prompt:
Chapter: NEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his back
against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail, saying a few last
words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away, but the
elderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and stroking
his chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet clear
woman's voice, saying, "Can I get into the prison, if you please?"

He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments
without answering.

"I have seen you before," he said at last. "Do you remember preaching on
the village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?"

"Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on
horseback?"

"Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?"

"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned
to death--and to stay with her, if I may be permitted. Have you power in
the prison, sir?"

"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you
know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?"

"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I
was away at Leeds, and didn't know of this great trouble in time to get
here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenly
Father, to let me go to her and stay with her."

"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come
from Leeds?"

"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his home
now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leave
for me to be with her."

"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is very
sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to."

"Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don't let us
delay."

"Come, then," said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission,
"I know you have a key to unlock hearts."

Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were
within the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing them off
when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they entered
the jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There was
no agitation visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as if,
even when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseen
support.

After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and said,
"The turnkey will take you to the prisoner's cell and leave you there
for the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a light during the
night--it is contrary to rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I can
help you in anything, ask the jailer for my address and come to me.
I take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine
fellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening I
heard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked."

"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me where
he lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with trouble to
remember."

"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges over
a tinman's shop, in the street on the right hand as you entered the
prison. There is an old school-master with him. Now, good-bye: I wish
you success."

"Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you."

As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn evening
light seemed to make the walls higher than they were by day, and the
sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a white flower on
this background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all the
while, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rude
voice would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered the
dark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his most
civil tone, "It'll be pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I can
stop with my light a bit, if you like."

"Nay, friend, thank you," said Dinah. "I wish to go in alone."

"As you like," said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and
opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from his
lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sitting
on her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if
she were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock would have been likely
to waken her.

The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the
evening sky, through the small high grating--enough to discern human
faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because
Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a
yearning heart. Then she said, softly, "Hetty!"

There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's frame--a start such
as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock--but she did
not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressible
emotion, "Hetty...it's Dinah."

Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty's frame,
and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as if
listening.

"Hetty...Dinah is come to you."

After a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from
her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking at
each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad
yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them
out.

"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you think I
wouldn't come to you in trouble?"

Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's face--at first like an animal that
gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.

"I'm come to be with you, Hetty--not to leave you--to stay with you--to
be your sister to the last."

Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and
was clasped in Dinah's arms.

They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to move
apart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it, hung on this
something that was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking helpless
in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her
love was welcomed by the wretched lost one. The light got fainter as
they stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet together,
their faces had become indistinct.

Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from
Hetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the hand
that held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah's. It was the human
contact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the dark
gulf.

Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat
beside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven the poor
sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwards
said, that she must not hurry God's work: we are overhasty to speak--as
if God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his love
felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way, but
it got darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light on
the opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divine
presence more and more--nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and
it was the Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was willing the
rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak and find
out how far Hetty was conscious of the present.

"Hetty," she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by your
side?"

"Yes," Hetty answered slowly, "it's Dinah."

"And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm together,
and that night when I told you to be sure and think of me as a friend in
trouble?"

"Yes," said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, "But you can do
nothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. They'll hang me o'
Monday--it's Friday now."

As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering.

"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the suffering
less hard when you have somebody with you, that feels for you--that you
can speak to, and say what's in your heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on
me: you are glad to have me with you."

"You won't leave me, Dinah? You'll keep close to me?"

"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the last....But,
Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one close to
you."

Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?"

"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and
trouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where you
went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have
tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow you--when
my arms can't reach you--when death has parted us--He who is with
us now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no
difference--whether we live or die, we are in the presence of God."

"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me for
certain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live."

"My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it's dreadful.
But if you had a friend to take care of you after death--in that
other world--some one whose love is greater than mine--who can do
everything?...If God our Father was your friend, and was willing to
save you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither know wicked
feelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would
help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn't be so
hard to die on Monday, would it?"

"But I can't know anything about it," Hetty said, with sullen sadness.

"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by trying
to hide the truth. God's love and mercy can overcome all things--our
ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness--all
things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling to, and will not give up.
You believe in my love and pity for you, Hetty, but if you had not let
me come near you, if you wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me,
you'd have shut me out from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel
my love; I couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God's
love out in that way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while
you have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't reach
you until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have done this great
wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.' While you cling to
one sin and will not part with it, it must drag you down to misery after
death, as it has dragged you to misery here in this world, my poor, poor
Hetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there is
light and blessedness for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our
souls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast it
off now, Hetty--now: confess the wickedness you have done--the sin you
have been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down
together, for we are in the presence of God."

Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still held
each other's hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah said, "Hetty,
we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth."

Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching--

"Dinah...help me...I can't feel anything like you...my heart is hard."

Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice:

"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow:
thou hast entered that black darkness where God is not, and hast uttered
the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy
travail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty
to save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is clothed round
with thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannot
stir to come to thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is
helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour! It is a blind
cry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy face
of love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied thee, and melt
her hard heart.

"See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and helpless,
and thou didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and carry her before
thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles only
at the pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her thy life-giving
Spirit, and put a new fear within her--the fear of her sin. Make her
dread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel the
presence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom the
darkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for
her to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercy--now, before
the night of death comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled,
like yesterday that returneth not.

"Saviour! It is yet time--time to snatch this poor soul from everlasting
darkness. I believe--I believe in thy infinite love. What is my love or
my pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my weak
arms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou--thou wilt breathe on the dead
soul, and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death.

"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like the
morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony are upon
thee--I see, I see thou art able and willing to save--thou wilt not let
her perish for ever. Come, mighty Saviour! Let the dead hear thy voice.
Let the eyes of the blind be opened. Let her see that God encompasses
her. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off from
him. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her
whole soul, 'Father, I have sinned.'..."

"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, "I will
speak...I will tell...I won't hide it any more."

But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently from
her knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by her side.
It was a long time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and even
then they sat some time in stillness and darkness, holding each other's
hands. At last Hetty whispered, "I did do it, Dinah...I buried it in the
wood...the little baby...and it cried...I heard it cry...ever such a way
off...all night...and I went back because it cried."

She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: In the Prison Dinah Morris speaks to an older gentleman outside the prison. He is Colonel Townley, the gentleman on horseback who heard Dinah speak on Hayslope Green. He is a magistrate and gets Dinah in to Hetty's cell. She wants to stay with Hetty till the end. Colonel Townley thinks she is brave to stay in a jail cell all night without any light, but Dinah is calm. Townley tells her where Adam is staying. Hetty at first is sullen and withdrawn but finally responds to Dinah's love and is enfolded in her arms. She clings to Dinah, who gently leads her to a full confession of the crime. She tells Hetty that she cannot be forgiven by God until she lets go of her sin, so Hetty tells how she half buried the baby in the wood, hoping someone would find it. She didn't kill it directly. She could only think that if the baby was gone, she could go home. She didn't feel anything for the baby, though its crying went all through her, and that is why she couldn't leave it. She could always hear it crying even after she went away. Then she went back, and it was gone. She sat and waited till they took her. She asks Dinah if now she has confessed, God will make the crying go away. Dinah tells her to kneel down and pray.


prompt:
Chapter: ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for
morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a short
absence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you."

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

"Is it any news?" he said.

"Keep yourself quiet, my lad," said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not what
you're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from the prison.
She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you think
well to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poor
castaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, she said. She
thought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preaching
women are not so back'ard commonly," Bartle muttered to himself.

"Ask her to come in," said Adam.

He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered,
lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the great
change that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tall
man in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she put
her hand into his and said, "Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not
forsaken her."

"Bless you for coming to her," Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me word
yesterday as you was come."

They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each
other in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles,
seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himself
first, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit down," placing the chair
for her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.

"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down," said Dinah, "for I must hasten
back. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, Adam
Bede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid her
farewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you should
see her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time will be
short."

Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.

"It won't be," he said, "it'll be put off--there'll perhaps come a
pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite give it
up."

"That's a blessed thought to me," said Dinah, her eyes filling with
tears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast."

"But let what will be," she added presently. "You will surely come, and
let her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul is
very dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is no
longer hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride of
her heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires to
be taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that the
brethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner's
knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the Hall
Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were
here, she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to
forgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back
with me."

"I can't," Adam said. "I can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'm
listening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but that. It can't be
as she'll die that shameful death--I can't bring my mind to it."

He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while
Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turned
round and said, "I will come, Dinah...to-morrow morning...if it must be.
I may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must be. Tell her, I
forgive her; tell her I will come--at the very last."

