The Essential Works of George Eliot. George Eliot

after the door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.

      But he began to see through the dimness—to see the dark eyes lifted up to 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 his heart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the sweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were all gone—all but one, that never went; and the eyes—O, the worst of all was the likeness they had to Hetty’s. They were Hetty’s eyes looking at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the dead to tell him of her misery.

      She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah’s. It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah’s face looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible Mercy.

      When the sad eyes met—when Hetty and Adam looked at each other—she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to reflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and 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 forgive me … before I die?”

      Adam answered with a half-sob, “Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave thee long ago.”

      It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of meeting Hetty’s eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been less strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears came—they had never come before, since he had hung on Seth’s neck in the beginning of his sorrow.

      Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love that she had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kept hold of Dinah’s hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, “Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all I’ve been so wicked?”

      Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting.

      “And tell him,” Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, “tell him … for there’s nobody else to tell him … as I went after him and couldn’t find him … and I hated him and cursed him once … but Dinah says I should forgive 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 turned in the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there were several faces there. He was too agitated to see more—even to see that Mr. Irwine’s face was one of them. He felt that the last preparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room was silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in loneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end.

Chapter XII.

       The Last Moment.

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      It was a sight that some people remembered better even than their own sorrows—the sight in that grey clear morning, when the fatal cart with the two young women in it was descried by the waiting watching multitude, cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately inflicted sudden death.

      All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal to confess, and there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hetty.

      But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty had caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she had clutched Dinah convulsively.

      “Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said, “and let us pray without ceasing to God.”

      And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling creature that clung to her and clutched her as the only visible sign of love and pity.

      Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a sort of awe—she did not even know how near they were to the fatal spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud shout hideous to her ear, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty’s shriek mingled with the sound, and they clasped each other in mutual horror.

      But it was not a shout of execration—not a yell of exultant cruelty.

      It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by madness, and he saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has something in his hand—he is holding it up as if it were a signal.

      The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a hard-won release from death.

Chapter XIII.

       Another Meeting in the Wood.

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      The next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were.

      The old squire’s funeral had taken place that morning, the will had been read, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new future before him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove.

      Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he had not left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tell them everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with the Poysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, wherever that might be, for he meant to give up the management of the woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business with Jonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow.

      “Seth and me are sure to find work,” he said. “A man that’s got our trade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a new start. My mother won’t stand in the way, for she’s told me, since I came home, she’d made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I’d be more comfortable elsewhere. It’s wonderful how quiet she’s been ever since I came back. It seems as if the very greatness o’ the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be better in a new country, though there’s some I shall be loath to leave behind. But I won’t part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble’s made us kin.”

      “Aye, lad,” said Martin. “We’ll go out o’ hearing o’ that man’s name. But I doubt we shall ne’er go far enough for folks not to find out as we’ve got them belonging to us as are transported o’er the seas, and were like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin’ up in our faces, and our children’s after us.”

      That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam’s energies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his old occupations till the morrow. “But to-morrow,” he said to himself, “I’ll go to work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; and it’s right whether I like it or not.”

      This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow: suspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him. He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty