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Chapter: THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as any
other days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at his daily
work. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least,
perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, because there might
then be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had
passed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not return;
she must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one
could have supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient
to see her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day
(Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There
was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light, and
perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty
early at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day--Dinah too, if she
were coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would afford to
lose his Monday for the sake of bringing her.

His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on
Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to come back
without Hetty, for she had been quite too long away, considering the
things she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week was
surely enough for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs.
Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could make her
believe the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at
Snowfield. "Though," said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, "you might
tell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to
a shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off her
next Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange folks, and
leave the children fatherless and motherless."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man
perfectly heart-whole, "it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking rarely
now, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, for
she'd help thee wi' the little uns: they took t' her wonderful."

So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the first
mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Dinah
might come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the cold
morning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of
Sunday calm. It was the last morning in February, with a low grey sky,
and a slight hoar-frost on the green border of the road and on the black
hedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the
hill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked in
silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.

"Good-bye, lad," said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and
looking at him affectionately as they were about to part. "I wish thee
wast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am."

"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be an old
bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children."

They turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward,
mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was very fond of
hymns:

     Dark and cheerless is the morn
     Unaccompanied by thee:
     Joyless is the day's return
     Till thy mercy's beams I see:
     Till thou inward light impart,
     Glad my eyes and warm my heart.

     Visit, then, this soul of mine,
     Pierce the gloom of sin and grief--
     Fill me, Radiancy Divine,
     Scatter all my unbelief.
     More and more thyself display,
     Shining to the perfect day.

Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne road
at sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tall
broad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firm
as any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as
they began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam's life had his
face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; and
this freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical minds
like his, made him all the more observant of the objects round him
and all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his
own favourite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love--the
knowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty,
who was so soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morning
air was to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-being
that made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of
more intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images than
Hetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness that
all this happiness was given to him--that this life of ours had such
sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps
rather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very close
to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the
other. But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this
way, busy thought would come back with the greater vigour; and this
morning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved
that were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all
the benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country
gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in his
own district.

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that pretty
town within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted. After
this, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no more
wide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows,
but greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal
wide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been and
were no longer. "A hungry land," said Adam to himself. "I'd rather go
south'ard, where they say it's as flat as a table, than come to live
here; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the
most comfort to folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she
must look as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in the
desert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat." And when at last
he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was
"fellow to the country," though the stream through the valley where the
great mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town
lay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam
did not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to find
Dinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little way from
the mill--an old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with a
little bit of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderly
couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn where
they were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be out
on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Hetty at home.
Adam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by the
roadside before him, there shone out in his face that involuntary smile
which belongs to the expectation of a near joy.

He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door.
It was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow palsied shake of
the head.

"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam.

"Eh?...no," said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger with
a wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "Will you please to
come in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself.
"Why, ye're brother to the young man as come afore, arena ye?"

"Yes," said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam.
He told me to give his respects to you and your good master."

"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye feature him,
on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My man isna come home
from meeting."

Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman with
questions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in one
corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his voice
and would come down them.

"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standing
opposite to him. "An' you didn' know she was away from home, then?"

"No," said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing as
it's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home, or gone along
with Dinah?"

The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.

"Gone along wi' her?" she said. "Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big town
ye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's people. She's
been gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for her
journey. You may see her room here," she went on, opening a door and not
noticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and followed her, and
darted an eager glance into the little room with its narrow bed, the
portrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the large
Bible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He could
not speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an
undefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on the
journey. Still the old woman was so slow of speech and apprehension,
that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all.

"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your own
country o' purpose to see her?"

"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel," said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"

"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly. "Is it
anybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"

"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday was a
fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"

"Nay; I'n seen no young woman."

"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyes
and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? You
couldn't forget her if you saw her."

"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--there
come nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till you come, for
the folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat
the matter?"

The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But he
was not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly where he could
inquire about Hetty.

"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was a
fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something has happened
to her. I can't stop. Good-bye."

He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to the
gate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towards
the town. He was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coach
stopped.

No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accident
happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there was no coach to
take him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn't
stay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was
in great anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eagerness
of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pockets
looking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back
to Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart" this very evening. It was not five
o'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to get
to Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he really
wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night; he should have
all Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt
to eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale,
declared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, it
occurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman
where Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall
Farm--he only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--the
Poysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any
address, and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not
recall the name of the "blessed woman" who was Dinah's chief friend in
the Society at Leeds.

During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time for
all the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope. In the very
first shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, the
thought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but he
tried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with modes
of accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerable
thought. Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance,
got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and did
not want to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fence
of vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct
agonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking that she
could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; and
now, in her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had run
away. And she was gone to him. The old indignation and jealousy
rose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing
falsely--had written to Hetty--had tempted her to come to him--being
unwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besides
himself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had
given her directions how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew that
Arthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt it
at the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged
to Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful
retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thing
hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought that
she could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man who
offered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to blame her:
she never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with
that man who had selfishly played with her heart--had perhaps even
deliberately lured her away.