"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart," said Dinah.
"I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, and
was not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any
return to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart.
Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen you
to bear all things." Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in
silence.

Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for
her, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, "Farewell,
friend," and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.

"Well," said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his
pocket, "if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it's
but fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she's
one--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting a
woman without some foolishness or other."

Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,
heightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment,
was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises
that he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.

"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep more
or less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keep
thee company in trouble while I can."

It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would
sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space
from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no
sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or
the falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully
tended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, "If I could
ha' done anything to save her--if my bearing anything would ha' done any
good...but t' have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it's
hard for a man to bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if
it hadn't been for HIM....O God, it's the very day we should ha' been
married."

"Aye, my lad," said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavy--it's heavy. But you
must remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notion
she'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think she
could have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done."

"I know--I know that," said Adam. "I thought she was loving and
tender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could I
think any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd married
her, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might never
ha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--my having a bit o'
trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this."

"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have come.
The smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--you must have
time. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and be
a man again, and there may good come out of this that we don't see."

"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't alter th'
evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if there
was a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought
to see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiled
his fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself with
thinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter her
shame and misery."

"Well, lad, well," said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast
with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, "it's
likely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a good
many years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons why
other folks should be patient."

"Mr. Massey," said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you
something different; but you mustn't take it ill of me."

"Not I, lad--not I."

So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing
light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair.
There would soon be no more suspense.

"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey," said Adam, when he saw the
hand of his watch at six. "If there's any news come, we shall hear about
it."

The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, through
the streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as they
hurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prison
gates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing those
eager people.

No; there was no news come--no pardon--no reprieve.

Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself
to send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: he
could not shut out the words.

"The cart is to set off at half-past seven."

It must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help.

In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah
had sent him word that she could not come to him; she could not leave
Hetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting.

He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses,
and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after the
door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.

But he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes lifted up
to him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked!
The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with his
heart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful
smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the
sweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were all
gone--all but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of all
was the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes looking
at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the
dead to tell him of her misery.

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

When the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--she
felt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh
fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to
reflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past
and the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him.

"Speak to him, Hetty," Dinah said; "tell him what is in your heart."

Hetty obeyed her, like a little child.

"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you forgive
me...before I die?"

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

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

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

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

"And tell him," Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell him...for
there's nobody else to tell him...as I went after him and couldn't find
him...and I hated him and cursed him once...but Dinah says I should
forgive him...and I try...for else God won't forgive me."

There was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being turned
in the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there
were several faces there. He was too agitated to see more--even to
see that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the last
preparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room
was silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in
loneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end.

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

completion: The Hours of Suspense Bartle Massey announces a visitor to Adam in his Stoniton room where he awaits Hetty's execution. Dinah Morris comes to tell him that Hetty has repented and wants to see Adam, to ask his forgiveness before she dies. Adam, very haggard, says he cannot believe she has to die like that; he believes a pardon will come. He will wait till the last minute before seeing her. He sends his forgiveness through Dinah and says he will come. Bartle, though disliking women, pronounces Dinah to be one woman he approves of. Adam cannot sleep the night before the execution. He bursts out in sorrow, thinking of what Hetty could have been if not for Arthur. Bartle reminds him that Hetty could not have gotten so hard in just a few months. It was in her nature. He says that perhaps some good will come of it all. Adam does not like this philosophy that good can come of evil; her life is ruined, and she is being hanged on the day they would have been married. In the morning, he goes to the prison to talk to Hetty. He cannot bear to see Hetty's eyes; they are so sad, and they are the eyes of the woman he loves. Dinah holds Hetty up as she asks forgiveness. Adam says he forgave her long ago. He feels a release and begins crying. Hetty is shocked by the signs of Adam's suffering and moves towards him, asking if he will kiss her good by. Adam gives her a kiss and will never see her again. Hetty asks Adam to tell Arthur she forgives him, so that God will forgive her.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

completion: The Last Moment There is a crowd on the street waiting to see the hanging. They are there to watch the now legendary Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman who made Hetty confess, as much as to see the criminal. Dinah stands beside Hetty in the cart as it moves through the streets to the gallows. Dinah tells Hetty to close her eyes, and she begins to pray aloud to keep her thoughts on God and not on the crowd. Suddenly there is a shout. A horseman gallops up with a paper in his hand. It is Arthur Donnithorne with a stay of execution.


