“I send this letter to meet you on your arrival,
Arthur, because I may then be at Stoniton, whither
I am called by the most painful duty it has ever been
given me to perform, and it is right that you should
know what I have to tell you without delay.
“I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach
to the retribution that is now falling on you:
any other words that I could write at this moment
must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in
which I must tell you the simple fact.
“Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried
on Friday for the crime of child-murder."...
Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair
and stood for a single minute with a sense of violent
convulsion in his whole frame, as if the life were
going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next
minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching
the letter—he was hurrying along the corridor,
and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was still
there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like
a hunted man across the hall and out along the gravel.
The butler hurried out after him as fast as his elderly
limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where the
young squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled,
and Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining
words of the letter. He thrust it into his pocket
as the horse was led up to him, and at that moment
caught sight of Mills’ anxious face in front
of him.
“Tell them I’m gone—gone to
Stoniton,” he said in a muffled tone of agitation—sprang
into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.
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.”