At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young woman
as Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more than a
fortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that in
a hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton coach that went
through Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went away with the
horses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight to
the house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was the
most obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might be
her destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief
coach-roads. She had been noticed here too, and was remembered to have
sat on the box by the coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, for
another man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three or
four days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at the
inn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken Adam must of
necessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay, till eleven o'clock,
when the coach started.

At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had driven
Hetty would not be in the town again till night. When he did come he
remembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke addressed to her,
quoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency that
he thought there was something more than common, because Hetty had not
laughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done at
the inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of
the next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town
from which a coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did not
start from Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--and
then in walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines of
road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No,
she was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adam
was to go home and carry the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As to
what he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions
amidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within him
while he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of Arthur
Donnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for
it: it was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure
might be an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been home
and done what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, he
would start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road,
he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and make himself certain
how far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thought
occurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would be
useless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur.
It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind
about Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that she had
gone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the
reason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur
uncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to such
a step, after that letter written in August. There were but two
alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again and
enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriage
with himself because she found, after all, she could not love him well
enough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if she retracted.

With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur,
the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved to
be almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would not
tell the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or his
intention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that he
had traced her as far as possible.

It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached
Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and also
to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself without
undressing on a bed at the "Waggon Overthrown," and slept hard from pure
weariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five o'clock he
set out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept a
key of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let himself in;
and he wished to enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxious
to avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and
asking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gently
along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but, as he
expected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided
when he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence, and
in his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his body
against his master's legs.

Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He threw
himself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the signs of work
around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in them
again, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wrong with his
master, laid his rough grey head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his brows
to look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been
constantly among strange people and in strange places, having no
associations with the details of his daily life, and now that by the
light of this new morning he was come back to his home and surrounded
by the familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the
reality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon him
with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers,
which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's use, when his home
should be hers.

Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp's
bark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressing
himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother: he would come
home to-day, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly by
to-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday than
he had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was the
greatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he had
no hope left that she would ever love him well enough to marry him; but
he had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and
brother than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always near
her, instead of living so far off!

He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitchen
into the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood still in
the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seated
listlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almost
like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant what the
marks meant--not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up at
him without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himself
trembling so that speech did not come readily.

"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting down on
the bench beside Adam, "what is it?"

Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress the
signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at this first
approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed.

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of
their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.

"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when Adam
raised his head and was recovering himself.

"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been to
Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was a
fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where she went
after she got to Stoniton."

Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could
suggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.

"Hast any notion what she's done it for?" he said, at last.

"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it came
nigh--that must be it," said Adam. He had determined to mention no
further reason.

"I hear Mother stirring," said Seth. "Must we tell her?"

"No, not yet," said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair
from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. "I can't have her told
yet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I've been to
the village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, and
thee must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody is to know anything
about. I'll go and wash myself now." Adam moved towards the door of the
workshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth's
eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all the money out
o' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll be
thine, to take care o' Mother with."

Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secret
under all this. "Brother," he said, faintly--he never called Adam
"Brother" except in solemn moments--"I don't believe you'll do anything
as you can't ask God's blessing on."

"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what's
a man's duty."

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would
only distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half of
irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as she
had always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness and
self-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--he told her when she
came down--had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and a
bad headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for his
paleness and heavy eyes.

He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to his
business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged to
go on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; for
he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the
children and servants would be in the house-place, and there must be
exclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty.
He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard at
the village, and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It was
an immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr.
Poyser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going
to the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with a
sense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master's
eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a useful
companion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught sight of
Adam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.

"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and not
brought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"

"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate that
he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.

"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye look
bad. Is there anything happened?"

"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hetty
at Snowfield."

Mr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment.
"Not find her? What's happened to her?" he said, his thoughts flying at
once to bodily accident.

"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never went
to Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't learn nothing
of her after she got down from the Stoniton coach."

"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still, so
puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as a
trouble by him.

"She must ha' done," said Adam. "She didn't like our marriage when it
came to the point--that must be it. She'd mistook her feelings."

Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting
up the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing. His usual
slowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful. At
last he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, "Then she didna deserve
t' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault myself, for she was my niece, and
I was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye,
lad--the more's the pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt."

Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for a
little while, went on, "I'll be bound she's gone after trying to get a
lady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago, and
wanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd thought better on her"--he added,
shaking his head slowly and sadly--"I'd thought better on her, nor to
look for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been got
ready."

Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr.
Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. He
had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to Arthur.

"It was better it should be so," he said, as quietly as he could, "if
she felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away before than
repent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back, as
she may do if she finds it hard to get on away from home."

"I canna look on her as I've done before," said Martin decisively.
"She's acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I'll not turn my back on
her: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've knowed on her.
It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back
wi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit."

"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and
I couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction where she is at Leeds,
else I should ha' brought it you."