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

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

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

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

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

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

This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow:
suspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved
not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him.
He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur.
And Adam distrusted himself--he had learned to dread the violence of his
own feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what he
had felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remained
with him.

These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged with
strong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called up
the image of the Grove--of that spot under the overarching boughs where
he had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessed
by sudden rage.

"I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time," he said; "it'll
do me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when I'd knocked
him down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it,
before I began to think he might be dead."

In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the
same spot at the same time.

Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off the
other with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had had
the basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, with
his pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the
Grove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of
tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenly
round him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyes
rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and now
he paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary
mark of his youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of his
earliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never
return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection
at the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed in
before he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affection
for the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer.

He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beech
stood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was coming
until the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him at
only two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each other
in silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himself
as close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as
harrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in the
misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such a
meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always
seen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid,
careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him with
the signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was--he could not lay
a cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to
resist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first to
speak.

"Adam," he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met here,
for I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow."

He paused, but Adam said nothing.

"I know it is painful to you to meet me," Arthur went on, "but it is not
likely to happen again for years to come."

"No, sir," said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to you
to-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an end
between us, and somebody else put in my place."

Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he
spoke again.

"It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't want
to lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything for
my sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen the
evil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't mean
consequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, I
know. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be
done, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?"

"Yes, sir," said Adam, after some hesitation; "I'll hear what it is. If
I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know.
We've had enough o' that."

"I was going to the Hermitage," said Arthur. "Will you go there with me
and sit down? We can talk better there."

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for
Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened the
door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the
chair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was the
waste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in
an instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have
been painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had been
less painful.

They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said,
"I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army."

Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this
announcement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him. But
Adam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face
unchanged.

"What I want to say to you," Arthur continued, "is this: one of my
reasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may leave
their home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrifice
I would not make, to prevent any further injury to others through
my--through what has happened."

Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had
anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion of
compensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt to
make evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused his
indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right in
the face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he
had the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a rich
man. He felt his old severity returning as he said, "The time's past for
that, sir. A man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong;
sacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got
a deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours."

"Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I meant
that? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave the
place where they have lived so many years--for generations. Don't you
see, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the
feeling that drives them away, it would be much better for them in the
end to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who know
them?"

"That's true," said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings are
not so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to a
strange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the Hall
Farm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a man
with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's to be made any
other than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made up
for."

Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in
him this evening, his pride winced under Adam's mode of treating him.
Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his most
cherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months ago--Adam was
forcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his own
wrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the most
irritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued
by the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confronted
each other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. The
momentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal
from Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; but
there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said,
"But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct--by giving
way to anger and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinking
what will be the effect in the future.

"If I were going to stay here and act as landlord," he added presently,
with still more eagerness--"if I were careless about what I've
done--what I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, for
going away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse then
for trying to make the evil worse. But when I tell you I'm going away
for years--when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off every
plan of happiness I've ever formed--it is impossible for a sensible
man like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poysers
refusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine has
told me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of
this idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours,
and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in his
efforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods."

Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know that's a
good work to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. And
you don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you will
like to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate and
take my name. He is a good fellow."

Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feel
that this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he had
loved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be
thrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that
induced him to go on, with growing earnestness.

"And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk the
matter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and then if
you would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....I
know, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me--I mean
nothing of that kind--but I'm sure they would suffer less in the end.
Irwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority
on the estate--he has consented to undertake that. They will really be
under no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the same
with you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse
pain that could incline you to go."

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some
agitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so towards you, I know. If you
were in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the
best."

Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthur
went on, "Perhaps you've never done anything you've had bitterly to
repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous.
You would know then that it's worse for me than for you."

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the
windows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued,
passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday?
Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? And
don't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?"

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mind
was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have little
permanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame
before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the
movement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which
Adam said, "It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature.
I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t'
everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her suffering
cut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard
with her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling
overmuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known what
it is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been too
harsh to my father when he was gone from me--I feel it now, when I think
of him. I've no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong and
repent."

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is
resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on
with more hesitation.

"I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but if
you're willing to do it now, for all I refused then..."

Arthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and with
that action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyish
affection.

"Adam," Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would never
have happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have helped to save
me from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived
you afterwards--and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced
upon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter
I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think I
would not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from the
very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give my
life if I could undo it."

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously,
"How did she seem when you left her, sir?"

"Don't ask me, Adam," Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I should go
mad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that I
couldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save her from that wretched
fate of being transported--that I can do nothing for her all those
years; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any more."

"Ah, sir," said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in
sympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing,
when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as I
pray him to help me."

"But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris," Arthur said, pursuing
his own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam's
words, "she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment--till
she goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort
in her. I could worship that woman; I don't know what I should do if she
were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could say
nothing to her yesterday--nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her,"
Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with which
he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked you
to give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she is the
one source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn't care about
such things--or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she
will use the watch--I shall like to think of her using it."

"I'll give it to her, sir," Adam said, "and tell her your words. She
told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm."

"And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur, reminded
of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchange
of revived friendship. "You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to
carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?"

"There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of," said
Adam, with hesitating gentleness, "and that was what made me hang back
longer. You see, it's the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay,
it's for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we'd put up with
anything for the sake o' that. I know that's what they'll feel, and
I can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an
honourable independent spirit, they don't like to do anything that might
make 'em seem base-minded."

"But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason
strong enough against a course that is really more generous, more
unselfish than the other. And it will be known--it shall be made known,
that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try to
make things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that."

"No, sir, no," Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection.
"God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could
do it, in my passion--but that was when I thought you didn't feel
enough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got to
think of now--to do my work well and make the world a bit better place
for them as can enjoy it."

"Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and
consult with him about everything."

"Are you going soon, sir?" said Adam.

"As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements.
Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place."

"Good-bye, sir. God bless you."

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling
that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the
waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.

Book Six

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

completion: Another Meeting in the Wood This is an important chapter winding up the consequences of the love triangle of Arthur, Adam, and Hetty. It is the day after Hetty escapes hanging. Adam has just been to see the Poysers to tell them all that they don't know about the case. He agrees to leave Hayslope with the Poysers and to live near them. Arthur and Adam both walk that evening in the Grove, each thinking of the events that took place there. They meet and see each other's suffering. Arthur asks to speak with Adam, and they go to the Hermitage. Arthur says he is doing what is most painful to him--leaving his home and cherished plans and going to the army. He is leaving the estate in Mr. Irwine's hands, and he begs that Adam will persuade the Poysers to stay. He will not be there, so their honor will not be stained, for he won't be their landlord. Adam says there is pride to consider, but Arthur says he wants to lessen the evil by helping them to stay on the land they have been on for generations. Adam agrees to stay and continue managing the woods. Arthur tells Adam it is worse for him because he caused the tragedy. If he had known Adam loved Hetty, he would have stayed away. He explains that he loved Hetty too, and he will always remember the pain of speaking with her yesterday in prison, and how he wishes he could have gotten her off completely. As it is she will be transported as a criminal and may die an early death. He mentions that he had told Hetty in the letter he would help her, and he would give his life to undo the misery. Adam says he has no right to be hard on someone who is repentant, and he offers to shake Arthur's hand. They feel affection for one another as they had when boys. Arthur says the only consolation he has is that Dinah Morris stayed with Hetty, and for that, he wants to give her his watch and chain as a token of thanks. Adam will give it to her.


prompt:
Chapter: THE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801--more than eighteen months
after that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage--was on the
yard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excited
moments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being driven
into the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beasts
ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of the
bull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid feminine
creatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have some
relation to their own movements--with the tremendous crack of the
waggoner's whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the
waggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load.

The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this
hour on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with her
knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a
keener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a
pailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishment
of having her hinder-legs strapped.

To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the
arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who was
stitching Mr. Poyser's shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to have
her thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden
insistence that she should look at "Baby," that is, at a large wooden
doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her
small chair at Dinah's side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek
with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years' growth than
when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore.
Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family
likeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little
outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant
house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter.

"I never saw the like to you, Dinah," Mrs. Poyser was saying, "when
you've once took anything into your head: there's no more moving you
than the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don't believe
that's religion; for what's the Sermon on the Mount about, as you're so
fond o' reading to the boys, but doing what other folks 'ud have you do?
But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like taking
your cloak off and giving it to 'em, or letting 'em slap you i' the
face, I daresay you'd be ready enough. It's only when one 'ud have you
do what's plain common sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinate
th' other way."

