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diff --git a/507-h/507-h.htm b/507-h/507-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..04dab95 --- /dev/null +++ b/507-h/507-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,24659 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Adam Bede, by George Eliot</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Adam Bede, by George Eliot</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Adam Bede</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: George Eliot [pseudonym of Mary Anne Evans]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April, 1996 [eBook #507]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 2, 2023]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADAM BEDE ***</div> + +<h1>Adam Bede</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by George Eliot</h2> + +<hr /> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"><b>Book First</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0001">Chapter I — The Workshop</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0002">Chapter II — The Preaching</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0003">Chapter III — After the Preaching</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0004">Chapter IV — Home and Its Sorrows</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0005">Chapter V — The Rector</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0006">Chapter VI — The Hall Farm</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0007">Chapter VII — The Dairy</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0008">Chapter VIII — A Vocation</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0009">Chapter IX — Hetty’s World</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0010">Chapter X — Dinah Visits Lisbeth</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0011">Chapter XI — In the Cottage</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0012">Chapter XII — In the Wood</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0013">Chapter XIII — Evening in the Wood</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0014">Chapter XIV — The Return Home</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0015">Chapter XV — The Two Bed-Chambers</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0016">Chapter XVI — Links</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0018"><b>Book Second</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0017">Chapter XVII — In Which the Story Pauses a Little</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0018">Chapter XVIII — Church</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0019">Chapter XIX — Adam on a Working Day</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0020">Chapter XX — Adam Visits the Hall Farm</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0021">Chapter XXI — The Night-School and the Schoolmaster</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0024"><b>Book Third</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0022">Chapter XXII — Going to the Birthday Feast</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0023">Chapter XXIII — Dinner-Time</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0024">Chapter XXIV — The Health-Drinking</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0025">Chapter XXV — The Games</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0026">Chapter XXVI — The Dance</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0030"><b>Book Fourth</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0027">Chapter XXVII — A Crisis</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0028">Chapter XXVIII — A Dilemma</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0029">Chapter XXIX — The Next Morning</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0030">Chapter XXX — The Delivery of the Letter</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0031">Chapter XXXI — In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0032">Chapter XXXII — Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out”</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0033">Chapter XXXIII — More Links</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0034">Chapter XXXIV — The Betrothal</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0035">Chapter XXXV — The Hidden Dread</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0040"><b>Book Fifth</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0036">Chapter XXXVI — The Journey of Hope</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0037">Chapter XXXVII — The Journey in Despair</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0038">Chapter XXXVIII — The Quest</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0039">Chapter XXXIX — The Tidings</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0040">Chapter XL — The Bitter Waters Spread</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0041">Chapter XLI — The Eve of the Trial</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0042">Chapter XLII — The Morning of the Trial</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0043">Chapter XLIII — The Verdict</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0044">Chapter XLIV — Arthur’s Return</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0045">Chapter XLV — In the Prison</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0046">Chapter XLVI — The Hours of Suspense</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0047">Chapter XLVII — The Last Moment</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0048">Chapter XLVIII — Another Meeting in the Wood</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0054"><b>Book Sixth</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0049">Chapter XLIX — At the Hall Farm</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0050">Chapter L — In the Cottage</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0051">Chapter LI — Sunday Morning</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0052">Chapter LII — Adam and Dinah</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0053">Chapter LIII — The Harvest Supper</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0054">Chapter LIV — The Meeting on the Hill</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2HCH0055">Chapter LV — Marriage Bells</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_EPIL"><b>Epilogue</b></a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> +Book First</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"></a> +Chapter I<br/> +The Workshop</h2> + +<p> +With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to +reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I +undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I +will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, +in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the +year of our Lord 1799. +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and +window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike pile of +planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes +which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite; the +slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the +steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood +propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey +shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose +between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the +tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden +mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was +heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Awake, my soul, and with the sun<br/> +Thy daily stage of duty run;<br/> +Shake off dull sloth... +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated +attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it presently +broke out again with renewed vigour— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Let all thy converse be sincere,<br/> +Thy conscience as the noonday clear. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged +to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a +head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey +of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up +above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of +strength; yet the long supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready +for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and +justified his name; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its +contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that +shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a +mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in +repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of +good-humoured honest intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam’s brother. He is nearly +as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion; +but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous +the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Seth’s broad +shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less +prominence and more repose than his brother’s; and his glance, instead of being +keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see +that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin and wavy, +allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates +very decidedly over the brow. +</p> + +<p> +The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they +scarcely ever spoke to Adam. +</p> + +<p> +The concert of the tools and Adam’s voice was at last broken by Seth, who, +lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the +wall, and said, “There! I’ve finished my door to-day, anyhow.” +</p> + +<p> +The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as Sandy +Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of +surprise, “What! Dost think thee’st finished the door?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “what’s awanting to’t?” +</p> + +<p> +A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round +confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on +his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, “Why, thee’st forgot the +panels.” +</p> + +<p> +The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and +coloured over brow and crown. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoorray!” shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and +seizing the door. “We’ll hang up th’ door at fur end o’ th’ shop an’ write on’t +‘Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.’ Here, Jim, lend’s hould o’ th’ red pot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said Adam. “Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You’ll mayhap be making such +a slip yourself some day; you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’ your mouth then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my head’s full o’ th’ +Methodies,” said Ben. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.” +</p> + +<p> +Ben, however, had now got the “red pot” in his hand, and was about to begin +writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the +air. +</p> + +<p> +“Let it alone, will you?” Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up +to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. “Let it alone, or I’ll shake the soul +out o’ your body.” +</p> + +<p> +Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he +didn’t mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his +powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing +with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, +and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he’s i’ the right to laugh at +me—I canna help laughing at myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t loose him till he promises to let the door alone,” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Ben, lad,” said Seth, in a persuasive tone, “don’t let’s have a quarrel +about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may’s well try to turn a waggon +in a narrow lane. Say you’ll leave the door alone, and make an end on’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“I binna frighted at Adam,” said Ben, “but I donna mind sayin’ as I’ll let ’t +alone at your askin’, Seth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, that’s wise of you, Ben,” said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp. +</p> + +<p> +They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the +bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in +sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +“Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth,” he began—“the pretty parson’s face or her +sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come and hear her, Ben,” said Seth, good-humouredly; “she’s going to preach on +the Green to-night; happen ye’d get something to think on yourself then, +instead o’ those wicked songs you’re so fond on. Ye might get religion, and +that ’ud be the best day’s earnings y’ ever made.” +</p> + +<p> +“All i’ good time for that, Seth; I’ll think about that when I’m a-goin’ to +settle i’ life; bachelors doesn’t want such heavy earnin’s. Happen I shall do +the coortin’ an’ the religion both together, as <i>ye</i> do, Seth; but ye +wouldna ha’ me get converted an’ chop in atween ye an’ the pretty preacher, an’ +carry her aff?” +</p> + +<p> +“No fear o’ that, Ben; she’s neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only +you come and hear her, and you won’t speak lightly on her again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m half a mind t’ ha’ a look at her to-night, if there isn’t good +company at th’ Holly Bush. What’ll she take for her text? Happen ye can tell +me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i’ time for’t. Will’t be—what come ye +out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetess—a +uncommon pretty young woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Ben,” said Adam, rather sternly, “you let the words o’ the Bible alone; +you’re going too far now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Are <i>ye</i> a-turnin’ roun’, Adam? I thought ye war dead again th’ +women preachin’, a while agoo?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I’m not turnin’ noway. I said nought about the women preachin’. I said, +You let the Bible alone: you’ve got a jest-book, han’t you, as you’re rare and +proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, y’ are gettin’ as big a saint as Seth. Y’ are goin’ to th’ preachin’ +to-night, I should think. Ye’ll do finely t’ lead the singin’. But I don’ know +what Parson Irwine ’ull say at his gran’ favright Adam Bede a-turnin’ Methody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I’m not a-going to turn Methodist +any more nor you are—though it’s like enough you’ll turn to something worse. +Mester Irwine’s got more sense nor to meddle wi’ people’s doing as they like in +religion. That’s between themselves and God, as he’s said to me many a time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye; but he’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for all that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe; I’m none so fond o’ Josh Tod’s thick ale, but I don’t hinder you from +making a fool o’ yourself wi’t.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam’s, but Seth said, very seriously. +“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody’s religion’s like thick ale. Thee +dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o’ +the matter as well as the church folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Seth, lad; I’m not for laughing at no man’s religion. Let ’em follow +their consciences, that’s all. Only I think it ’ud be better if their +consciences ’ud let ’em stay quiet i’ the church—there’s a deal to be learnt +there. And there’s such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something +beside Gospel i’ this world. Look at the canals, an’ th’ aqueduc’s, an’ th’ +coal-pit engines, and Arkwright’s mills there at Cromford; a man must learn +summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t’ hear some o’ them +preachers, you’d think as a man must be doing nothing all’s life but shutting’s +eyes and looking what’s agoing on inside him. I know a man must have the love +o’ God in his soul, and the Bible’s God’s word. But what does the Bible say? +Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, +to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this +is my way o’ looking at it: there’s the sperrit o’ God in all things and all +times—weekday as well as Sunday—and i’ the great works and inventions, and i’ +the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our +hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does bits o’ jobs out o’ working +hours—builds a oven for ’s wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or +scrats at his bit o’ garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o’ one, he’s +doin’ more good, and he’s just as near to God, as if he was running after some +preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well done, Adam!” said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his +planks while Adam was speaking; “that’s the best sarmunt I’ve heared this long +while. By th’ same token, my wife’s been a-plaguin’ on me to build her a oven +this twelvemont.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s reason in what thee say’st, Adam,” observed Seth, gravely. “But thee +know’st thyself as it’s hearing the preachers thee find’st so much fault with +has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It’s the preacher as +empties th’ alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he’ll do his work none the +worse for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?” said Wiry +Ben. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Ben, you’ve got a joke again’ me as ’ll last you your life. But it isna +religion as was i’ fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a +wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more’s the pity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ne’er heed me, Seth,” said Wiry Ben, “y’ are a down-right good-hearted chap, +panels or no panels; an’ ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o’ fun, +like some o’ your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, “thee +mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some ’s +got one way o’ looking at things and some ’s got another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said Seth, “I know that well +enough. Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays +lick’st my hand after.” +</p> + +<p> +All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began +to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his +plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, +and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his +name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his +hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his +back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone +on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the +tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, “Look there, now! I +can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock +begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their work and was afraid o’ +doing a stroke too much.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for +going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, “Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like +a young un. When y’ are six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye +wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for nought.