morning.
"Is it any news?" he said.
"Keep yourself quiet, my lad," said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not whatyou're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from the prison.She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you thinkwell to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poorcastaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, she said. Shethought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preachingwomen are not so back'ard commonly," Bartle muttered to himself.
"Ask her to come in," said Adam.
He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered,lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the greatchange that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tallman in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she puther hand into his and said, "Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has notforsaken her."
"Bless you for coming to her," Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me wordyesterday as you was come."
They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before eachother in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles,seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himselffirst, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit down," placing the chairfor her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.
"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down," said Dinah, "for I must hastenback. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, AdamBede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid herfarewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you shouldsee her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time will beshort."
Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.
"It won't be," he said, "it'll be put off--there'll perhaps come apardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite give itup."
"That's a blessed thought to me," said Dinah, her eyes filling withtears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast."
"But let what will be," she added presently. "You will surely come, andlet her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul isvery dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is nolonger hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride ofher heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires tobe taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that thebrethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner'sknowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the HallFarm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you werehere, she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him toforgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come backwith me."
"I can't," Adam said. "I can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'mlistening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but that. It can't beas she'll die that shameful death--I can't bring my mind to it."
He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, whileDinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turnedround and said, "I will come, Dinah...to-morrow morning...if it must be.I may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must be. Tell her, Iforgive her; tell her I will come--at the very last."
"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart," said Dinah."I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, andwas not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make anyreturn to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart.Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen youto bear all things." Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it insilence.
Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door forher, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, "Farewell,friend," and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.
"Well," said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into hispocket, "if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it'sbut fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she'sone--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting awoman without some foolishness or other."
Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,heightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment,was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promisesthat he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.
"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep moreor less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keepthee company in trouble while I can."
It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam wouldsometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short spacefrom wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and nosound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, orthe falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefullytended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, "If I couldha' done anything to save her--if my bearing anything would ha' done anygood...but t' have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it'shard for a man to bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, ifit hadn't been for HIM....O God, it's the very day we should ha' beenmarried."
"Aye, my lad," said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavy--it's heavy. But youmust remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notionshe'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think shecould have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done."
"I know--I know that," said Adam. "I thought she was loving andtender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could Ithink any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd marriedher, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might neverha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--my having a bit o'trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this."
"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have come.The smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--you must havetime. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and bea man again, and there may good come out of this that we don't see."
"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't alter th'evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if therewas a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be broughtto see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiledhis fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself withthinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter hershame and misery."
"Well, lad, well," said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrastwith his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, "it'slikely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a goodmany years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons whyother folks should be patient."
"Mr. Massey," said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I owe yousomething different; but you mustn't take it ill of me."
"Not I, lad--not I."
So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growinglight brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair.There would soon be no more suspense.
"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey," said Adam, when he saw thehand of his watch at six. "If there's any news come, we shall hear aboutit."
The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, throughthe streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as theyhurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prisongates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing thoseeager people.
No; there was no
news come--no pardon--no reprieve.
Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himselfto send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: hecould not shut out the words.
"The cart is to set off at half-past seven."
It must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help.
In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinahhad sent him word that she could not come to him; she could not leaveHetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting.
He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses,and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after thedoor closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.
But he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes lifted upto him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked!The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with hisheart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearfulsmile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; thesweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were allgone--all but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of allwas the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes lookingat him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from thedead to tell him of her misery.
She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. Itseemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, andthe pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visiblepledge of the Invisible Mercy.
When the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--shefelt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with freshfear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed toreflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful pastand the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him.
"Speak to him, Hetty," Dinah said; "tell him what is in your heart."
Hetty obeyed her, like a little child.
"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you forgiveme...before I die?"
Adam answered with a half-sob, "Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgavethee long ago."
It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish ofmeeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voiceuttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been lessstrained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable,and the rare tears came--they had never come before, since he had hungon Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.
Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love thatshe had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kepthold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, "Willyou kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked?"
Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gaveeach other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting.
"And tell him," Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell him...forthere's nobody else to tell him...as I went after him and couldn't findhim...and I hated him and cursed him once...but Dinah says I shouldforgive him...and I try...for else God won't forgive me."
There was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being turnedin the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that therewere several faces there. He was too agitated to see more--even tosee that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the lastpreparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Roomwas silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber inloneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end.