"Nay, dear Aunt," said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her
work, "I'm sure your wish 'ud be a reason for me to do anything that I
didn't feel it was wrong to do."

"Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like
to know, i' staying along wi' your own friends, as are th' happier for
having you with 'em an' are willing to provide for you, even if your
work didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o' sparrow's victual y' eat
and the bit o' rag you put on? An' who is it, I should like to know, as
you're bound t' help and comfort i' the world more nor your own flesh
and blood--an' me th' only aunt you've got above-ground, an' am brought
to the brink o' the grave welly every winter as comes, an' there's the
child as sits beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an'
the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull miss
you so as never was--a-lighting his pipe an' waiting on him, an' now I
can trust you wi' the butter, an' have had all the trouble o' teaching
you, and there's all the sewing to be done, an' I must have a strange
gell out o' Treddles'on to do it--an' all because you must go back to
that bare heap o' stones as the very crows fly over an' won't stop at."

"Dear Aunt Rachel," said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face, "it's
your kindness makes you say I'm useful to you. You don't really want me
now, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you're in good
health now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful
countenance again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few--some
of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will not
miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need,
who have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel that I am
called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn
again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word
of life to the sinful and desolate."

"You feel! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance
at the cows, "that's allays the reason I'm to sit down wi', when you've
a mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for
more than you're preaching now? Don't you go off, the Lord knows where,
every Sunday a-preaching and praying? An' haven't you got Methodists
enow at Treddles'on to go and look at, if church-folks's faces are too
handsome to please you? An' isn't there them i' this parish as you've
got under hand, and they're like enough to make friends wi' Old Harry
again as soon as your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranage--she'll
be flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be bound.
She'll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog 'ull stand
on its hind-legs when there's nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna
matter so much about folks's souls i' this country, else you'd be for
staying with your own aunt, for she's none so good but what you might
help her to be better."

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser's voice just then, which
she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look at
the clock, and said: "See there! It's tea-time; an' if Martin's i' the
rick-yard, he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put
your bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and see if
Father's there, and tell him he mustn't go away again without coming t'
have a cup o' tea; and tell your brothers to come in too."

Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the
bright oak table and reached down the tea-cups.

"You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' their work,"
she began again; "it's fine talking. They're all the same, clever or
stupid--one can't trust 'em out o' one's sight a minute. They want
somebody's eye on 'em constant if they're to be kept to their work.
An' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the winter before last?
Who's to look after 'em then, if you're gone? An' there's that blessed
child--something's sure t' happen to her--they'll let her tumble into
the fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard in't, or some
mischief as 'ull lame her for life; an' it'll be all your fault, Dinah."

"Aunt," said Dinah, "I promise to come back to you in the winter if
you're ill. Don't think I will ever stay away from you if you're in real
want of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should go
away from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all things too
richly to enjoy--at least that I should go away for a short space. No
one can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the besetments I
am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call of duty
which I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own desires; it
is a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature should
become like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light."

"It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury," said
Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. "It's true there's good
victual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I don't provide
enough and to spare, but if there's ever a bit o' odds an' ends as
nobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it out...but look there!
There's Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he's
come so early."

Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at her
darling in a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof on her
tongue.

"Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should be ashamed to
be carried. Why, Adam, she'll break your arm, such a big gell as that;
set her down--for shame!"

"Nay, nay," said Adam, "I can lift her with my hand--I've no need to
take my arm to it."

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy,
was set down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her reproof with
a shower of kisses.

"You're surprised to see me at this hour o' the day," said Adam.

"Yes, but come in," said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; "there's no
bad news, I hope?"

"No, nothing bad," Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his
hand to her. She had laid down her work and stood up, instinctively, as
he approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as she
put her hand in his and looked up at him timidly.

"It's an errand to you brought me, Dinah," said Adam, apparently
unconscious that he was holding her hand all the while; "mother's a bit
ailing, and she's set her heart on your coming to stay the night with
her, if you'll be so kind. I told her I'd call and ask you as I came
from the village. She overworks herself, and I can't persuade her to
have a little girl t' help her. I don't know what's to be done."