"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser,
indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n."

"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser," said Adam, "for I've a deal to see
to."

"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis when
I go home. It's a hard job."

"But," said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quiet
for a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's no knowing
how things may turn out."

"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why the match
is broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands wi' me,
lad: I wish I could make thee amends."

There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment which
caused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken fashion.
Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the two honest men
grasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding.

There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Seth
to go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that Adam
Bede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journey--and to say as
much, and no more, to any one else who made inquiries about him. If the
Poysers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would infer
that he was gone in search of Hetty.

He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now the
impulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr. Irwine,
and make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force which belongs
to a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey--a
difficult one--by sea--and no soul would know where he was gone. If
anything happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matter
concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling which
made Adam shrink from telling anything which was her secret must give
way before the need there was that she should have some one else besides
himself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity.
Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, Adam
felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's interest called
on him to speak.

"I must do it," said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread
themselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon him in
an instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering; "it's the right
thing. I can't stand alone in this way any longer."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Meanwhile, back in Hayslope, everything is pretty much normal. True, people have started wondering why Hetty has been gone so long. Did she find it "pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could have supposed?" . But Adam is getting impatient. He's got a wedding to plan, dang it. So Adam sets off one Sunday morning to bring back the love of his life, the Juliet to his Romeo, the Jenny to his Forrest Gump. Seth accompanies Adam part of the way, and then turns back. Then, to while away the journey, Adam sings a hymn about "sin and grief" and God's redeeming power . Road trip music? After leaving behind Hayslope's unfailingly photogenic landscape, Adam arrives in the "grim, stony, and unsheltered" town of Snowfield . He makes his way to the cottage of an old woman who knows Dinah. He questions her, and discovers that Hetty isn't in Snowfield. But no worries, "The old woman was so slow of speech and apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all" . But the more questions Adam asks, the clearer it becomes that Hetty was never in Snowfield. He leaves the cottage and asks around town. Nope, no Hetty. Worried sick, Adam decides to track down Dinah, or Hetty, or anyone who knows something. So Adam hits the road. He asks around, and makes an educated guess that Hetty is in Stoniton. But why did Hetty flee? Adam has two guesses: "Either Arthur had written to her again and enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriage with himself because she found, after all, that she could not love him well enough" . Adam decides to return to Hayslope and get his bearings. He tries to sneak into his house without disturbing anyone. He wants to suffer this one alone. But Seth hears Adam entering, asks his brother what's wrong. And big, strong Adam "fell on Seth's neck and sobbed" . Adam is now forced to tell Seth, who is all compassion, of his misadventure. He then goes into town to "give notice to Burge of his being obliged to go on a journey" . But as luck, or ill luck, would have it, Adam bumps into Martin Poyser on the road. On the one hand, this means that Martin won't have to wait for his bad news. On the other, the news is really bad. But he also needs a shoulder to cry on , convinced as he is that Hetty "couldn't like me for a husband" . And when there's no other shoulder around, Martin Poyser's big burly shoulder will have to do. The two men part on decent, yet unhappy terms--Adam confused, Mr. Poyser annoyed that Hetty has jilted Adam. Not knowing where else to turn, Adam decides "to go to Mr. Irwine, and make a confidant of him" . Now Adam will have a leisurely, well-tailored shoulder to cry on. Still metaphorically speaking, of course.


prompt:
Chapter: ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest
stride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be gone
out--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of
strong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he
saw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel.

But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though
there was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: it
had evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some one
who had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could
hardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speak
to the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had
begun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as
he threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the
clock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said,
but he heard the study door open--the stranger seemed to be coming out,
and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at once.

Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along the
last five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adam
watched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some
reason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almost
always these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything
but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came
to give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us
in our sleep.

Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He
was to go into the study immediately. "I can't think what that strange
person's come about," the butler added, from mere incontinence of
remark, as he preceded Adam to the door, "he's gone i' the dining-room.
And master looks unaccountable--as if he was frightened." Adam took no
notice of the words: he could not care about other people's business.
But when he entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he felt
in an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely different
from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter
lay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed
glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation with
some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door,
as if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him.

"You want to speak to me, Adam," he said, in that low constrainedly
quiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation.
"Sit down here." He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more
than a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense
that this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an additional unexpected
difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to
a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperative
reasons.

"I come to you, sir," he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most of
anybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as it'll
pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrong
other people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till I'd good reason."

Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, "You was
t' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o'
this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' the
parish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me."

Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then,
determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out.

"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was going
to Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday to
fetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach to
Stoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a long
journey to look for her, and I can't trust t' anybody but you where I'm
going."

Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down.

"Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?" he said.

"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir," said Adam. "She
didn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I doubt.
There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody else
concerned besides me."

A gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came across the
eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment. Adam was looking on
the ground, and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak.
But when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr.
Irwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without flinching.

