The Essential Works of George Eliot. George Eliot

I thought perhaps it wouldn’t die—there might somebody find it. I didn’t kill it—I didn’t kill it myself. I put it down there and covered it up, and when I came back it was gone….It was because I was so very miserable, Dinah … I didn’t know where to go … and I tried to kill myself before, and I couldn’t. Oh, I tried so to drown myself in the pool, and I couldn’t. I went to Windsor—I ran away—did you know? I went to find him, as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and then I didn’t know what to do. I daredn’t go back home again—I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t have bore to look at anybody, for they’d have scorned me. I thought o’ you sometimes, and thought I’d come to you, for I didn’t think you’d be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I thought I could tell you. But then the other folks ’ud come to know it at last, and I couldn’t bear that. It was partly thinking o’ you made me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah … I was so miserable … I wished I’d never been born into this world. I should never like to go into the green fields again—I hated ’em so in my misery.”

      Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon her for words.

      “And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that night, because I was so near home. And then the little baby was born, when I didn’t expect it; and the thought came into my mind that I might get rid of it and go home again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got stronger and stronger … I longed so to go back again … I couldn’t bear being so lonely and coming to beg for want. And it gave me strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I felt I must do it … I didn’t know how … I thought I’d find a pool, if I could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do anything … I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go back home, and never let ’em know why I ran away I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby under my cloak; and I walked fast till I got into a street a good way off, and there was a public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and it got lighter, for there came the moon—oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it first looked at me out o’ the clouds—it never looked so before; and I turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid o’ meeting anybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable, and the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a good while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light, and the baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off … I thought there’d perhaps be a ditch or a pond there … and it was so early I thought I could hide the child there, and get a long way off before folks was up. And then I thought I’d go home—I’d get rides in carts and go home and tell ’em I’d been to try and see for a place, and couldn’t get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I don’t know how I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it—it was like a heavy weight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I daredn’t look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, and I walked about, but there was no water….”

      Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began again, it was in a whisper.

      “I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little grave. And it darted into me like lightning—I’d lay the baby there and cover it with the grass and the chips. I couldn’t kill it any other way. And I’d done it in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, Dinah—I couldn’t cover it quite up—I thought perhaps somebody ’ud come and take care of it, and then it wouldn’t die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it crying all the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I was held fast—I couldn’t go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I sat against the haystack to watch if anybody ’ud come. I was very hungry, and I’d only a bit of bread left, but I couldn’t go away. And after ever such a while—hours and hours—the man came—him in a smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, till I came to a village, a long way off from the wood, and I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something to eat there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby crying, and thought the other folks heard it too—and I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the roadside there was a barn—ever such a way off any house—like the barn in Abbot’s Close, and I thought I could go in there and hide myself among the hay and straw, and nobody ’ud be likely to come. I went in, and it was half full o’ trusses of straw, and there was some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep….But oh, the baby’s crying kept waking me, and I thought that man as looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long while at last, though I didn’t know, for when I got up and went out of the barn, I didn’t know whether it was night or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I’d come. I couldn’t help it, Dinah; it was the baby’s crying made me go—and yet I was frightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock ’ud see me and know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that. I’d left off thinking about going home—it had gone out o’ my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I’d buried the baby … I see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?”

      Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long before she went on.

      “I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood….I knew the way to the place … the place against the nut-tree; and I could hear it crying at every step….I thought it was alive….I don’t know whether I was frightened or glad … I don’t know what I felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don’t know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I’d put it there, I thought I should like somebody to find it and save it from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o’ stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn’t run away, and everybody as saw me ’ud know about the baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn’t wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, and nothing ’ud ever change. But they came and took me away.”

      Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still something behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob, “Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the place in the wood, now I’ve told everything?”

      “Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to the God of all mercy.”

Chapter XI.

       The Hours of Suspense.

       Table of Contents

      On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam’s room, after a short absence, and said, “Adam, here’s a visitor wants to see you.”

      Adam was seated with is back towards the door, but he started up and turned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His face was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was washed and shaven this Sunday morning.

      “Is it any news?” he said.

      “Keep yourself quiet, my lad,” said Bartle; “keep quiet. It’s not what you’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 think well to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poor castaway; but she wouldn’t come in