“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!”
Chapter XLI
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.
“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.