"You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend," he said, "and
used to be proud to think as I should pass my life i' working for him,
and had felt so ever since we were lads...."

Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm,
which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain,
said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No, Adam, no--don't say
it, for God's sake!"

Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of the
words that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The grasp
on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his
chair, saying, "Go on--I must know it."

"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no
right to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents and used
to go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only two days before
he went away--found him a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove.
There'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I'd loved
her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with his
wrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he said
solemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no more
than a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty
he'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as
I hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and
I thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to love
another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter, and she
seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected...and she
behaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't know her own
feelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too
late...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceive
me. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and--you know the rest,
sir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away,
and she's gone to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to
work again till I know what's become of her."

During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his
self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him.
It was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when Arthur
breakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a
confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. And
if their words had taken another turn...if he himself had been less
fastidious about intruding on another man's secrets...it was cruel
to think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and
misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which
the present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as it
rushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity,
for the man who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sad
blind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was close
upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have
feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes
over us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he must
inflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand on
the arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said
solemnly:

"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You
can bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires both
tasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than
any you have yet known. But you are not guilty--you have not the worst
of all sorrows. God help him who has!"

The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was trembling
suspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on.

"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him. She is
in Stonyshire--at Stoniton."

Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leaped
to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm again and said,
persuasively, "Wait, Adam, wait." So he sat down.

"She is in a very unhappy position--one which will make it worse for you
to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever."

Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and
he whispered, "Tell me."

"She has been arrested...she is in prison."

It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance
into Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly and
sharply, "For what?"

"For a great crime--the murder of her child."

"It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair and
making a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting his
back against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. "It isn't
possible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. WHO says it?"

"God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is."

"But who says she is guilty?" said Adam violently. "Tell me everything."

"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and the
constable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confess
her name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no
doubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, only
that she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leather
pocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it--one at the
beginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah
Morris, Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own name--she denies
everything, and will answer no questions, and application has been made
to me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her,
for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own
name."

"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said Adam,
still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame.
"I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it."

"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime;
but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and read
that letter, Adam."

Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes
steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. When
he came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page--he couldn't
read--he could not put the words together and make out what they meant.
He threw it down at last and clenched his fist.

"It's HIS doing," he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his door,
not at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me first. Let 'em put
HIM on his trial--let him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell 'em
how he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied to
me. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her...so weak
and young?"

The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor
Adam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of the
room as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone of
appealing anguish, "I can't bear it...O God, it's too hard to lay upon
me--it's too hard to think she's wicked."

Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter
soothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him,
with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in
moments of terrible emotion--the hard bloodless look of the skin, the
deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow--the sight
of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow,
moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless,
with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that
short space he was living through all his love again.

"She can't ha' done it," he said, still without moving his eyes, as
if he were only talking to himself: "it was fear made her hide it...I
forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wast
deceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...but they'll
never make me believe it."

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce
abruptness, "I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make him go and
look at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he can't forget
it--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he lives it shall
follow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--I'll fetch him, I'll
drag him myself."

In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and
looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was
present with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by the
arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No, Adam, no; I'm sure you
will wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead of
going on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall
without your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his
way home--or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I
know, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go
with me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as
soon as you can compose yourself."

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the
actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened.

"Remember," Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, and
act for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the good
Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to
think. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--from your sense of
duty to God and man--that you will try to act as long as action can be
of any use."

In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam's
own sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the best means of
counteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours.

"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a moment's
pause. "We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know."

"Yes, sir," said Adam, "I'll do what you think right. But the folks at
th' Hall Farm?"

"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shall
have ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now, and I shall
return as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Might as well call this chapter "Fear and Loathing in Broxton Parsonage." Reeling from "the double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow," Adam has tracked down Mr. Irwine, the one person in Hayslope who seems to have all the answers . Or enough of them, anyway. Adam is shown into Mr. Irwine's study. The good clergyman has a new, disturbing expression--"strangely different from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before" . Irwine's nerves are clearly shot. And no, one of those Chapter 16 "big breakfasts" won't solve this one. Adam explains that Hetty is gone, he doesn't know where, he doesn't know why. Mr. Irwine does. But first, Adam vents his grievances toward Arthur, who "played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no right to do to a girl in her station o' life" . This outburst gives Mr. Irwine time to collect his thoughts. He calmly informs Adam that a "heavier sorrow" will soon be upon him . And then the cold, hard facts: Hetty is in prison, for child-murder. Adam has two reactions. First, you think he was angry at Arthur before? Well, now Adam makes the Incredible Hulk look like a mild-mannered guy. And second, Adam can't bring himself to believe that Hetty is guilty. Mr. Irwine does his best to calm Adam down, and offers some practical advice: "See what good can be done for her, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance" . There is going to be lots of trouble ahead; the Poysers, after all, are still in the dark. Still, Adam is determined to help Mr. Irwine. Putting on a V for Vendetta mask and hunting down Arthur--stuff like that can wait.


prompt:
Chapter: MR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and the
first words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house, were, that
Squire Donnithorne was dead--found dead in his bed at ten o'clock that
morning--and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awake
when Mr. Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed without
seeing her.

