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ADAM BEDE
By GEORGE ELIOT THAT last year of the eighteenth century Hayslope was a pleasant neighborhood to live in. It was far enough away from the noise of "Boney's" battles to sleep in peace. Men chatted of crops and rents, and listened to the gossip of women folk regarding Dinah Morris of Snowfield, Mrs. Poyser's own niece, who had turned "Methody" preacher and would stand right before men on the village green, talking to them of the comfort they could find in their friend, Jesus Christ. And, worse still, Dinah was so attractive and so gravely loving that the men, and women, too, gladly listened to her. Big Adam Bede, the carpenter, would have liked to see more of her, had he eyes for any one except old Poyser's niece, Hetty Sorrel. As for Hetty, she had no thought for Adam; Captain Arthur Donnithorne, heir of the estate, had whispered too many things in her pretty ear. It was natural enough. There, in her aunt's white dairy, rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of the scale, Hetty had the beauty of a fluffy kitten. Her large, dark eyes had a soft roguishness, and her curly hair, pushed away under her cap, stole back in delicate rings on her forehead. Of course, the dashing captain had no foolish ideas about marriage, but then, as he bent over her shoulder, he was soldier enough to feel his head turn very fast. He had no wish to harm her, you may be sure of that, for he had great pride in the Donnithorne estate, and it is pleasant for a rich young man to be liked and admired. One August evening Adam walked home-ward through a grove of grand beeches, the glory of the estate. As carpenter and woods-man, he delighted in fine trees, and paused to look at a huge beech which stood at the turning before the grove ended in an arch-way of boughs. All his life he remembered that moment, for there, not twenty yards away, stood two figures, close, with clasped hands. They started. The girl hurried away, while Arthur Donnithorne walked slowly forward. He was flushed and excited, but reassured him-self by remembering that Adam was a sensible person, not likely to babble. That the big, sober carpenter loved Hetty Arthur had no idea. "Well, Adam," said Arthur, carelessly, "you've been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? I overtook pretty Hetty Sorrel as I was going to my old lodge in the woods; so I took her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains. Good night." Adam dared not move lest he spring on Arthur like a tiger. "Stop a bit," he said in a hard, peremptory voice. "What do you mean?" Arthur felt his temper rising. "I mean that, instead of the honorable man we've all believed you, you're a selfish scoundrel!" Arthur found it hard to control himself. "Well, Adam, perhaps I have gone too far in taking notice of the pretty little thing and stealing a few kisses. You're such a grave fellow you don't understand temptations. Let's say no more. The whole thing will soon be forgotten." "No, by God," said Adam, "it '11 not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me when she might have loved me. It '11 not be soon forgot, as you've robbed me of my happiness when I thought you my best friend. You're a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you." The color rushed back to Arthur's face. He dealt a lightning blow which sent Adam staggering back, but the delicate-handed gentleman was no match for the workman's great strength. After a fierce struggle Arthur fell motionless, while Adam, in sudden revulsion of feeling, knelt over him like an image of despair gazing on death. To his intense relief, Arthur gradually revived. Adam got him to his feet, supported him to the little cabin, and laid him on a couch. Then he spoke out. "I don't forget what's owing to you as a gentleman, but in this thing we are man to man. Either tell me she can never be my wife-tell me you're lying when you say you haven't harmed her-or else write her a letter, telling her the truth that you won't see her again." Arthur struggled, suffered, promised, and Adam, half comforted, left, not knowing that there, in the waste-basket, hastily stuffed under the papers, lay a woman's silk kerchief. When Hetty read Arthur's letter she gave way to despair. Then, by one of those convulsive, motiveless actions by which the wretched leap from temporary sorrow to life-long misery, she determined to marry Adam. The big carpenter was in the seventh heaven, Hetty fitful and depressed. For family reasons, the marriage could not be hastened, and as the months passed she determined at any cost to seek out Arthur, whose regiment was at Windsor. Telling her uncle she was going to Snowfield to see Dinah for a little change of scene before her marriage, she started out, ignorant of the country, panic-stricken, and forlorn, eager to shun every familiar face, longing only to feel again the protection of her lover's arms. On Arthur, meanwhile, life seemed again to smile. After rejoining his regiment, his sharpest regrets for Hetty began to lose their sting. Soon he was transferred to Ireland, and there learned that by his grandfather's death he was lord of the manor. Home he came, fast as chaise and postboy could drive, home to dear old Hayslope sleeping on the hill, where he was to live his life, married to some lovely lady, respected and appreciated by his tenants. A pile of letters awaited him. He opened the first, and, with a violent convulsion shaking his whole frame, read the words, "Hetty Sorrel is in prison for the crime of child murder." Clutching the letter, Arthur rushed from the room like a hunted man, and, springing to the saddle of a waiting horse, set off at a gallop. That very evening a young woman knocked at the door of the village jail. There was about her a deep, concentrated calmness which induced the jailer to grant her request to visit the condemned cell. As the heavy door closed behind her, she hesitated before the pallet bed. "Hetty, Dinah is come to you." Slowly, very slowly, Hetty rose and was clasped in Dinah's arms. "You won't leave me, Dinah?" "No, Hetty," whispered Dinah. "I'll stay with you to the last. But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell." "Who?" whispered Hetty, frightened. " Some one who has been with you all your hours of sin and trouble. It makes no difference, Hetty, whether we live or die. We are in the presence of God. Confess the sin you have committed against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel together. He is here." There in the silence and darkness Hetty, who through her trial had sat like a stone image, poured forth her pitiful story. "It was because I was so miserable, Dinah. I didn't know where to go. I tried to kill myself, and I couldn't. I went to Windsor to find him. He was gone, and I didn't know what to do. I daren't go home again. Then the baby was born. . . . I did do it, Dinah. I buried it in the wood-the little baby. It cried. . . . I heard it all night-and I went back. And then I thought I would go home, and all of a sudden I saw a hole under a nut-tree, and it darted over me like lightning I'd lay the baby there and cover it with grass and chips. I couldn't cover it quite up, Dinah. I thought somebody'd come and take care of it. Dinah, do you think God will take away that cry and the place in the wood, now that I've told everything?" Let us pray, poor sinner," breathed Dinah. "Let us pray to the God of All Mercy." Comforter and comforted, their prayer was heard. Two days later, in the very shadow of the scaffold, Arthur Donnithorne brought a hard-won reprieve. Though spared from death, Hetty was sentenced to transportation. Dinah returned to her works of mercy at Snowfield. In remorse and shame, Arthur Donnithorne went back to the army, while Adam Bede, squaring his shoulders to the world, turned again to his work-bench. For him all the joy of life seemed over, and never would he have thought of seeking it again had not his mother dropped into his heart one day the name of Dinah. Long and soberly he thought, and then he went to find her. |