“It’s his doing,” he said; “if there’s been any crime, it’s at his door, not at hers.  He taught her to deceive—­he deceived me first.  Let ’em put him on his trial—­let him stand in court beside her, and I’ll tell ’em how he got hold of her heart, and ‘ticed her t’ evil, and then lied to me.  Is he to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her...so weak and young?”

The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor Adam’s maddened feelings.  He was silent, looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something there.  Then he burst out again, in a tone of appealing anguish, “I can’t bear it...O God, it’s too hard to lay upon me—­it’s too hard to think she’s wicked.”

Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence.  He was too wise to utter soothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in moments of terrible emotion—­the hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow—­the sight of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, moved him so deeply that speech was not easy.  Adam stood motionless, with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that short space he was living through all his love again.

“She can’t ha’ done it,” he said, still without moving his eyes, as if he were only talking to himself:  “it was fear made her hide it...I forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wast deceived too...it’s gone hard wi’ thee, my poor Hetty...but they’ll never make me believe it.”

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce abruptness, “I’ll go to him—­I’ll bring him back—­I’ll make him go and look at her in her misery—­he shall look at her till he can’t forget it—­it shall follow him night and day—­as long as he lives it shall follow him—­he shan’t escape wi’ lies this time—­I’ll fetch him, I’ll drag him myself.”

In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was present with him.  Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by the arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, “No, Adam, no; I’m sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance.  The punishment will surely fall without your aid.  Besides, he is no longer in Ireland.  He must be on his way home—­or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago.  I want you now to go with me to Stoniton.  I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can compose yourself.”

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the actual scene.  He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened.

“Remember,” Mr. Irwine went on, “there are others to think of, and act for, besides yourself, Adam:  there are Hetty’s friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to think.  I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam—­from your sense of duty to God and man—­that you will try to act as long as action can be of any use.”