"Well, Dauphin," Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, "you're
come at last. So the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits, which
made him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. I
suppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed
this morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, though
I daresay I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death."

"What have they done about Arthur?" said Mr. Irwine. "Sent a messenger
to await him at Liverpool?"

"Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I
shall live now to see him master at the Chase, and making good times on
the estate, like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happy
as a king now."

Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with
anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almost
intolerable.

"What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are
you thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful Irish
Channel at this time of year?"

"No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to rejoice
just now."

"You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stoniton
about. What in the world is it, that you can't tell me?"

"You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell
you at present. Good-night: you'll sleep now you have no longer anything
to listen for."

Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur,
since it would not now hasten his return: the news of his grandfather's
death would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go
to bed now and get some needful rest, before the time came for the
morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and
to Adam's home.

Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank from
seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again.

"It's no use, sir," he said to the rector, "it's no use for me to go
back. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I couldn't bear
the sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a room
here, where I can see the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, in
time, to bear seeing her."

Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the
crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the belief in
her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from him
the facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason
for thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, at
parting, only said, "If the evidence should tell too strongly against
her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other
circumstances will be a plea for her."

"Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into the
wrong way," said Adam, with bitter earnestness. "It's right they should
know it was a fine gentleman made love to her, and turned her head wi'
notions. You'll remember, sir, you've promised to tell my mother, and
Seth, and the people at the farm, who it was as led her wrong, else
they'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be doing her a
hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, let her
ha' done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose him!"

"I think your demand is just, Adam," said Mr. Irwine, "but when you are
calmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only
that his punishment is in other hands than ours."

Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur's
sad part in the story of sin and sorrow--he who cared for Arthur with
fatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he
saw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart from
Adam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty
would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mind
to withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at
once, for there was no time to rob the tidings of their suddenness.
Hetty's trial must come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be
held at Stoniton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin
Poyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was
better he should know everything as long beforehand as possible.

Before ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm was
a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. The
sense of family dishonour was too keen even in the kind-hearted Martin
Poyser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He
and his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished
character, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head
and paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish register;
and Hetty had brought disgrace on them all--disgrace that could never
be wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of
father and son--the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised all
other sensibility--and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observe
that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled
by the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason is,
that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditional
impressions.

"I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her
off," said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while the old
grandfather was crying in the opposite chair, "but I'll not go nigh her,
nor ever see her again, by my own will. She's made our bread bitter to
us for all our lives to come, an' we shall ne'er hold up our heads i'
this parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's
poor amends pity 'ull make us."

"Pity?" said the grandfather, sharply. "I ne'er wanted folks's pity i'
MY life afore...an' I mun begin to be looked down on now, an' me turned
seventy-two last St. Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pall-bearers
as I'n picked for my funeral are i' this parish and the next to
't....It's o' no use now...I mun be ta'en to the grave by strangers."

"Don't fret so, father," said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little,
being almost overawed by her husband's unusual hardness and decision.
"You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the lads and the little
un 'ull grow up in a new parish as well as i' th' old un."

"Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now," said Mr. Poyser,
and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. "We thought
it 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but I
must gi' notice myself now, an' see if there can anybody be got to come
an' take to the crops as I'n put i' the ground; for I wonna stay upo'
that man's land a day longer nor I'm forced to't. An' me, as thought him
such a good upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to be
our landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i' the same
church wi' him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an'
pretended to be such a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a fine
friend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine, an' all
the while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' this
country any more nor we can."

"An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her," said the
old man. "Why, they'll cast it up to the little un, as isn't four 'ear
old, some day--they'll cast it up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the
'sizes for murder."

"It'll be their own wickedness, then," said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in
her voice. "But there's One above 'ull take care o' the innicent child,
else it's but little truth they tell us at church. It'll be harder nor
ever to die an' leave the little uns, an' nobody to be a mother to 'em."

"We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is," said Mr.
Poyser; "but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be at Leeds."

"Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith," said
Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husband.
"I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't remember what name
she called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's like enough to know, for
she's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on."

"I'll send to Seth," said Mr. Poyser. "I'll send Alick to tell him to
come, or else to send up word o' the woman's name, an' thee canst write
a letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as we can make out a
direction."

"It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i'
trouble," said Mrs. Poyser. "Happen it'll be ever so long on the road,
an' never reach her at last."

Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had
already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, "Eh, there's no
comfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get Dinah
Morris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to
come in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me. She'd tell me the
rights on't, belike--she'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an'
heart-break comin' upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's
life, but war better nor anybody else's son, pick the country round. Eh,
my lad...Adam, my poor lad!"

"Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?" said
Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro.

"Fetch her?" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like
a crying child who hears some promise of consolation. "Why, what place
is't she's at, do they say?"