Adam released Dinah's hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting an
answer, but before she had opened her lips Mrs. Poyser said, "Look there
now! I told you there was folks enow t' help i' this parish, wi'out
going further off. There's Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas'alty as can
be, and she won't let anybody but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at
Snowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi'out you nor she can."

"I'll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don't want anything
done first, Aunt," said Dinah, folding up her work.

"Yes, I do want something done. I want you t' have your tea, child; it's
all ready--and you'll have a cup, Adam, if y' arena in too big a hurry."

"Yes, I'll have a cup, please; and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm going
straight home, for I've got a lot o' timber valuations to write out."

"Why, Adam, lad, are you here?" said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and
coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking as much
like him as two small elephants are like a large one. "How is it we've
got sight o' you so long before foddering-time?"

"I came on an errand for Mother," said Adam. "She's got a touch of her
old complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her a bit."

"Well, we'll spare her for your mother a little while," said Mr. Poyser.
"But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on'y her husband."

"Husband!" said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period of
the boyish mind. "Why, Dinah hasn't got a husband."

"Spare her?" said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and then
seating herself to pour out the tea. "But we must spare her, it seems,
and not for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are
you doing to your little sister's doll? Making the child naughty, when
she'd be good if you'd let her. You shanna have a morsel o' cake if you
behave so."

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turning
Dolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her truncated body to
the general scorn--an indignity which cut Totty to the heart.

"What do you think Dinah's been a-telling me since dinner-time?" Mrs.
Poyser continued, looking at her husband.

"Eh! I'm a poor un at guessing," said Mr. Poyser.

"Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i' the mill,
and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has got no
friends."

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant
astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now seated
herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and
was busying herself with the children's tea. If he had been given to
making general reflections, it would have occurred to him that there was
certainly a change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour;
but, as it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at that
moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it was
a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came
because her uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is no
knowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, "Why, I
hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up the
notion o' going back to her old country."

"Thought! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "and so would anybody else ha'
thought, as had got their right end up'ards. But I suppose you must be
a Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's ill guessing what the
bats are flying after."

"Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from us?"
said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. "It's like breaking
your word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but you'd make this
your home."

"Nay, Uncle," said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. "When I first came, I
said it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my
aunt."

"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?" said
Mrs. Poyser. "If you didna mean to stay wi' me, you'd better never ha'
come. Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views. "Thee
mustna say so; we should ha' been ill off wi'out her, Lady day was a
twelvemont'. We mun be thankful for that, whether she stays or no. But
I canna think what she mun leave a good home for, to go back int' a
country where the land, most on't, isna worth ten shillings an acre,
rent and profits."

"Why, that's just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she can give a
reason," said Mrs. Poyser. "She says this country's too comfortable,
an' there's too much t' eat, an' folks arena miserable enough. And she's
going next week. I canna turn her, say what I will. It's allays the way
wi' them meek-faced people; you may's well pelt a bag o' feathers as
talk to 'em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate--is it now,
Adam?"

Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her by any
matter relating to herself, and, anxious to relieve her, if possible,
he said, looking at her affectionately, "Nay, I can't find fault with
anything Dinah does. I believe her thoughts are better than our guesses,
let 'em be what they may. I should ha' been thankful for her to stay
among us, but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn't cross her, or make it
hard to her by objecting. We owe her something different to that."

As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just too
much for Dinah's susceptible feelings at this moment. The tears came
into the grey eyes too fast to be hidden and she got up hurriedly,
meaning it to be understood that she was going to put on her bonnet.

"Mother, what's Dinah crying for?" said Totty. "She isn't a naughty
dell."

"Thee'st gone a bit too fur," said Mr. Poyser. "We've no right t'
interfere with her doing as she likes. An' thee'dst be as angry as could
be wi' me, if I said a word against anything she did."

"Because you'd very like be finding fault wi'out reason," said Mrs.
Poyser. "But there's reason i' what I say, else I shouldna say it. It's
easy talking for them as can't love her so well as her own aunt does.
An' me got so used to her! I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep
when she's gone from me. An' to think of her leaving a parish where
she's so looked on. There's Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as if
she was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggot o'
preaching in her head--God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to call it
so."