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got to do with it, I wonder? +Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as +if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck, just as if he’d never a bit +o’ pride and delight in ’s work. The very grindstone ’ull go on turning a bit +after you loose it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a chap aloon, will ’ee? Ye war +afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—y’ are fond enough o’ preachin’ +yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; +that’ll ’commodate ye—it laves ye th’ more to do.” +</p> + +<p> +With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his +basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth +lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something. +</p> + +<p> +“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking up. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s. I shan’t be home before +going for ten. I’ll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she’s willing. +There’s nobody comes with her from Poyser’s, thee know’st.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather timidly, as +he turned to leave the workshop. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.” +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and +watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no +sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round +his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master’s face with patient +expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being +destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy +personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. +</p> + +<p> +“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, with the same gentle +modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. +</p> + +<p> +Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, “Of course.” Poor fellow, +he had not a great range of expression. +</p> + +<p> +The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam’s and Seth’s dinner; and no +official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all +acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at his master’s heels. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it +to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth +grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. +The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean +as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a +dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some +speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory +expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman’s sight seemed to be dim, +for she did not recognize Adam till he said, “Here’s the key, Dolly; lay it +down for me in the house, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary’s i’ th’ house, and Mester +Burge ’ull be back anon; he’d be glad t’ ha’ ye to supper wi’m, I’ll be’s +warrand.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, +and along the highroad leading away from the village and down to the valley. As +he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau +strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned +round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather +breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings. +</p> + +<p> +Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across +the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running +in his head: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Let all thy converse be sincere,<br/> +Thy conscience as the noonday clear;<br/> +For God’s all-seeing eye surveys<br/> +Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"></a> +Chapter II<br/> +The Preaching</h2> + +<p> +About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the +village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from +the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been +drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in +the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the +village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that +there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a +promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him +for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the heraldic +bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, +had been for some time standing at the door with his hands in his pockets, +balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking towards a piece of +unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the +destination of certain grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing +at intervals. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Casson’s person was by no means of that common type which can be allowed to +pass without description. On a front view it appeared to consist principally of +two spheres, bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and the +moon: that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be +thirteen times larger than the upper which naturally performed the function of +a mere satellite and tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. +Casson’s head was not at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a +“spotty globe,” as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no +head and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression—which was +chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and +interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention—was one of +jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which +usually made itself felt in his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity +could hardly be considered excessive in a man who had been butler to “the +family” for fifteen years, and who, in his present high position, was +necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his +dignity with the satisfaction of his curiosity by walking towards the Green was +the problem that Mr. Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five +minutes; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his +pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his +head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous +indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were +diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have +another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the +Donnithorne Arms. +</p> + +<p> +“Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler,” said the traveller to the +lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse’s +hoofs. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord?” he continued, getting down. +“There seems to be quite a stir.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a Methodis’ preaching, sir; it’s been gev hout as a young woman’s a-going +to preach on the Green,” answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, +with a slightly mincing accent. “Will you please to step in, sir, an’ tek +somethink?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And +what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his +nose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Parson Irwine, sir, doesn’t live here; he lives at Brox’on, over the hill +there. The parsonage here’s a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to +live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an’ puts up his +hoss here. It’s a grey cob, sir, an’ he sets great store by’t. He’s allays put +up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donnithorne Arms. I’m not +this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They’re cur’ous talkers i’ +this country, sir; the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em. I was brought hup +among the gentry, sir, an’ got the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, +what do you think the folks here says for ‘hevn’t you?’—the gentry, you know, +says, ‘hevn’t you’—well, the people about here says ‘hanna yey.’ It’s what they +call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That’s what I’ve heared Squire +Donnithorne say many a time; it’s the dileck, says he.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said the stranger, smiling. “I know it very well. But you’ve not +got many Methodists about here, surely—in this agricultural spot? I should have +thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about +here. You’re all farmers, aren’t you? The Methodists can seldom lay much hold +on <i>them</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, there’s a pretty lot o’ workmen round about, sir. There’s Mester +Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit o’ building +an’ repairs. An’ there’s the stone-pits not far off. There’s plenty of emply i’ +this countryside, sir. An’ there’s a fine batch o’ Methodisses at +Treddles’on—that’s the market town about three mile off—you’ll maybe ha’ come +through it, sir. There’s pretty nigh a score of ’em on the Green now, as come +from there. That’s where our people gets it from, though there’s only two men +of ’em in all Hayslope: that’s Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a +young man as works at the carpenterin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sir, she comes out o’ Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she’s +a-visitin’ hereabout at Mester Poyser’s at the Hall Farm—it’s them barns an’ +big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She’s own niece to Poyser’s +wife, an’ they’ll be fine an’ vexed at her for making a fool of herself i’ that +way. But I’ve heared as there’s no holding these Methodisses when the maggit’s +once got i’ their head: many of ’em goes stark starin’ mad wi’ their religion. +Though this young woman’s quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I’ve +not seen her myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I’ve been out +of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that place in the +valley. It’s Squire Donnithorne’s, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, that’s Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn’t there, +sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I’ve lived butler there a-going i’ +fifteen year. It’s Captain Donnithorne as is th’ heir, sir—Squire Donnithorne’s +grandson. He’ll be comin’ of hage this ’ay-’arvest, sir, an’ we shall hev fine +doin’s. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it’s a pretty spot, whoever may own it,” said the traveller, mounting +his horse; “and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine +a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came +up the hill—a carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and +black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick +the French.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, sir, that’s Adam Bede, that is, I’ll be bound—Thias Bede’s son everybody +knows him hereabout. He’s an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an’ wonderful +strong. Lord bless you, sir—if you’ll hexcuse me for saying so—he can walk +forty mile a-day, an’ lift a matter o’ sixty ston’. He’s an uncommon favourite +wi’ the gentry, sir: Captain Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi’ +him. But he’s a little lifted up an’ peppery-like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your servant, sir; good evenin’.” +</p> + +<p> +The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he +approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the +singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of +Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young +female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his +journey, and he paused. +</p> + +<p> +The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched +off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the +other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led +towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly +to the churchyard gate; but on the opposite northwestern side, there was +nothing to obstruct the view of gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and +dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to +which Hayslope belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked +by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in +the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours’ ride the +traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold +grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up +swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; +and where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the +valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and +its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty +confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as +this last that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount +the gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station near +the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other typical features +of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses +of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify this region of corn and grass +against the keen and hungry winds of the north; not distant enough to be +clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with +sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed +from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in +themselves—left for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged +gleams of the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer +sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanging +woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet +deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the +warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came +the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and +hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might +take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its +faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park +and a broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of +meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw +instead a foreground which was just as lovely—the level sunlight lying like +transparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass and the +tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining the bushy +hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being +whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of +the meadows. +</p> + +<p> +He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned a little in +his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge’s pasture and woodyard +towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees of the Hall Farm; but apparently +there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand. Every +generation in the village was there, from old “Feyther Taft” in his brown +worsted night-cap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep +on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with +their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then +there was a new arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his +supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing +to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited +enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the Methodists on the +Green, and identify themselves in that way with the expectant audience, for +there was not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputation of +having come out to hear the “preacher woman”—they had only come out to see +“what war a-goin’ on, like.” The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood +of the blacksmith’s shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers +never swarm: a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable +of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his +interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away +from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the +dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith’s door was +by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the +blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning +against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his +own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who +had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under +a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr. +Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann’s leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one +in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin +and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle indications, +intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the +presence of the parish clerk. “Old Joshway,” as he is irreverently called by +his neighbours, is in a state of simmering indignation; but he has not yet +opened his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning +of a violoncello, “Sehon, King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for +ever; and Og the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever”—a quotation +which may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with +every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. +Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this +scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his +own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a +quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the +Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume and odd +deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small +cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright’s to serve as a pulpit, and +round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed. Some of the +Methodists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer +or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces +towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly +amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith’s buxom daughter, known to her +neighbours as Chad’s Bess, who wondered “why the folks war amakin’ faces a +that’ns.” Chad’s Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, +being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to +view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks—namely, a +pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets in them, ornaments condemned +not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy’s Bess, +who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished “them ear-rings” might come to +good. +</p> + +<p> +Timothy’s Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, +had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly +jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her +arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a +rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by +Chad’s small terrier. This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of +Timothy’s Bess’s Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false +modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking +round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and +beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But one +of the elderly women bending down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of +grave remonstrance, Timothy’s Bess’s Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took +to his heels and sought refuge behind his father’s legs. +</p> + +<p> +“Ye gallows young dog,” said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, “if ye donna +keep that stick quiet, I’ll tek it from ye. What dy’e mane by kickin’ foulks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Here! Gie him here to me, Jim,” said Chad Cranage; “I’ll tie hirs up an’ shoe +him as I do th’ hosses. Well, Mester Casson,” he continued, as that personage +sauntered up towards the group of men, “how are ye t’ naight? Are ye coom t’ +help groon? They say folks allays groon when they’re hearkenin’ to th’ +Methodys, as if they war bad i’ th’ inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow +did th’ other naight, an’ then the praicher ’ull think I’m i’ th’ raight way.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,” said Mr. Casson, with some +dignity; “Poyser wouldn’t like to hear as his wife’s niece was treated any ways +disrespectful, for all he mayn’t be fond of her taking on herself to preach.