"It's a good way off, mother--Leeds, a big town. But I could be back in
three days, if thee couldst spare me."

"Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother, an'
bring me word what he's a-doin'. Mester Irwine said he'd come an' tell
me, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me. Thee
must go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to
Dinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin' when nobody wants thee."

"I'm not sure where she'd be i' that big town," said Seth. "If I'd gone
myself, I could ha' found out by asking the members o' the Society. But
perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o'
th' outside, it might get to her; for most like she'd be wi' Sarah
Williamson."

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. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting your
nose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do
anything disgraceful, I'll disown you--mind that, madam, mind that!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The last chapter was harrowing enough, but Eliot opens this one by killing off a character. Who is it? Mrs. Poyser? Seth? Dinah? Which one of these kind, good people will be taken from us? Which one will--oh wait, it's old Squire Donnithorne, "found dead in his bed" . Nobody liked him anyway. Phew. When Mr. Irwine gets back, this is the first news he hears . Thankfully, Mr. Irwine is no gossip-monger. He doesn't tell his mother what he's been up to, and braces himself "for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and Adam's home" . Adam hasn't quieted down at all during Mr. Irwine's absence. Not a smidge. In fact, he seems more determined than ever to pin Hetty's crime on Arthur. Mr. Irwine doesn't deny Arthur's "sad part in the story of sin and sorrow" . But he persuades Adam that vengeance is not the biggest priority. Tell that to the people at the Hall Farm. Really, we're not being sarcastic: vengeance shouldn't be a priority now. The Poysers are all reeling from "a misfortune felt to be worse than death" now that they know of Hetty's crime . They all feel sorry for Adam, definitely. But they're facing the prospect of leaving the area they've known and loved, generation after generation. How would vengeance solve that? The Poysers, at a loss for any other reaction, send for Dinah. But now that Lisbeth Bede knows the news, she's also sent for Dinah. Oh Dinah, where art thou? All of Hayslope is worried and quiet and depressed. It's gotten so bad that Bartle Massey has even put his misogyny on hold. Get us Dinah, pronto. Since Dinah is still away, Mr. Irwine and good old Bartle hold a meeting. Mr. Irwine admits that Hetty may be doomed: "I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything" . Bartle can't say much good about Hetty , but sure does want to help Adam. He decides to shut up his school and "go to Stoniton to look after Adam till this business is over" . Though Irwine decides to stay in Hayslope for the time, he likes Bartle's plan. So Bartle runs off. Maybe Bartle Massey will never be as in-demand as Dinah. But he's in demand now. Relish it, Bartle! It's your turn to shine.


prompt:
Chapter: AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one laid
on the floor. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the dark wall
opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled
with the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey is
pretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles at
Adam Bede, seated near the dark window.

You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face has
got thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected beard
of a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his
forehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to
push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has one
arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at his
clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door.

"There he is," said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the
door. It was Mr. Irwine.

Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine
approached him and took his hand.

"I'm late, Adam," he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placed
for him, "but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I intended
to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I have done
everything now, however--everything that can be done to-night, at least.
Let us all sit down."

Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was
no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background.

"Have you seen her, sir?" said Adam tremulously.

"Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening."

"Did you ask her, sir...did you say anything about me?"

"Yes," said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, "I spoke of you. I said
you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented."

As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning eyes.

"You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only
you--some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against her
fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than 'No' either
to me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentioned
to her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family whom she
would like to see--to whom she could open her mind--she said, with a
violent shudder, 'Tell them not to come near me--I won't see any of
them.'"

Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was
silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, "I don't like
to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you
strongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without her consent.
It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, that
the interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I have
scarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned
your name; she only said 'No,' in the same cold, obstinate way as usual.
And if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless
suffering to you--severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed..."

Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on the
table. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had a
question to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose
quietly, turned the key in the door, and put it in his pocket.

"Is he come back?" said Adam at last.

"No, he is not," said Mr. Irwine, quietly. "Lay down your hat, Adam,
unless you like to walk out with me for a little fresh air. I fear you
have not been out again to-day."

"You needn't deceive me, sir," said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine and
speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. "You needn't be afraid of me.
I only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It's his
work...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybody's heart to look
at...I don't care what she's done...it was him brought her to it. And he
shall know it...he shall feel it...if there's a just God, he shall feel
what it is t' ha' brought a child like her to sin and misery."

"I'm not deceiving you, Adam," said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur Donnithorne is
not come back--was not come back when I left. I have left a letter for
him: he will know all as soon as he arrives."

"But you don't mind about it," said Adam indignantly. "You think it
doesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knows
nothing about it--he suffers nothing."

"Adam, he WILL know--he WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heart
and a conscience: I can't be entirely deceived in his character. I am
convinced--I am sure he didn't fall under temptation without a struggle.
He may be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am
persuaded that this will be a shock of which he will feel the effects
all his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount of
torture that you could inflict on him could benefit her."