"Aye," said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; "but thee dostna tell Adam what
he said to thee about it one day. The missis was saying, Adam, as the
preaching was the only fault to be found wi' Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says,
'But you mustn't find fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget
she's got no husband to preach to. I'll answer for it, you give Poyser
many a good sermon.' The parson had thee there," Mr. Poyser added,
laughing unctuously. "I told Bartle Massey on it, an' he laughed too."

"Yes, it's a small joke sets men laughing when they sit a-staring at
one another with a pipe i' their mouths," said Mrs. Poyser. "Give
Bartle Massey his way and he'd have all the sharpness to himself. If
the chaff-cutter had the making of us, we should all be straw, I reckon.
Totty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin Dinah, and see what she's
doing, and give her a pretty kiss."

This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certain
threatening symptoms about the corners of the mouth; for Tommy,
no longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his
forefingers and turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that she
felt to be disagreeably personal.

"You're rare and busy now--eh, Adam?" said Mr. Poyser. "Burge's getting
so bad wi' his asthmy, it's well if he'll ever do much riding about
again."

"Yes, we've got a pretty bit o' building on hand now," said Adam, "what
with the repairs on th' estate, and the new houses at Treddles'on."

"I'll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit o'
land is for him and Mary to go to," said Mr. Poyser. "He'll be for
laying by business soon, I'll warrant, and be wanting you to take to it
all and pay him so much by th' 'ear. We shall see you living on th' hill
before another twelvemont's over."

"Well," said Adam, "I should like t' have the business in my own hands.
It isn't as I mind much about getting any more money. We've enough and
to spare now, with only our two selves and mother; but I should like
t' have my own way about things--I could try plans then, as I can't do
now."

"You get on pretty well wi' the new steward, I reckon?" said Mr. Poyser.

"Yes, yes; he's a sensible man enough; understands farming--he's
carrying on the draining, and all that, capital. You must go some day
towards the Stonyshire side and see what alterations they're making. But
he's got no notion about buildings. You can so seldom get hold of a man
as can turn his brains to more nor one thing; it's just as if they wore
blinkers like th' horses and could see nothing o' one side of 'em. Now,
there's Mr. Irwine has got notions o' building more nor most architects;
for as for th' architects, they set up to be fine fellows, but the most
of 'em don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrelling
with a door. My notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit o'
taste makes the best architect for common things; and I've ten times the
pleasure i' seeing after the work when I've made the plan myself."

Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam's discourse on
building, but perhaps it suggested to him that the building of his
corn-rick had been proceeding a little too long without the control of
the master's eye, for when Adam had done speaking, he got up and said,
"Well, lad, I'll bid you good-bye now, for I'm off to the rick-yard
again."

Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a
little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty.

"You're ready, I see, Dinah," Adam said; "so we'll set off, for the
sooner I'm at home the better."

"Mother," said Totty, with her treble pipe, "Dinah was saying her
prayers and crying ever so."

"Hush, hush," said the mother, "little gells mustn't chatter."

Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on the
white deal table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. and Mrs. Poyser, you
perceive, had no correct principles of education.

"Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn't want you, Dinah," said Mrs.
Poyser: "but you can stay, you know, if she's ill."

So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm
together.

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

completion: At the Hall Farm Eighteen months later, Mrs. Poyser is trying to talk Dinah out of leaving for Snowfield. She has been staying with the Poysers to help them through the tragedy. Mrs. Poyser tries to convince her she can minister to the poor in Hayslope; there are many people who depend on her. Dinah says she must avoid the temptation of luxury and go back to the mill where she is needed more. Dinah reminds her aunt that she has stayed to see them all back on their feet, and they are well and prosperous. It is mentioned that old Mr. Poyser died the previous year, the reason for Mrs. Poyser wearing black. When Adam Bede comes to the farm, Dinah blushes. Adam has come to fetch her for his mother, who is ailing. He explains his mother is working too hard but will not let him hire a girl to help her. Mrs. Poyser announces to the family at tea that Dinah is leaving, and she looks disturbed and rushes from the room crying. Everyone had counted on Dinah staying, even Mr. Irwine who treats her like a lady. Adam speaks of his great success with the woods and new building. Mr. Poyser mentions that Burge will no doubt want Adam to take more part in the business, and Adam says he would like to buy the business for himself so he can do as he likes. He gets along with the new Donnithorne steward and Mr. Irwine's management but prefers to be on his own.