“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.
