Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address of the letter, and warn them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his not knowing an exact direction.
On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also a claim to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away from business for some time; and before six o’clock that evening there were few people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had not mentioned Arthur’s name to Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his grandfather was dead, and that he was come into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that passed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and found early opportunities of communicating it.
One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about half-past seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwine soon joined him.
“Well, Bartle?” said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. “Sit down.”
“You know what I’m come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay,” said Bartle.
“You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you … about Hetty Sorrel?”
“Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what’s the state of the poor lad’s mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o’ pink-and-white they’ve taken the trouble to put in jail, I don’t value her a rotten nut—not a rotten nut—only for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest man—a lad I’ve set such store by—trusted to, that he’d make my bit o’ knowledge go a good way in the world….Why, sir, he’s the only scholar I’ve had in this stupid country that ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn’t had so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher branches, and then this might never have happened—might never have happened.”
Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes also.
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when this pause had given him time to reflect, “for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there’s nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself—if you’ll take the trouble to tell me what the poor lad’s doing.”
“Don’t put yourself under any restraint, Bartle,” said Mr. Irwine. “The fact is, I’m very much in the same condition as you just now; I’ve a great deal that’s painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after the trial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better he should be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is innocent—he wants to summon up courage to see her if he can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is.”
“Do you think the creatur’s guilty, then?” said Bartle. “Do you think they’ll hang her?”
“I’m afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything—denies that she has had a child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as at the change in her. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the sake of the innocent who are involved.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was speaking. “I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it’s stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such women are put out o’ the world the better; and the men that help ’em to do mischief had better go along with ’em for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that ’ud feed rational beings? But if Adam’s fool enough to care about it, I don’t want him to suffer more than’s needful….Is he very much cut up, poor fellow?” Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and putting them on, as if they would assist his imagination.
“Yes, I’m afraid the grief cuts very deep,” said Mr. Irwine. “He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of Adam’s principle to trust that he will be able to endure the worst without being driven to anything rash.”
Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance to-wards Arthur, which was the form Adam’s anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward to Arthur’s arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm.
“I’ll tell you what I have in my head, sir,” he said, “and I hope you’ll approve of it. I’m going to shut up my school—if the scholars come, they must go back again, that’s all—and I shall go to Stoniton and look after Adam till this business is over. I’ll pretend I’m come to look on at the assizes; he can’t object to that. What do you think about it, sir?”
“Well,” said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, “there would be some real advantages in that … and I honour you for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But … you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I’m afraid you have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his weakness about Hetty.”
“Trust to me, sir—trust to me. I know what you mean. I’ve been a fool myself in my time, but that’s between you and me. I shan’t thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and put in a word here and there.”
“Then,” said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle’s discretion, “I think you’ll be doing a good deed; and it will be well for you to let Adam’s mother and brother know that you’re going.”
“Yes, sir, yes,” said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles, “I’ll do that, I’ll do that; though the mother’s a whimpering thing—I don’t like to come within earshot of her; however, she’s a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you’ve spared me. You’re everybody’s friend in this business—everybody’s friend. It’s a heavy weight you’ve got on your shoulders.”
“Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.”
Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll’s conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, “Now, I shall be obliged to take you with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You’d go fretting yourself to death if I left you—you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by some tramp.