"No--O God, no," Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; "but
then, that's the deepest curse of all...that's what makes the blackness
of it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty...she can never be my
sweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing God had made--smiling up at
me...I thought she loved me...and was good..."

Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if
he were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking at
Mr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You don't think she
is, sir? She can't ha' done it."

"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam," Mr. Irwine
answered gently. "In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on what
seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some small
fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right to
say that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bear
the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moral
guilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes even in
determining who has committed a single criminal act, and the problem how
far a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of
his own deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it.
The evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of selfish
indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken some
feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mind
that can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don't suppose
I can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this state
of revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey your
passion--for it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it
justice--it might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay,
worse; your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible crime."

"No--not worse," said Adam, bitterly; "I don't believe it's worse--I'd
sooner do it--I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself
than ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand by and see 'em
punish her while they let me alone; and all for a bit o' pleasure, as,
if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd ha' cut his hand off sooner than
he'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresaw
enough; he'd no right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. And
then he wanted to smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' things
folks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what he
will, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't half so
bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t' himself and knows
all the while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else."

"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of
wrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can't
isolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall not spread.
Men's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other as the air they
breathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the
terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others;
but so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commit
it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply be
another evil added to those we are suffering under: you could not bear
the punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on every one
who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that would
leave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils to
them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance, but
the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and as
long as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that to fix your mind
on Arthur's punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in danger
of being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you
told me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in
the Grove."

Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the past,
and Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to Bartle Massey
about old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other matters of an indifferent
kind. But at length Adam turned round and said, in a more subdued tone,
"I've not asked about 'em at th' Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?"

"He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise him to
see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is best
he should not see you till you are calmer."

"Is Dinah Morris come to 'em, sir? Seth said they'd sent for her."

"No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They're afraid
the letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address."

Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, "I wonder if Dinah
'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha' been sorely
against it, since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think she
would, for the Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons;
and Seth said he thought she would. She'd a very tender way with her,
Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha' done any good. You never saw her,
sir, did you?"

"Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her--she pleased me a good deal.
And now you mention it, I wish she would come, for it is possible that a
gentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jail
chaplain is rather harsh in his manner."

"But it's o' no use if she doesn't come," said Adam sadly.

"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures
for finding her out," said Mr. Irwine, "but it's too late now, I
fear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night. God
bless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Back to Stoniton. We know this is the last place anyone wants to be, but it's where Adam Bede is taking us. Chapter 41 opens in an "upper room in a dull Stoniton street" . This is where a distressed Adam Bede and a concerned Bartle Massey are spending the night. Can't we all just go home? No, we can't. Because here's Mr. Irwine, at the door, with news for Adam. Bad news. Hetty refuses to see anyone, and "some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against her fellow-creatures" . This news whips Adam into another fury against Arthur. But, again, Mr. Irwine argues Adam out of seeking vengeance: "No amount of torture that you could inflict on him could benefit her" . Then why is Eliot torturing us? Get us out of here! We want grassy green Hayslope--not this Stoniton dump. The setting must be getting on Adam's nerves, too, because he won't stop harping on Arthur--who has "no right to expect anything but harm and shame" to result from his actions . Mr. Irwine, however, shows Adam how futile it would be to hurt Arthur. Remember when Adam punched Arthur in the forest? Mr. Irwine and Adam both do; a bigger fistfight won't set anything right. But there is a smidge of good news. Mr. Irwine remembers Dinah and speculates that "a gentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart" . Of course, they'd have to track down Dinah before anyone's heart gets opened. But they've got a plan. They don't have much else going for them, but they've got a plan.


prompt:
Chapter: AT one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper room;
his watch lay before him on the table, as if he were counting the
long minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be said by
the witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particulars
connected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave active man, who
would have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an
apprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplate
irremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility which would have
been an impelling force where there was any possibility of action became
helpless anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an
active outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energetic
natures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a
hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the overmastering
sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable instinct,
as they would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to think
of seeing Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because he thought the
meeting might possibly be a good to her--might help to melt away this
terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will
for what she had done to him, she might open her heart to him. But this
resolution had been an immense effort--he trembled at the thought of
seeing her changed face, as a timid woman trembles at the thought of
the surgeon's knife, and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspense
rather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable agony of
witnessing her trial.

Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration,
the initiation into a new state. The yearning memories, the bitter
regret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the Invisible
Right--all the intense emotions which had filled the days and nights of
the past week, and were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd
into the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all the
previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had
only now awaked to full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he had
always before thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all
that he had himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's
stroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may do
the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a
soul full of new awe and new pity.

"O God," Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked blankly at
the face of the watch, "and men have suffered like this before...and
poor helpless young things have suffered like her....Such a little while
ago looking so happy and so pretty...kissing 'em all, her grandfather
and all of 'em, and they wishing her luck....O my poor, poor
Hetty...dost think on it now?"

Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun to
whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on the stairs.
It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all over?

Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand and
said, "I'm just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are gone out
of court for a bit."