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, an’ she’s a pleasant-looked un too,” said Wiry Ben. “I’ll stick up for +the pretty women preachin’; I know they’d persuade me over a deal sooner nor +th’ ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the night’s out, an’ +begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Seth’s looking rether too high, I should think,” said Mr. Casson. “This +woman’s kin wouldn’t like her to demean herself to a common carpenter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tchu!” said Ben, with a long treble intonation, “what’s folks’s kin got to do +wi’t? Not a chip. Poyser’s wife may turn her nose up an’ forget bygones, but +this Dinah Morris, they tell me, ’s as poor as iver she was—works at a mill, +an’s much ado to keep hersen. A strappin’ young carpenter as is a ready-made +Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a +fuss wi’ Adam Bede as if he war a nevvy o’ their own.” +</p> + +<p> +“Idle talk! idle talk!” said Mr. Joshua Rann. “Adam an’ Seth’s two men; you +wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe,” said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, “but Seth’s the lad for me, though he +war a Methody twice o’er. I’m fair beat wi’ Seth, for I’ve been teasin’ him +iver sin’ we’ve been workin’ together, an’ he bears me no more malice nor a +lamb. An’ he’s a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all +afire a-comin’ across the fields one night, an’ we thought as it war a boguy, +Seth made no more ado, but he up to’t as bold as a constable. Why, there he +comes out o’ Will Maskery’s; an’ there’s Will hisself, lookin’ as meek as if he +couldna knock a nail o’ the head for fear o’ hurtin’t. An’ there’s the pretty +preacher woman! My eye, she’s got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer.” +</p> + +<p> +Several of the men followed Ben’s lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on +to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of her companions +towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was near Seth’s tall figure, +she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all +comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she +did not exceed it—an effect which was due to the slimness of her figure and the +simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as +he saw her approach and mount the cart—surprise, not so much at the feminine +delicacy of her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in +her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step +and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face would be +mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with +denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of Methodist—the ecstatic and +the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and +seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no +blush, no tremulousness, which said, “I know you think me a pretty woman, too +young to preach”; no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the +lips, no attitude of the arms that said, “But you must think of me as a saint.” +She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed +before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no +keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making +observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of +what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood +with her left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her +from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face +seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval +face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and +chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, +surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish +hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for +an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same +colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the +eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant—nothing was left blurred or +unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with +light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, +beyond that of expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, +that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their +glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in +order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his +leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had +the pluck to think of courting her. +</p> + +<p> +“A sweet woman,” the stranger said to himself, “but surely nature never meant +her for a preacher.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical properties +and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and psychology, “makes up,” +her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to +speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friends,” she said in a clear but not loud voice “let us pray for a +blessing.” +</p> + +<p> +She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the same +moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: “Saviour of sinners! +When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to draw water, she +found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her +mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst +teach her, Thou didst show her that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou +wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou +art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like +that poor woman—if their minds are dark, their lives unholy—if they have come +out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to +the free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord, open their +ears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for +that salvation which Thou art ready to give. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the night-watches, and +their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou +art near to those who have not known Thee: open their eyes that they may see +Thee—see Thee weeping over them, and saying ‘Ye will not come unto me that ye +might have life’—see Thee hanging on the cross and saying, ‘Father, forgive +them, for they know not what they do’—see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy +glory to judge them at the last. Amen.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of villagers, who +were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friends,” she began, raising her voice a little, “you have all of you +been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read these words: +‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the +gospel to the poor.’ Jesus Christ spoke those words—he said he came <i>to +preach the Gospel to the poor:</i> I don’t know whether you ever thought about +those words much, but I will tell you when I remember first hearing them. It +was on just such a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my +aunt as brought me up took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as +we are here. I remember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long +white hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had +ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and this old +man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen +before that I thought he had perhaps come down from the sky to preach to us, +and I said, ‘Aunt, will he go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the +Bible?’ +</p> + +<p> +“That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our blessed +Lord did—preaching the Gospel to the poor—and he entered into his rest eight +years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish +thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told us in his +sermon. He told us as ‘Gospel’ meant ‘good news.’ The Gospel, you know, is what +the Bible tells us about God. +</p> + +<p> +“Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as I, like a +silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down for was to tell good +news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have +been brought up in poor cottages and have been reared on oat-cake, and lived +coarse; and we haven’t been to school much, nor read books, and we don’t know +much about anything but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of +people that want to hear good news. For when anybody’s well off, they don’t +much mind about hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman’s +in trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter +to tell ’em they’ve got a friend as will help ’em. To be sure, we can’t help +knowing something about God, even if we’ve never heard the Gospel, the good +news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes from God: don’t +you say almost every day, ‘This and that will happen, please God,’ and ‘We +shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a little more +sunshine’? We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God. We didn’t +bring ourselves into the world, we can’t keep ourselves alive while we’re +sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us +milk—everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls and put love +between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we +want to know about God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: +we are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to think of +him. +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much notice of +us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and +the rich. It doesn’t cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and +bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for +the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will +God take care of us when we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame +and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the +blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and +trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to +send bad too. How is it? How is it? +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what does +other good news signify if we haven’t that? For everything else comes to an +end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is +gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend?” +</p> + +<p> +Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind of God +towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its +lowliness and its acts of mercy. +</p> + +<p> +“So you see, dear friends,” she went on, “Jesus spent his time almost all in +doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, and he made +friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what +he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as +the poor were more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and +the blind, and he worked miracles to feed the hungry because, he said, he was +sorry for them; and he was very kind to the little children and comforted those +who had lost their friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that +were sorry for their sins. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, wouldn’t you love such a man if you saw him—if he were here in this +village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would be to go to in +trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, dear friends, who <i>was</i> this man? Was he only a good man—a very +good man, and no more—like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from us?... +He was the Son of God—‘in the image of the Father,’ the Bible says; that means, +just like God, who is the beginning and end of all things—the God we want to +know about. So then, all the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same +love that God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he came in +a body like ours and spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid +to think what God was before—the God who made the world and the sky and the +thunder and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he +had made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might well +tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God +is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he has showed us what God’s +heart is, what are his feelings towards us. +</p> + +<p> +“But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time +he said, ‘I came to seek and to save that which was lost’; and another time, ‘I +came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The <i>lost!... Sinners!</i>... Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?” +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will by the +charm of Dinah’s mellow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like +that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious skill of musical +instinct. The simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody strikes +us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish +chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself +an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly +arrested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no +longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though +quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any transition of +ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the effect of her speech +was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she came to the +question, “Will God take care of us when we die?” she uttered it in such a tone +of plaintive appeal that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The +stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she +could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether +she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must +surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she +came to the words, “Lost!—Sinners!” when there was a great change in her voice +and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclamation, and the pause +seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her +features. Her pale face became paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as +they did when tears half-gather without falling; and the mild loving eyes took +an expression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying +angel hovering over the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, +but there was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of +the Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but +speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of her own +simple faith. +</p> + +<p> +But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became less +calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the +people their guilt, their wilful darkness, their state of disobedience to +God—as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and the +sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been opened for their salvation. +At last it seemed as if, in her yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she +could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first +to one and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while +there was yet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in +sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their +Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for +their return. +</p> + +<p> +There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists, but the +village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety +that might easily die out again was the utmost effect Dinah’s preaching had +wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and +“old Feyther Taft,” who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago +gone back to his inglenook. Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost +wishing he had not come to hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him +somehow. Yet he couldn’t help liking to look at her and listen to her, though +he dreaded every moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in +particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby +to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away some tears +with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better fellow, going less +to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, and cleaning himself more regularly +of a Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad’s Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and +fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of +the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling +speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a +young woman who wore a cap like Dinah’s. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she +took to studying Dinah’s nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it +was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and +round black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the general +gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The +gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more +severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been +considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was necessary to be +very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She couldn’t find her places +at church as Sally Rann could, she had often been tittering when she +“curcheyed” to Mr. Irwine; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by +a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged +unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of feminine characters with whom you +may venture to “eat an egg, an apple, or a nut.” All this she was generally +conscious of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now she +began to feel very much as if the constable had come to take her up and carry +her before the justice for some undefined offence. She had a terrified sense +that God, whom she had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, +and that Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. For +Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which is common among +the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers: she made +them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself +to them in some way that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts. +</p> + +<p> +“See!” she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above +the heads of the people. “See where our blessed Lord stands and weeps and +stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says: ‘How often would I have +gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would +not!’... and ye would not,” she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, +turning her eyes on the people again. “See the print of the nails on his dear +hands and feet. It is your sins that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! +He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was +exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like +blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, +they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they +nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and they mock +him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips he prays for them, +‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Then a horror of great +darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel when they are for ever +shut out from God. That was the last drop in the cup of bitterness. ‘My God, my +God!’ he cries, ‘why hast Thou forsaken me?’ +</p> + +<p> +“All this he bore for you! For you—and you never think of him; for you—and you +turn your backs on him; you don’t care what he has gone through for you. Yet he +is not weary of toiling for you: he has risen from the dead, he is praying for +you at the right hand of God—‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they +do.’ And he is upon this earth too; he is among us; he is there close to you +now; I see his wounded body and his look of love.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity had +touched her with pity. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor child! Poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don’t listen to him. You +think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour +who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, +your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and tottering! Then you +will begin to feel that your soul is not saved; then you will have to stand +before God dressed in your sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And +Jesus, who stands ready to help you now, won’t help you then; because you won’t +have him to be your Saviour, he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with +love and mercy and says, ‘Come to me that you may have life’; then he will turn +away from you, and say, ‘Depart from me into ever-lasting fire!’” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Bessy’s wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red +cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a little +child’s before a burst of crying. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, poor blind child!” Dinah went on, “think if it should happen to you as it +once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. <i>She</i> thought +of her lace caps and saved all her money to buy ’em; she thought nothing about +how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit—she only wanted to have +better lace than other girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and +looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That face is +looking at you now”—here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy—“Ah, +tear off those follies! Cast them away from you, as if they were stinging +adders. They <i>are</i> stinging you—they are poisoning your soul—they are +dragging you down into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and +for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her +ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud. Her +father, Chad, frightened lest he should be “laid hold on” too, this impression +on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, walked +hastily away and began to work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself. +“Folks mun ha’ hoss-shoes, praichin’ or no praichin’: the divil canna lay hould +o’ me for that,” he muttered to himself. +</p> + +<p> +But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the penitent, +and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love with which the soul +of the believer is filled—how the sense of God’s love turns poverty into riches +and satisfies the soul so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it: +how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun +upon earth, because no cloud passes between the soul and God, who is its +eternal sun. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friends,” she said at last, “brothers and sisters, whom I love as those +for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great blessedness is; +and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you: I have +to get my living with my hands; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if +they haven’t got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is—not to hate +anything but sin; to be full of love to every creature; to be frightened at +nothing; to be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, +because it is our Father’s will; to know that nothing—no, not if the earth was +to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown us—nothing could part us from God +who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure +that whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered to you; it is the +good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like the riches of +this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest can have. God is +without end; his love is without end—” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Its streams the whole creation reach,<br/> + So plenteous is the store;<br/> +Enough for all, enough for each,<br/> + Enough for evermore. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the +parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The +stranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as if it had been +the development of a drama—for there is this sort of fascination in all sincere +unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker’s +emotions—now turned his horse aside and pursued his way, while Dinah said, “Let +us sing a little, dear friends”; and as he was still winding down the slope, +the voices of the Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange +blending of exultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"></a> +Chapter III<br/> +After the Preaching</h2> + +<p> +In less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah’s side +along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green corn-fields which +lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little +Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a +freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression +of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side, timidly revolving something +he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity—of +absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with +her own personality—an expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. +Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no +support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, “She’s too good and holy for +any man, let alone me,” and the words he had been summoning rushed back again +before they had reached his lips. But another thought gave him courage: +“There’s no man could love her better and leave her freer to follow the Lord’s +work.” They had been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking +about Bessy Cranage; Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth’s presence, and +her pace was becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few +minutes’ walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to +speak. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o’ Saturday, Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dinah, quietly. “I’m called there. It was borne in upon my mind +while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who’s in a decline, is +in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, +lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I +opened the Bible for direction, the first words my eyes fell on were, ‘And +after we had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.’ +If it wasn’t for that clear showing of the Lord’s will, I should be loath to +go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her little ones, and that poor +wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I’ve been much drawn out in prayer for her of +late, and I look on it as a token that there may be mercy in store for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“God grant it,” said Seth. “For I doubt Adam’s heart is so set on her, he’ll +never turn to anybody else; and yet it ’ud go to my heart if he was to marry +her, for I canna think as she’d make him happy. It’s a deep mystery—the way the +heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he’s seen i’ the world, and +makes it easier for him to work seven year for <i>her</i>, like Jacob did for +Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for th’ asking. I often think of them +words, ‘And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed to him but a +few days for the love he had to her.’ I know those words ’ud come true with me, +Dinah, if so be you’d give me hope as I might win you after seven years was +over. I know you think a husband ’ud be taking up too much o’ your thoughts, +because St. Paul says, ‘She that’s married careth for the things of the world +how she may please her husband’; and may happen you’ll think me overbold to +speak to you about it again, after what you told me o’ your mind last Saturday. +But I’ve been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I’ve prayed not +to be blinded by my own desires, to think what’s only good for me must be good +for you too. And it seems to me there’s more texts for your marrying than ever +you can find against it. For St. Paul says as plain as can be in another place, +‘I will that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none +occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully’; and then ‘two are better +than one’; and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For +we should be o’ one heart and o’ one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same +Master, and are striving after the same gifts; and I’d never be the husband to +make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted +you for. I’d make a shift, and fend indoor and out, to give you more +liberty—more than you can have now, for you’ve got to get your own living now, +and I’m strong enough to work for us both.” +</p> + +<p> +When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and almost +hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he had poured +forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went +on, his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke +the last sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two +tall stones, which performed the office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah +paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble +notes, “Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think +of any man as more than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my +heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and +a blessed thing to be a wife and mother; but ‘as God has distributed to every +man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.’ God has called me to +minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice +with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me +to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very +clear showing that I could leave the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are +favoured with very little of this world’s good; where the trees are few, so +that a child might count them, and there’s very hard living for the poor in the +winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little +flock there and to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these +things from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God’s +work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. +I’ve not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was +given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence for me to change my +way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers; and I spread the matter +before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my mind on marriage, and our +living together, other thoughts always came in—the times when I’ve prayed by +the sick and dying, and the happy hours I’ve had preaching, when my heart was +filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when I’ve opened +the Bible for direction, I’ve always lighted on some clear word to tell me +where my work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a +help and not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God’s +will—He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or +children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my own, it +has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the wants and sufferings of his +poor people.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were +nearly at the yard-gate, he said, “Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to +bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how weak +my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could never joy in anything +any more. I think it’s something passing the love of women as I feel for you, +for I could be content without your marrying me if I could go and live at +Snowfield and be near you. I trusted as the strong love God has given me +towards you was a leading for us both; but it seems it was only meant for my +trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I +often can’t help saying of you what the hymn says— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +In darkest shades if she appear,<br/> + My dawning is begun;<br/> +She is my soul’s bright morning-star,<br/> + And she my rising sun. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn’t be displeased +with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country and go to live at +Snowfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your +own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord’s clear bidding. It’s a +bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Goshen you’ve been used +to. We mustn’t be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be +guided.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’d let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to +tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sure; let me know if you’re in any trouble. You’ll be continually in my +prayers.” +</p> + +<p> +They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, “I won’t go in, Dinah, so +farewell.” He paused and hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then +said, “There’s no knowing but what you may see things different after a while. +There may be a new leading.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us leave that, Seth. It’s good to live only a moment at a time, as I’ve +read in one of Mr. Wesley’s books. It isn’t for you and me to lay plans; we’ve +nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and then +passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly home. But +instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields +through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue linen +handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had made up his mind that +it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards. He was but +three-and-twenty, and had only just learned what it is to love—to love with +that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater +and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly distinguishable from +religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, +or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the +influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or +Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere +waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in +its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love at its highest +flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery. +And this blessed gift of venerating love has been given to too many humble +craftsmen since the world began for us to feel any surprise that it should have +existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there +was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his +fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after +exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. +</p> + +<p> +That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make of +Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep +shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted +women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their +thoughts with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of +their own narrow lives, and suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, +loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too +possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than +low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and +hypocritical jargon—elements which are regarded as an exhaustive analysis of +Methodism in many fashionable quarters. +</p> + +<p> +That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything +else than Methodists—not indeed of that modern type which reads quarterly +reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but of a very +old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous +conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they drew lots, and sought +for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at hazard; having a literal way of +interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanctioned by approved +commentators; and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as +correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still—if I have read religious +history aright—faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct +ratio with a sensibility to the three concords, and it is possible—thank +Heaven!—to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw +bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carry it +to her neighbour’s child to “stop the fits,” may be a piteously inefficacious +remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the +deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. +</p> + +<p> +Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our +sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines +in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves +ridden by still more fiery passions. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when he was a +little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling him to “hold on +tight”; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and +destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homewards under the solemn starlight, +to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live +more for others, as Dinah does. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"></a> +Chapter IV<br/> +Home and Its Sorrows</h2> + +<p> +A green valley with a brook running through it, full almost to overflowing with +the late rains, overhung by low stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is +thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, +followed close by Gyp with the basket; evidently making his way to the thatched +house, with a stack of timber by the side of it, about twenty yards up the +opposite slope. +</p> + +<p> +The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking out; but she is +not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine; she has been watching with dim +eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the last few minutes she has been +quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves her son with the love of +a woman to whom her first-born has come late in life. She is an anxious, spare, +yet vigorous old woman, clean as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly +back under a pure linen cap with a black band round it; her broad chest is +covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown +made of blue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips, +from whence there is a considerable length of linsey-woolsey petticoat. For +Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness between her +and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim now—perhaps from too much +crying—but her broadly marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, +and as she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work-hardened +hands, she has as firmly upright an attitude as when she is carrying a pail of +water on her head from the spring. There is the same type of frame and the same +keen activity of temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that +Adam got his well-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic +dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler +web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion; and ties us by our +heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. We hear a voice with +the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise; we see eyes—ah, +so like our mother’s!—averted from us in cold alienation; and our last darling +child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in +bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage—the +mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of +the modelling hand—galls us and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the +long-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles +come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and irrational +persistence. +</p> + +<p> +It is such a fond anxious mother’s voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says, “Well, +my lad, it’s gone seven by th’ clock. Thee’t allays stay till the last child’s +born. Thee wants thy supper, I’ll warrand. Where’s Seth? Gone arter some o’s +chapellin’, I reckon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye, Seth’s at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where’s father?” +said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into the room on the +left hand, which was used as a workshop. “Hasn’t he done the coffin for Tholer? +There’s the stuff standing just as I left it this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Done the coffin?” said Lisbeth, following him, and knitting uninterruptedly, +though she looked at her son very anxiously. “Eh, my lad, he went aff to +Treddles’on this forenoon, an’s niver come back. I doubt he’s got to th’ +‘Waggin Overthrow’ again.” +</p> + +<p> +A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam’s face. He said nothing, but +threw off his jacket and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again. +</p> + +<p> +“What art goin’ to do, Adam?” said the mother, with a tone and look of alarm. +“Thee wouldstna go to work again, wi’out ha’in thy bit o’ supper?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But his mother threw down +her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, and said, in a +tone of plaintive remonstrance, “Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi’out thy +supper; there’s the taters wi’ the gravy in ’em, just as thee lik’st ’em. I +saved ’em o’ purpose for thee. Come an’ ha’ thy supper, come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let be!” said Adam impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one of the planks +that stood against the wall. “It’s fine talking about having supper when here’s +a coffin promised to be ready at Brox’on by seven o’clock to-morrow morning, +and ought to ha’ been there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat’s too +full to swallow victuals.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready,” said Lisbeth. “Thee’t work thyself to +death. It ’ud take thee all night to do’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“What signifies how long it takes me? Isn’t the coffin promised? Can they bury +the man without a coffin? I’d work my right hand off sooner than deceive people +with lies i’ that way. It makes me mad to think on’t. I shall overrun these +doings before long. I’ve stood enough of ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she had been +wise she would have gone away quietly and said nothing for the next hour. But +one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns is never to talk to an angry or a +drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping bench and began to cry, and by +the time she had cried enough to make her voice very piteous, she burst out +into words. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an’ break thy mother’s heart, an’ +leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha’ ’em carry me to th’ churchyard, +an’ thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee at th’ +last; an’ how’s they to let thee know as I’m a-dyin’, if thee’t gone a-workin’ +i’ distant parts, an’ Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able to +hold a pen for’s hand shakin’, besides not knowin’ where thee art? Thee mun +forgie thy feyther—thee munna be so bitter again’ him. He war a good feyther to +thee afore he took to th’ drink. He’s a clever workman, an’ taught thee thy +trade, remember, an’s niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word—no, not +even in ’s drink. Thee wouldstna ha’ ’m go to the workhus—thy own feyther—an’ +him as was a fine-growed man an’ handy at everythin’ amost as thee art thysen, +five-an’-twenty ’ear ago, when thee wast a baby at the breast.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth’s voice became louder, and choked with sobs—a sort of wail, the most +irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne and real work to be +done. Adam broke in impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mother, don’t cry and talk so. Haven’t I got enough to vex me without +that? What’s th’ use o’ telling me things as I only think too much on every +day? If I didna think on ’em, why should I do as I do, for the sake o’ keeping +things together here? But I hate to be talking where it’s no use: I like to +keep my breath for doing i’stead o’ talking.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know thee dost things as nobody else ’ud do, my lad. But thee’t allays so +hard upo’ thy feyther, Adam. Thee think’st nothing too much to do for Seth: +thee snapp’st me up if iver I find faut wi’ th’ lad. But thee’t so angered wi’ +thy feyther, more nor wi’ anybody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong way, I +reckon, isn’t it? If I wasn’t sharp with him he’d sell every bit o’ stuff i’ +th’ yard and spend it on drink. I know there’s a duty to be done by my father, +but it isn’t my duty to encourage him in running headlong to ruin. And what has +Seth got to do with it? The lad does no harm as I know of. But leave me alone, +Mother, and let me get on with the work.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp, thinking to +console herself somewhat for Adam’s refusal of the supper she had spread out in +the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam’s dog +with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his master with wrinkled brow and +ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course of things; and though he glanced at +Lisbeth when she called him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing +that she was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and +remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. +Adam noticed Gyp’s mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less +tender than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as +usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us than to +the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb? +</p> + +<p> +“Go, Gyp; go, lad!” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and Gyp, +apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the +house-place. +</p> + +<p> +But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his master, +while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Women who are never +bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and if Solomon was as wise +as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman +to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye—a +fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good +creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she +contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and +spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example—at once +patient and complaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong +day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and +crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain awe mingled +itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said, “Leave me alone,” +she was always silenced. +</p> + +<p> +So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the sound of +Adam’s tools. At last he called for a light and a draught of water (beer was a +thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it +in, “Thy supper stan’s ready for thee, when thee lik’st.” +</p> + +<p> +“Donna thee sit up, mother,” said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked off his +anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his mother, he fell +into his strongest native accent and dialect, with which at other times his +speech was less deeply tinged. “I’ll see to Father when he comes home; maybe he +wonna come at all to-night. I shall be easier if thee’t i’ bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I’ll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the days, +and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Seth entered. He had +heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mother,” he said, “how is it as Father’s working so late?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s none o’ thy feyther as is a-workin’—thee might know that well anoof if +thy head warna full o’ chapellin’—it’s thy brother as does iverything, for +there’s niver nobody else i’ th’ way to do nothin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usually poured +into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by her awe of Adam. +Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people +always wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, +had passed into the workshop and said, “Addy, how’s this? What! Father’s forgot +the coffin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, lad, th’ old tale; but I shall get it done,” said Adam, looking up and +casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. “Why, what’s the matter +with thee? Thee’t in trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his mild face. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Addy, but it’s what must be borne, and can’t be helped. Why, thee’st +never been to the school, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“School? No, that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammering away again. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said Seth. +</p> + +<p> +“No, lad, I’d rather go on, now I’m in harness. Thee’t help me to carry it to +Brox’on when it’s done. I’ll call thee up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, +and shut the door so as I mayn’t hear Mother’s talk.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be persuaded into +meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavy heart, into the +house-place. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam’s niver touched a bit o’ victual sin’ home he’s come,” said Lisbeth. “I +reckon thee’st hed thy supper at some o’ thy Methody folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then,” said Lisbeth, “but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam ’ull +happen ate ’em if I leave ’em stannin’. He loves a bit o’ taters an’ gravy. But +he’s been so sore an’ angered, he wouldn’t ate ’em, for all I’d putten ’em by +o’ purpose for him. An’ he’s been a-threatenin’ to go away again,” she went on, +whimpering, “an’ I’m fast sure he’ll go some dawnin’ afore I’m up, an’ niver +let me know aforehand, an’ he’ll niver come back again when once he’s gone. An’ +I’d better niver ha’ had a son, as is like no other body’s son for the deftness +an’ th’ handiness, an’ so looked on by th’ grit folks, an’ tall an’ upright +like a poplar-tree, an’ me to be parted from him an’ niver see ’m no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,” said Seth, in a soothing voice. +“Thee’st not half so good reason to think as Adam ’ull go away as to think +he’ll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he’s in wrath—and he’s got +excuse for being wrathful sometimes—but his heart ’ud never let him go. Think +how he’s stood by us all when it’s been none so easy—paying his savings to free +me from going for a soldier, an’ turnin’ his earnin’s into wood for father, +when he’s got plenty o’ uses for his money, and many a young man like him ’ud +ha’ been married and settled before now. He’ll never turn round and knock down +his own work, and forsake them as it’s been the labour of his life to stand +by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Donna talk to me about’s marr’in’,” said Lisbeth, crying afresh. “He’s set’s +heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as ’ull niver save a penny, an’ ’ull toss up her +head at’s old mother. An’ to think as he might ha’ Mary Burge, an’ be took +partners, an’ be a big man wi’ workmen under him, like Mester Burge—Dolly’s +told me so o’er and o’er again—if it warna as he’s set’s heart on that bit of a +wench, as is o’ no more use nor the gillyflower on the wall. An’ he so wise at +bookin’ an’ figurin’, an’ not to know no better nor that!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mother, thee know’st we canna love just where other folks ’ud have us. +There’s nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could ha’ wished myself +as Adam could ha’ made another choice, but I wouldn’t reproach him for what he +can’t help. And I’m not sure but what he tries to o’ercome it. But it’s a +matter as he doesn’t like to be spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord +to bless and direct him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, thee’t allays ready enough at prayin’, but I donna see as thee gets much +wi’ thy prayin’. Thee wotna get double earnin’s o’ this side Yule. Th’ +Methodies ’ll niver make thee half the man thy brother is, for all they’re +a-makin’ a preacher on thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s partly truth thee speak’st there, Mother,” said Seth, mildly; “Adam’s far +before me, an’s done more for me than I can ever do for him. God distributes +talents to every man according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally +prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy—a +power to keep from sin and be content with God’s will, whatever He may please +to send. If thee wouldst pray to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, +thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unaisy? I’m i’ th’ right on’t to be unaisy. It’s well seen on <i>thee</i> what +it is niver to be unaisy. Thee’t gi’ away all thy earnin’s, an’ niver be unaisy +as thee’st nothin’ laid up again’ a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as +thee, he’d niver ha’ had no money to pay for thee. Take no thought for the +morrow—take no thought—that’s what thee’t allays sayin’; an’ what comes on’t? +Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Those are the words o’ the Bible, Mother,” said Seth. “They don’t mean as we +should be idle. They mean we shouldn’t be overanxious and worreting ourselves +about what’ll happen to-morrow, but do our duty and leave the rest to God’s +will.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye, that’s the way wi’ thee: thee allays makes a peck o’ thy own words +out o’ a pint o’ the Bible’s. I donna see how thee’t to know as ‘take no +thought for the morrow’ means all that. An’ when the Bible’s such a big book, +an’ thee canst read all thro’t, an’ ha’ the pick o’ the texes, I canna think +why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor they say. Adam +doesna pick a that’n; I can understan’ the tex as he’s allays a-sayin’, ‘God +helps them as helps theirsens.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “that’s no text o’ the Bible. It comes out of a book +as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles’on. It was wrote by a knowing man, +but overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying’s partly true; for the Bible +tells us we must be workers together with God.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how’m I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what’s th’ matter wi’ th’ +lad? Thee’t hardly atin’ a bit o’ supper. Dostna mean to ha’ no more nor that +bit o’ oat-cake? An’ thee lookst as white as a flick o’ new bacon. What’s th’ +matter wi’ thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing to mind about, Mother; I’m not hungry. I’ll just look in at Adam +again, and see if he’ll let me go on with the coffin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha’ a drop o’ warm broth?” said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got the +better of her “nattering” habit. “I’ll set two-three sticks a-light in a +minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee’t very good,” said Seth, gratefully; and +encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on: “Let me pray a bit with +thee for Father, and Adam, and all of us—it’ll comfort thee, happen, more than +thee thinkst.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve nothin’ to say again’ it.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in her conversations +with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some comfort and safety in the fact +of his piety, and that it somehow relieved her from the trouble of any +spiritual transactions on her own behalf. +</p> + +<p> +So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the poor +wandering father and for those who were sorrowing for him at home. And when he +came to the petition that Adam might never be called to set up his tent in a +far country, but that his mother might be cheered and comforted by his presence +all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth’s ready tears flowed again, and she +wept aloud. +</p> + +<p> +When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said, “Wilt only +lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the while?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself.” +</p> + +<p> +Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holding something +in her hands. It was the brown-and-yellow platter containing the baked potatoes +with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among them. +Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies to +working people. She set the dish down rather timidly on the bench by Adam’s +side and said, “Thee canst pick a bit while thee’t workin’. I’ll bring thee +another drop o’ water.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, Mother, do,” said Adam, kindly; “I’m getting very thirsty.” +</p> + +<p> +In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the house but the +loud ticking of the old day-clock and the ringing of Adam’s tools. The night +was very still: when Adam opened the door to look out at twelve o’clock, the +only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling stars; every blade of grass +was asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of +our feelings and imagination; and it was so to-night with Adam. While his +muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a spectator at a +diorama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sad future, floating before him +and giving place one to the other in swift succession. +</p> + +<p> +He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the coffin to +Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast: his father perhaps would +come in ashamed to meet his son’s glance—would sit down, looking older and more +tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang down his head, +examining the floor-quarries; while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the +coffin had been got ready, that he had slinked off and left undone—for Lisbeth +was always the first to utter the word of reproach, although she cried at +Adam’s severity towards his father. +</p> + +<p> +“So it will go on, worsening and worsening,” thought Adam; “there’s no slipping +uphill again, and no standing still when once you ’ve begun to slip down.” And +then the day came back to him when he was a little fellow and used to run by +his father’s side, proud to be taken out to work, and prouder still to hear his +father boasting to his fellow-workmen how “the little chap had an uncommon +notion o’ carpentering.” What a fine active fellow his father was then! When +people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinction as he +answered, “I’m Thias Bede’s lad.” He was quite sure everybody knew Thias +Bede—didn’t he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage? Those were +happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the younger, began to go +out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a learner. But then +came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway on in his teens, and Thias +began to loiter at the public-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to +pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the +night of shame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, +shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the “Waggon +Overthrown.” He had run away once when he was only eighteen, making his escape +in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle over his shoulder, and his +“mensuration book” in his pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that he +could bear the vexations of home no longer—he would go and seek his fortune, +setting up his stick at the crossways and bending his steps the way it fell. +But by the time he got to Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left +behind to endure everything without him, became too importunate, and his +resolution failed him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror his +mother had gone through in those two days had haunted her ever since. