“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!”
The Eve of the Trial
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.