Adam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speak--he could only
return the pressure of his friend's hand--and Bartle, drawing up the
other chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his hat and his
spectacles.

"That's a thing never happened to me before," he observed, "to go out o'
the door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take 'em off."

The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respond
at all to Adam's agitation: he would gather, in an indirect way, that
there was nothing decisive to communicate at present.

"And now," he said, rising again, "I must see to your having a bit of
the loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent this morning. He'll be
angry with me if you don't have it. Come, now," he went on, bringing
forward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine into a cup, "I
must have a bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad--drink
with me."

Adam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, "Tell me about
it, Mr. Massey--tell me all about it. Was she there? Have they begun?"

"Yes, my boy, yes--it's taken all the time since I first went; but
they're slow, they're slow; and there's the counsel they've got for her
puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do with
cross-examining the witnesses and quarrelling with the other lawyers.
That's all he can do for the money they give him; and it's a big
sum--it's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow, with an eye that 'ud pick
the needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it
'ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in court;
but a tender heart makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures for ever
only to have had some good news to bring to you, my poor lad."

"But does it seem to be going against her?" said Adam. "Tell me what
they've said. I must know it now--I must know what they have to bring
against her."

"Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but Martin
Poyser--poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for him--it was like one
sob, the sound they made when he came down again. The worst was when
they told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor
fellow--it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily on him
as well as you; you must help poor Martin; you must show courage. Drink
some wine now, and show me you mean to bear it like a man."

Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet
obedience, took up the cup and drank a little.

"Tell me how SHE looked," he said presently.

"Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it was the
first sight of the crowd and the judge, poor creatur. And there's a lot
o' foolish women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all up their arms
and feathers on their heads, sitting near the judge: they've dressed
themselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be scarecrows and warnings
against any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up their
glasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a white
image, staring down at her hands and seeming neither to hear nor see
anything. And she's as white as a sheet. She didn't speak when they
asked her if she'd plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty,' and they pleaded 'not
guilty' for her. But when she heard her uncle's name, there seemed to go
a shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at her, she
hung her head down, and cowered, and hid her face in her hands.
He'd much ado to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. And the
counsellors--who look as hard as nails mostly--I saw, spared him as much
as they could. Mr. Irwine put himself near him and went with him out o'
court. Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by a
neighbour and uphold him in such trouble as that."

"God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey," said Adam, in a low voice,
laying his hand on Bartle's arm.

"Aye, aye, he's good metal; he gives the right ring when you try him,
our parson does. A man o' sense--says no more than's needful. He's not
one of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as if
folks who stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble was
than those who have to bear it. I've had to do with such folks in my
time--in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to be
a witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her
character and bringing up."

"But the other evidence...does it go hard against her!" said Adam. "What
do you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth."

"Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at
last. The doctors' evidence is heavy on her--is heavy. But she's gone
on denying she's had a child from first to last. These poor silly
women-things--they've not the sense to know it's no use denying what's
proved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so
obstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the
verdict's against her. But Mr. Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned with
the judge--you may rely upon that, Adam."

"Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the court?"
said Adam.

"There's the chaplain o' the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp
ferrety-faced man--another sort o' flesh and blood to Mr. Irwine. They
say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o' the clergy."

"There's one man as ought to be there," said Adam bitterly. Presently he
drew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently turning
over some new idea in his mind.

"Mr. Massey," he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, "I'll
go back with you. I'll go into court. It's cowardly of me to keep away.
I'll stand by her--I'll own her--for all she's been deceitful. They
oughtn't to cast her off--her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to
God's mercy, and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I'll
never be hard again. I'll go, Mr. Massey--I'll go with you."

There was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented Bartle
from opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only said, "Take
a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must stop
and eat a morsel. Now, you take some."

Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and drank
some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as he had been yesterday, but he
stood upright again, and looked more like the Adam Bede of former days.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: So here we are, once more, in Adam's "dull upper room" in Stoniton . Heavens, will we never leave this dreadful town? Adam himself feels trapped, crushed by the "irremediable evil and suffering" that surrounds Hetty's crime . Yet there is a silver lining. Adam now looks "back on all the previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only now awakened to full consciousness" . Otherwise, he's too anguished to get in a square meal, or say a nice word to Bartle Massey . Don't worry, Bartle. We appreciate your efforts. The one thing that Bartle is good for, though, is telling Adam all about the trial. And not just the charges and evidence against Hetty--also things like how Hetty looks and how she reacts . Wow, this is the most depressing chapter ever. Let's wind it up. Finally, when Bartle describes Mr. Irwine's kindness toward Hetty, Adam shows a little gratitude. "God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey," says Adam . Finally. But Bartle isn't one to sugarcoat. There is strong evidence against Hetty; the verdict could easily go against her. Adam, knowing this, decides it would be "cowardly of me to keep away" from the courtroom any longer . So we're leaving this dreary apartment... and heading to a dreary courtroom. Thanks a lot, Eliot.