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Adam said to himself to-night, “that must never happen again. It ’ud make +a poor balance when my doings are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother +stood o’ the wrong side. My back’s broad enough and strong enough; I should be +no better than a coward to go away and leave the troubles to be borne by them +as aren’t half so able. ‘They that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of +those that are weak, and not to please themselves.’ There’s a text wants no +candle to show’t; it shines by its own light. It’s plain enough you get into +the wrong road i’ this life if you run after this and that only for the sake o’ +making things easy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the +trough and think o’ nothing outside it; but if you’ve got a man’s heart and +soul in you, you can’t be easy a-making your own bed an’ leaving the rest to +lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I’ll never slip my neck out o’ the yoke, and leave +the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father’s a sore cross to me, an’s likely +to be for many a long year to come. What then? I’ve got th’ health, and the +limbs, and the sperrit to bear it.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was given at the house +door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as might have been expected, gave a loud +howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the door and opened it. Nothing +was there; all was still, as when he opened it an hour before; the leaves were +motionless, and the light of the stars showed the placid fields on both sides +of the brook quite empty of visible life. Adam walked round the house, and +still saw nothing except a rat which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He +went in again, wondering; the sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it +it called up the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could not help +a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had told him of just +such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam was not a man to be +gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well +as of the artisan, and a peasant can no more help believing in a traditional +superstition than a horse can help trembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he +had that mental combination which is at once humble in the region of mystery +and keen in the region of knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as +much as his hard common sense which gave him his disinclination to doctrinal +religion, and he often checked Seth’s argumentative spiritualism by saying, +“Eh, it’s a big mystery; thee know’st but little about it.” And so it happened +that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If a new building had fallen +down and he had been told that this was a divine judgment, he would have said, +“May be; but the bearing o’ the roof and walls wasn’t right, else it wouldn’t +ha’ come down”; yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day +he bated his breath a little when he told the story of the stroke with the +willow wand. I tell it as he told it, not attempting to reduce it to its +natural elements—in our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our +hold of the sympathy that comprehends them. +</p> + +<p> +But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessity for +getting on with the coffin, and for the next ten minutes his hammer was ringing +so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any, might well be +overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, and now +again came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled. Adam was at the door without +the loss of a moment; but again all was still, and the starlight showed there +was nothing but the dew-laden grass in front of the cottage. +</p> + +<p> +Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of late years he +had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston, and there was every reason +for believing that he was then sleeping off his drunkenness at the “Waggon +Overthrown.” Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was so inseparable +from the painful image of his father that the fear of any fatal accident to him +was excluded by the deeply infixed fear of his continual degradation. The next +thought that occurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes and tread +lightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and his mother +were breathing regularly. +</p> + +<p> +Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, “I won’t open the door +again. It’s no use staring about to catch sight of a sound. Maybe there’s a +world about us as we can’t see, but th’ ear’s quicker than the eye and catches +a sound from’t now and then. Some people think they get a sight on’t too, but +they’re mostly folks whose eyes are not much use to ’em at anything else. For +my part, I think it’s better to see when your perpendicular’s true than to see +a ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylight +quenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the time the red sunlight +shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid of the coffin, any +lingering foreboding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in +satisfaction that the work was done and the promise redeemed. There was no need +to call Seth, for he was already moving overhead, and presently came +downstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, lad,” said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, “the coffin’s done, and we +can take it over to Brox’on, and be back again before half after six. I’ll take +a mouthful o’ oat-cake, and then we’ll be off.” +</p> + +<p> +The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two brothers, and they +were making their way, followed close by Gyp, out of the little woodyard into +the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a mile and a half to +Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound very pleasantly along +lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines and the dog-roses were +scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twittering and trilling in the tall +leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangely mingled picture—the fresh youth +of the summer morning, with its Edenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart +strength of the two brothers in their rusty working clothes, and the long +coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the last time before a small +farmhouse outside the village of Broxton. By six o’clock the task was done, the +coffin nailed down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a +shorter way homewards, which would take them across the fields and the brook in +front of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had happened in the +night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himself to say, +“Seth, lad, if Father isn’t come home by the time we’ve had our breakfast, I +think it’ll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles’on and look after him, +and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at +thy work; we can make that up. What dost say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m willing,” said Seth. “But see what clouds have gathered since we set out. +I’m thinking we shall have more rain. It’ll be a sore time for th’ haymaking if +the meadows are flooded again. The brook’s fine and full now: another day’s +rain ’ud cover the plank, and we should have to go round by the road.” +</p> + +<p> +They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture through +which the brook ran. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s that sticking against the willow?” continued Seth, beginning to +walk faster. Adam’s heart rose to his mouth: the vague anxiety about his father +was changed into a great dread. He made no answer to Seth, but ran forward +preceded by Gyp, who began to bark uneasily; and in two moments he was at the +bridge. +</p> + +<p> +This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father, of whom he had +thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certain to live to be a +thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling with that watery death! This +was the first thought that flashed through Adam’s conscience, before he had +time to seize the coat and drag out the tall heavy body. Seth was already by +his side, helping him, and when they had it on the bank, the two sons in the +first moment knelt and looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that +there was need for action—forgetting everything but that their father lay dead +before them. Adam was the first to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll run to Mother,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I’ll be back to thee in a +minute.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons’ breakfast, and their porridge was +already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink of +cleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on making her +hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable and inviting. +</p> + +<p> +“The lads ’ull be fine an’ hungry,” she said, half-aloud, as she stirred the +porridge. “It’s a good step to Brox’on, an’ it’s hungry air o’er the hill—wi’ +that heavy coffin too. Eh! It’s heavier now, wi’ poor Bob Tholer in’t. Howiver, +I’ve made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin’. The feyther ’ull happen +come in arter a bit. Not as he’ll ate much porridge. He swallers sixpenn’orth +o’ ale, an’ saves a hap’orth o’ por-ridge—that’s his way o’ layin’ by money, as +I’ve told him many a time, an’ am likely to tell him again afore the day’s out. +Eh, poor mon, he takes it quiet enough; there’s no denyin’ that.” +</p> + +<p> +But now Lisbeth heard the heavy “thud” of a running footstep on the turf, and, +turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, looking so pale and +overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards him before he had time +to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Mother,” Adam said, rather hoarsely, “don’t be frightened. Father’s +tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again. Seth and me are +going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot as the fire.” +</p> + +<p> +In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew there was no +other way of repressing his mother’s impetuous wailing grief than by occupying +her with some active task which had hope in it. +</p> + +<p> +He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in heart-stricken +silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, like Seth’s, and had once looked +with mild pride on the boys before whom Thias had lived to hang his head in +shame. Seth’s chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatching away +of his father’s soul; but Adam’s mind rushed back over the past in a flood of +relenting and pity. When death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our +tenderness that we repent of, but our severity. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"></a> +Chapter V<br/> +The Rector</h2> + +<p> +Before twelve o’clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the water +lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel walks in the garden of Broxton +Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossed by the wind and +beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border flowers had been dashed +down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy morning—because it was nearly +time hay-harvest should begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to +be flooded. +</p> + +<p> +But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they would never +think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet morning, Mr. Irwine would +not have been in the dining-room playing at chess with his mother, and he loves +both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass some cloudy hours very +easily by their help. Let me take you into that dining-room and show you the +Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of +Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest Church reformer would have found it +difficult to look sour. We will enter very softly and stand still in the open +doorway, without awaking the glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the +hearth, with her two puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his +black muzzle aloft, like a sleepy president. +</p> + +<p> +The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window at one +end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but the furniture, +though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty, and there is no +drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the large dining-table is very +threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly enough with the dead hue of the +plaster on the walls; but on this cloth there is a massive silver waiter with a +decanter of water on it, of the same pattern as two larger ones that are +propped up on the sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. +You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood +than wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely +cut nostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a broad +flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward and tied +behind with a black ribbon—a bit of conservatism in costume which tells you +that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round by and by, and in the +meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged +brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well set off by the complex wrappings +of pure white cambric and lace about her head and neck. She is as erect in her +comely embonpoint as a statue of Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate +aquiline nose, firm proud mouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and +sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively substitute a pack of cards +for the chess-men and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown hand +with which she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and +turquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over the crown of +her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white folds about her neck. It must +take a long time to dress that old lady in the morning! But it seems a law of +nature that she should be dressed so: she is clearly one of those children of +royalty who have never doubted their right divine and never met with any one so +absurd as to question it. +</p> + +<p> +“There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!” says this magnificent old lady, as she +deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. “I should be sorry to utter +a word disagreeable to your feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian man to win a game off +you? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water before we began. You’ve +not won that game by fair means, now, so don’t pretend it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, that’s what the beaten have always said of great conquerors. But +see, there’s the sunshine falling on the board, to show you more clearly what a +foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give you another chance?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it’s clearing up. We +must go and plash up the mud a little, mus’n’t we, Juno?” This was addressed to +the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid her +nose in an insinuating way on her master’s leg. “But I must go upstairs first +and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer’s funeral just when I was going +before.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s of no use, child; she can’t speak to you. Kate says she has one of her +worst headaches this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she’s never too ill to care +about that.” +</p> + +<p> +If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse or habit, you +will not wonder when I tell you that this identical objection had been made, +and had received the same kind of answer, many hundred times in the course of +the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine’s sister Anne had been an invalid. Splendid +old ladies, who take a long time to dress in the morning, have often slight +sympathy with sickly daughters. +</p> + +<p> +But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and stroking +Juno’s head, the servant came to the door and said, “If you please, sir, Joshua +Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are at liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let him be shown in here,” said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting. “I always +like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. His shoes will be dirty, but see +that he wipes them Carroll.” +</p> + +<p> +In two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very deferential bows, which, +however, were far from conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp bark and ran across +the room to reconnoitre the stranger’s legs; while the two puppies, regarding +Mr. Rann’s prominent calf and ribbed worsted stockings from a more sensuous +point of view, plunged and growled over them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. +Irwine turned round his chair and said, “Well, Joshua, anything the matter at +Hayslope, that you’ve come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never +mind the dogs; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!” +</p> + +<p> +It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a sudden rush of +warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was +one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance to his mother that our +loving memory of a friend’s face often bears to the face itself: the lines were +all more generous, the smile brighter, the expression heartier. If the outline +had been less finely cut, his face might have been called jolly; but that was +not the right word for its mixture of bonhomie and distinction. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank Your Reverence,” answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to look unconcerned +about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off the puppies; “I’ll +stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see you an’ Mrs. Irwine well, +an’ Miss Irwine—an’ Miss Anne, I hope’s as well as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She beats us +younger people hollow. But what’s the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, I had to come to Brox’on to deliver some work, and I thought it but +right to call and let you know the goins-on as there’s been i’ the village, +such as I hanna seen i’ my time, and I’ve lived in it man and boy sixty year +come St. Thomas, and collected th’ Easter dues for Mr. Blick before Your +Reverence come into the parish, and been at the ringin’ o’ every bell, and the +diggin’ o’ every grave, and sung i’ the choir long afore Bartle Massey come +from nobody knows where, wi’ his counter-singin’ and fine anthems, as puts +everybody out but himself—one takin’ it up after another like sheep a-bleatin’ +i’ th’ fold. I know what belongs to bein’ a parish clerk, and I know as I +should be wantin’ i’ respect to Your Reverence, an’ church, an’ king, if I was +t’ allow such goins-on wi’out speakin’. I was took by surprise, an’ knowed +nothin’ on it beforehand, an’ I was so flustered, I was clean as if I’d lost my +tools. I hanna slep’ more nor four hour this night as is past an’ gone; an’ +then it was nothin’ but nightmare, as tired me worse nor wakin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at the +church lead again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thieves! No, sir—an’ yet, as I may say, it <i>is</i> thieves, an’ a-thievin’ +the church, too. It’s the Methodisses as is like to get th’ upper hand i’ th’ +parish, if Your Reverence an’ His Honour, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think well +to say the word an’ forbid it. Not as I’m a-dictatin’ to you, sir; I’m not +forgettin’ myself so far as to be wise above my betters. Howiver, whether I’m +wise or no, that’s neither here nor there, but what I’ve got to say I say—as +the young Methodis woman as is at Mester Poyser’s was a-preachin’ an’ a-prayin’ +on the Green last night, as sure as I’m a-stannin’ afore Your Reverence now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Preaching on the Green!” said Mr. Irwine, looking surprised but quite serene. +“What, that pale pretty young woman I’ve seen at Poyser’s? I saw she was a +Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn’t +know she was a preacher.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a true word as I say, sir,” rejoined Mr. Rann, compressing his mouth into +a semicircular form and pausing long enough to indicate three notes of +exclamation. “She preached on the Green last night; an’ she’s laid hold of +Chad’s Bess, as the girl’s been i’ fits welly iver sin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass; I daresay she’ll come round +again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into fits?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there’s no knowin’ what’ll come, if +we’re t’ have such preachin’s as that a-goin’ on ivery week—there’ll be no +livin’ i’ th’ village. For them Methodisses make folks believe as if they take +a mug o’ drink extry, an’ make theirselves a bit comfortable, they’ll have to +go to hell for’t as sure as they’re born. I’m not a tipplin’ man nor a +drunkard—nobody can say it on me—but I like a extry quart at Easter or +Christmas time, as is nat’ral when we’re goin’ the rounds a-singin’, an’ folks +offer’t you for nothin’; or when I’m a-collectin’ the dues; an’ I like a pint +wi’ my pipe, an’ a neighbourly chat at Mester Casson’s now an’ then, for I was +brought up i’ the Church, thank God, an’ ha’ been a parish clerk this +two-an’-thirty year: I should know what the church religion is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what’s your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Your Reverence, I’m not for takin’ any measures again’ the young woman. +She’s well enough if she’d let alone preachin’; an’ I hear as she’s a-goin’ +away back to her own country soon. She’s Mr. Poyser’s own niece, an’ I donna +wish to say what’s anyways disrespectful o’ th’ family at th’ Hall Farm, as +I’ve measured for shoes, little an’ big, welly iver sin’ I’ve been a shoemaker. +But there’s that Will Maskery, sir as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, +an’ I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th’ young woman to preach last +night, an’ he’ll be a-bringin’ other folks to preach from Treddles’on, if his +comb isn’t cut a bit; an’ I think as he should be let know as he isna t’ have +the makin’ an’ mendin’ o’ church carts an’ implemen’s, let alone stayin’ i’ +that house an’ yard as is Squire Donnithorne’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come to preach +on the Green before; why should you think they’ll come again? The Methodists +don’t come to preach in little villages like Hayslope, where there’s only a +handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They might almost as well go +and preach on the Binton Hills. Will Maskery is no preacher himself, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sir, he’s no gift at stringin’ the words together wi’out book; he’d be +stuck fast like a cow i’ wet clay. But he’s got tongue enough to speak +disrespectful about’s neebors, for he said as I was a blind Pharisee—a-usin’ +the Bible i’ that way to find nick-names for folks as are his elders an’ +betters!—and what’s worse, he’s been heard to say very unbecomin’ words about +Your Reverence; for I could bring them as ’ud swear as he called you a ‘dumb +dog,’ an’ a ‘idle shepherd.’ You’ll forgi’e me for sayin’ such things over +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they’re spoken. +Will Maskery might be a great deal worse fellow than he is. He used to be a +wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating his wife, they told me; +now he’s thrifty and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable together. If +you can bring me any proof that he interferes with his neighbours and creates +any disturbance, I shall think it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to +interfere. But it wouldn’t become wise people like you and me to be making a +fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will +Maskery lets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or a young woman talks in a +serious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must ‘live and let live,’ +Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, as +parish clerk and sexton, as well as you’ve always done it, and making those +capital thick boots for your neighbours, and things won’t go far wrong in +Hayslope, depend upon it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Reverence is very good to say so; an’ I’m sensable as, you not livin’ i’ +the parish, there’s more upo’ my shoulders.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people’s eyes by +seeming to be frightened about it for a little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to +your good sense, now to take no notice at all of what Will Maskery says, either +about you or me. You and your neighbours can go on taking your pot of beer +soberly, when you’ve done your day’s work, like good churchmen; and if Will +Maskery doesn’t like to join you, but to go to a prayer-meeting at Treddleston +instead, let him; that’s no business of yours, so long as he doesn’t hinder you +from doing what you like. And as to people saying a few idle words about us, we +must not mind that, any more than the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing +about it. Will Maskery comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his +wheelwright’s business steadily in the weekdays, and as long as he does that he +must be let alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an’ shakes his head, an’ looks +as sour an’ as coxy when we’re a-singin’ as I should like to fetch him a rap +across the jowl—God forgi’e me—an’ Mrs. Irwine, an’ Your Reverence too, for +speakin’ so afore you. An’ he said as our Christmas singin’ was no better nor +the cracklin’ o’ thorns under a pot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he’s got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have wooden heads, you +know, it can’t be helped. He won’t bring the other people in Hayslope round to +his opinion, while you go on singing as well as you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, but it turns a man’s stomach t’ hear the Scripture misused i’ that +way. I know as much o’ the words o’ the Bible as he does, an’ could say the +Psalms right through i’ my sleep if you was to pinch me; but I know better nor +to take ’em to say my own say wi’. I might as well take the Sacriment-cup home +and use it at meals.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I said before——” +</p> + +<p> +While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step and the clink of a +spur were heard on the stone floor of the entrance-hall, and Joshua Rann moved +hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some one who paused there, and +said, in a ringing tenor voice, +</p> + +<p> +“Godson Arthur—may he come in?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, come in, godson!” Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deep half-masculine +tone which belongs to the vigorous old woman, and there entered a young +gentleman in a riding-dress, with his right arm in a sling; whereupon followed +that pleasant confusion of laughing interjections, and hand-shakings, and “How +are you’s?” mingled with joyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of +the canine members of the family, which tells that the visitor is on the best +terms with the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, known in +Hayslope, variously, as “the young squire,” “the heir,” and “the captain.” He +was only a captain in the Loamshire Militia, but to the Hayslope tenants he was +more intensely a captain than all the young gentlemen of the same rank in his +Majesty’s regulars—he outshone them as the planet Jupiter outshines the Milky +Way. If you want to know more particularly how he looked, call to your +remembrance some tawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-complexioned young +Englishman whom you have met with in a foreign town, and been proud of as a +fellow-countryman—well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking as if he +could deliver well from the left shoulder and floor his man: I will not be so +much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination with the difference of costume, +and insist on the striped waistcoat, long-tailed coat, and low top-boots. +</p> + +<p> +Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, “But don’t let me +interrupt Joshua’s business—he has something to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humbly begging Your Honour’s pardon,” said Joshua, bowing low, “there was one +thing I had to say to His Reverence as other things had drove out o’ my head.” +</p> + +<p> +“Out with it, Joshua, quickly!” said Mr. Irwine. +</p> + +<p> +“Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede’s dead—drownded this morning, or +more like overnight, i’ the Willow Brook, again’ the bridge right i’ front o’ +the house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal +interested in the information. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ Seth Bede’s been to me this morning to say he wished me to tell Your +Reverence as his brother Adam begged of you particular t’ allow his father’s +grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother’s set her heart on it, +on account of a dream as she had; an’ they’d ha’ come theirselves to ask you, +but they’ve so much to see after with the crowner, an’ that; an’ their mother’s +took on so, an’ wants ’em to make sure o’ the spot for fear somebody else +should take it. An’ if Your Reverence sees well and good, I’ll send my boy to +tell ’em as soon as I get home; an’ that’s why I make bold to trouble you wi’ +it, His Honour being present.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I’ll ride round to Adam +myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, to say they shall have the grave, +lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua; go +into the kitchen and have some ale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Thias!” said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone. “I’m afraid the drink +helped the brook to drown him. I should have been glad for the load to have +been taken off my friend Adam’s shoulders in a less painful way. That fine +fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the last five or six +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a regular trump, is Adam,” said Captain Donnithorne. “When I was a little +fellow, and Adam was a strapping lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I +used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make Adam my grand-vizier. +And I believe now he would bear the exaltation as well as any poor wise man in +an Eastern story. If ever I live to be a large-acred man instead of a poor +devil with a mortgaged allowance of pocket-money, I’ll have Adam for my right +hand. He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems to have a better notion of +those things than any man I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the +money of them that my grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to +manage, who understands no more about timber than an old carp. I’ve mentioned +the subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or other he +has a dislike to Adam, and <i>I</i> can do nothing. But come, Your Reverence, +are you for a ride with me? It’s splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam’s +together, if you like; but I want to call at the Hall Farm on my way, to look +at the whelps Poyser is keeping for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,” said Mrs. Irwine. “It’s nearly +two. Carroll will bring it in directly.” +</p> + +<p> +“I want to go to the Hall Farm too,” said Mr. Irwine, “to have another look at +the little Methodist who is staying there. Joshua tells me she was preaching on +the Green last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, by Jove!” said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. “Why, she looks as quiet as +a mouse. There’s something rather striking about her, though. I positively felt +quite bashful the first time I saw her—she was sitting stooping over her sewing +in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up and called out, without +noticing that she was a stranger, ‘Is Martin Poyser at home?’ I declare, when +she got up and looked at me and just said, ‘He’s in the house, I believe: I’ll +go and call him,’ I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to her. She +looked like St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It’s a type of face one rarely +sees among our common people.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Make her +come here on some pretext or other.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how I can manage that, Mother; it will hardly do for me to +patronize a Methodist preacher, even if she would consent to be patronized by +an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You should have come in a little +sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua’s denunciation of his neighbour Will Maskery. +The old fellow wants me to excommunicate the wheelwright, and then deliver him +over to the civil arm—that is to say, to your grandfather—to be turned out of +house and yard. If I chose to interfere in this business, now, I might get up +as pretty a story of hatred and persecution as the Methodists need desire to +publish in the next number of their magazine. It wouldn’t take me much trouble +to persuade Chad Cranage and half a dozen other bull-headed fellows that they +would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting Will Maskery out +of the village with rope-ends and pitchforks; and then, when I had furnished +them with half a sovereign to get gloriously drunk after their exertions, I +should have put the climax to as pretty a farce as any of my brother clergy +have set going in their parishes for the last thirty years.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an ‘idle shepherd’ and a +‘dumb dog,’” said Mrs. Irwine. “I should be inclined to check him a little +there. You are too easy-tempered, Dauphin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mother, you don’t think it would be a good way of sustaining my dignity +to set about vindicating myself from the aspersions of Will Maskery? Besides, +I’m not so sure that they <i>are</i> aspersions. I <i>am</i> a lazy fellow, and +get terribly heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I’m always spending more +than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so that I get savage at a lame beggar +when he asks me for sixpence. Those poor lean cobblers, who think they can help +to regenerate mankind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight before +they begin their day’s work, may well have a poor opinion of me. But come, let +us have our luncheon. Isn’t Kate coming to lunch?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch upstairs,” said Carroll; “she can’t +leave Miss Anne.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I’ll go up and see Miss Anne presently. You +can use your right arm quite well now, Arthur,” Mr. Irwine continued, observing +that Captain Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the sling. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up constantly for some +time to come. I hope I shall be able to get away to the regiment, though, in +the beginning of August. It’s a desperately dull business being shut up at the +Chase in the summer months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so as to make +one’s self pleasantly sleepy in the evening. However, we are to astonish the +echoes on the 30th of July. My grandfather has given me <i>carte blanche</i> +for once, and I promise you the entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. +The world will not see the grand epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall +have a lofty throne for you, Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and +another in the ballroom, that you may sit and look down upon us like an +Olympian goddess.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christening twenty +years ago,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Ah, I think I shall see your poor mother +flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost like a shroud that +very day; and it <i>was</i> her shroud only three months after; and your little +cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She had set her heart on +that, sweet soul! Thank God you take after your mother’s family, Arthur. If you +had been a puny, wiry, yellow baby, I wouldn’t have stood godmother to you. I +should have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a +broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch +of you a Tradgett.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you might have been a little too hasty there, Mother,” said Mr. Irwine, +smiling. “Don’t you remember how it was with Juno’s last pups? One of them was +the very image of its mother, but it had two or three of its father’s tricks +notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You’ll +never persuade me that I can’t tell what men are by their outsides. If I don’t +like a man’s looks, depend upon it I shall never like <i>him</i>. I don’t want +to know people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want to taste +dishes that look disagreeable. If they make me shudder at the first glance, I +say, take them away. An ugly, piggish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite +ill; it’s like a bad smell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talking of eyes,” said Captain Donnithorne, “that reminds me that I’ve got a +book I meant to bring you, Godmamma. It came down in a parcel from London the +other day. I know you are fond of queer, wizardlike stories. It’s a volume of +poems, ‘Lyrical Ballads.’ Most of them seem to be twaddling stuff, but the +first is in a different style—‘The Ancient Mariner’ is the title. I can hardly +make head or tail of it as a story, but it’s a strange, striking thing. I’ll +send it over to you; and there are some other books that <i>you</i> may like to +see, Irwine—pamphlets about Antinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may +be. I can’t think what the fellow means by sending such things to me. I’ve +written to him to desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or +pamphlet on anything that ends in <i>ism</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know that I’m very fond of <i>isms</i> myself; but I may as well +look at the pamphlets; they let one see what is going on. I’ve a little matter +to attend to, Arthur,” continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the room, “and +then I shall be ready to set out with you.” +</p> + +<p> +The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him up the old stone +staircase (part of the house was very old) and made him pause before a door at +which he knocked gently. “Come in,” said a woman’s voice, and he entered a room +so darkened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin middle-aged lady +standing by the bedside, would not have had light enough for any other sort of +work than the knitting which lay on the little table near her. But at present +she was doing what required only the dimmest light—sponging the aching head +that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the +poor sufferer; perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. +Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, “Don’t speak to her; she +can’t bear to be spoken to to-day.” Anne’s eyes were closed, and her brow +contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. Irwine went to the bedside and took up +one of the delicate hands and kissed it, a slight pressure from the small +fingers told him that it was worth-while to have come upstairs for the sake of +doing that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, and then turned away and left +the room, treading very gently—he had taken off his boots and put on slippers +before he came upstairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to +do even for himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off +his boots, will not think this last detail insignificant. +</p> + +<p> +And Mr. Irwine’s sisters, as any person of family within ten miles of Broxton +could have testified, were such stupid, uninteresting women! It was quite a +pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwine should have had such commonplace daughters. +That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, any day; her +beauty, her well-preserved faculties, and her old-fashioned dignity made her a +graceful subject for conversation in turn with the King’s health, the sweet new +patterns in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey’s lawsuit, +which was fretting poor Lady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of +mentioning the Miss Irwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who +regarded them as deep in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as +“the gentlefolks.” If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his +flannel jacket, he would have answered, “the gentlefolks, last winter”; and +widow Steene dwelt much on the virtues of the “stuff” the gentlefolks gave her +for her cough. Under this name too, they were used with great effect as a means +of taming refractory children, so that at the sight of poor Miss Anne’s sallow +face, several small urchins had a terrified sense that she was cognizant of all +their worst misdemeanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which +they had intended to hit Farmer Britton’s ducks. But for all who saw them +through a less mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous +existences—inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without adequate +effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have been accounted +for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might have had some romantic +interest attached to her: but no such story had either been known or invented +concerning her, and the general impression was quite in accordance with the +fact, that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason that they had +never received an eligible offer. +</p> + +<p> +Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificant people has +very important consequences in the world. It can be shown to affect the price +of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many evil tempers from the +selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no +small part in the tragedy of life. And if that handsome, generous-blooded +clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had not had these two hopelessly maiden +sisters, his lot would have been shaped quite differently: he would very likely +have taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was getting grey +under the powder, would have had tall sons and blooming daughters—such +possessions, in short, as men commonly think will repay them for all the labour +they take under the sun. As it was—having with all his three livings no more +than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and +his sickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken of +without any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birth and habits, +and at the same time providing for a family of his own—he remained, you see, at +the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, not making any merit of that +renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one alluded to it, that he made it +an excuse for many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him. And +perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sisters +uninteresting and superfluous; for his was one of those large-hearted, +sweet-blooded natures that never know a narrow or a grudging thought; +Epicurean, if you will, with no enthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; +but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an +unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffering. It was his +large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore his mother’s hardness towards her +daughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her doting +fondness towards himself; he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable faults. +</p> + +<p> +See the difference between the impression a man makes on you when you walk by +his side in familiar talk, or look at him in his home, and the figure he makes +when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical +neighbour who thinks of him as an embodied system or opinion rather than as a +man. Mr. Roe, the “travelling preacher” stationed at Treddleston, had included +Mr. Irwine in a general statement concerning the Church clergy in the +surrounding district, whom he described as men given up to the lusts of the +flesh and the pride of life; hunting and shooting, and adorning their own +houses; asking what shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal +shall we be clothed?—careless of dispensing the bread of life to their flocks, +preaching at best but a carnal and soul-benumbing morality, and trafficking in +the souls of men by receiving money for discharging the pastoral office in +parishes where they did not so much as look on the faces of the people more +than once a-year. The ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary +reports of that period, finds honourable members zealous for the Church, and +untainted with any sympathy for the “tribe of canting Methodists,” making +statements scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible +for me to say that Mr. Irwine was altogether belied by the generic +classification assigned him. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological +enthusiasm: if I were closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that +he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have +thought it a mere loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening manner to +old “Feyther Taft,” or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in +the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said that the only +healthy form religion could take in such minds was that of certain dim but +strong emotions, suffusing themselves as a hallowing influence over the family +affections and neighbourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more +important than its doctrine, and that the religious benefits the peasant drew +from the church where his fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where +they lay buried were but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the +Liturgy or the sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these days +an “earnest” man: he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and had +much more insight into men’s characters than interest in their opinions; he was +neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious in alms-giving, +and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental palate, indeed, was rather +pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotation from Sophocles or Theocritus that +was quite absent from any text in Isaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young +setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its retaining a relish for uncooked +partridge in after-life? And Mr. Irwine’s recollections of young enthusiasm and +ambition were all associated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof from the +Bible. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partiality towards +the rector’s memory, that he was not vindictive—and some philanthropists have +been so; that he was not intolerant—and there is a rumour that some zealous +theologians have not been altogether free from that blemish; that although he +would probably have declined to give his body to be burned in any public cause, +and was far from bestowing all his goods to feed the poor, he had that charity +which has sometimes been lacking to very illustrious virtue—he was tender to +other men’s failings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was one of those men, +and they are not the commonest, of whom we can know the best only by following +them away from the marketplace, the platform, and the pulpit, entering with +them into their own homes, hearing the voice with which they speak to the young +and aged about their own hearthstone, and witnessing their thoughtful care for +the everyday wants of everyday companions, who take all their kindness as a +matter of course, and not as a subject for panegyric. +</p> + +<p> +Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, and have +sometimes even been the living representatives of the abuses. That is a thought +which might comfort us a little under the opposite fact—that it is better +sometimes <i>not</i> to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold +of their homes. +</p> + +<p> +But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had met him that June +afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his dogs running beside him—portly, +upright, manly, with a good-natured smile on his finely turned lips as he +talked to his dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have felt that, +however ill he harmonized with sound theories of the clerical office, he +somehow harmonized extremely well with that peaceful landscape. +</p> + +<p> +See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then by rolling +masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the Broxton side, where the tall +gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tiny whitewashed church. +They will soon be in the parish of Hayslope; the grey church-tower and village +roofs lie before them to the left, and farther on, to the right, they can just +see the chimneys of the Hall Farm. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"></a> +Chapter VI<br/> +The Hall Farm</h2> + +<p> +Evidently that gate is never opened, for the long grass and the great hemlocks +grow close against it, and if it were opened, it is so rusty that the force +necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely to pull down the square +stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which grin +with a doubtful carnivorous affability above a coat of arms surmounting each of +the pillars. It would be easy enough, by the aid of the nicks in the stone +pillars, to climb over the brick wall with its smooth stone coping; but by +putting our eyes close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well +enough, and all but the very corners of the grassy enclosure. +</p> + +<p> +It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powdery lichen, +which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so as to bring the red +brick into terms of friendly companionship with the limestone ornaments +surrounding the three gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows +are patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the gate—it is +never opened. How it would groan and grate against the stone floor if it were! +For it is a solid, heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the habit +of shutting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen +his master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair. +</p> + +<p> +But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of a chancery suit, +and that the fruit from that grand double row of walnut-trees on the right hand +of the enclosure would fall and rot among the grass, if it were not that we +heard the booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back. And +now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering themselves in a +gorse-built hovel against the left-hand wall come out and set up a silly answer +to that terrible bark, doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of +milk. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; for imagination is a +licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep +in at windows with impunity. Put your face to one of the glass panes in the +right-hand window: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in +it, and a bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked up; in +the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of the +dining-room. And what through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a +pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open and stuffed full of +coloured rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll, which, +so far as mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finest +Greek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it there is +a little chair, and the butt end of a boy’s leather long-lashed whip. +</p> + +<p> +The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence of a country +squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged +in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now +the Hall Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a watering-place, +and is now a port, where the genteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and +the docks and warehouses busy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed +its focus, and no longer radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and +the farmyard. +</p> + +<p> +Plenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of the year, just +before hay-harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the day too, for it is +close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs. Poyser’s +handsome eight-day clock. But there is always a stronger sense of life when the +sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making +sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of vivid green moss +on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning even the muddy water that is +hurrying along the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed +ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in +it as possible. There is quite a concert of noises; the great bull-dog, chained +against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approach +of a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, +which is answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old +top-knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a +sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow with her brood, +all very muddy as to the legs, and curled as to the tail, throws in some deep +staccato notes; our friends the calves are bleating from the home croft; and, +under all, a fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices. +</p> + +<p> +For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men are busy there mending +the harness, under the superintendence of Mr. Goby, the “whittaw,” otherwise +saddler, who entertains them with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is +certainly rather an unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for +having the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has +spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men’s +shoes brought into the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet recovered +her equanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since +dinner, and the house-floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as everything +else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance of collecting a few +grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-coffer, and put your finger on the +high mantel-shelf on which the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their +summer sinecure; for at this time of year, of course, every one goes to bed +while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the outline of +objects after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else +could an oak clock-case and an oak table have got to such a polish by the hand: +genuine “elbow polish,” as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never +had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took the +opportunity, when her aunt’s back was turned, of looking at the pleasing +reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for the oak table was usually +turned up like a screen, and was more for ornament than for use; and she could +see herself sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the +shelves above the long deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate, which +always shone like jasper. +</p> + +<p> +Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sun shone right +on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light +were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass—and on a still pleasanter object +than these, for some of the rays fell on Dinah’s finely moulded cheek, and lit +up her pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy household linen +which she was mending for her aunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if +Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing a few things that still remained from the Monday’s +wash, had not been making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to and +fro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her blue-grey +eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was making up the butter, and +from the dairy to the back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the +oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her +appearance; she was a good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of +fair complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen, light-footed. The most conspicuous +article in her attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered +her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and +gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than feminine +vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The family likeness between +her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and +Dinah’s seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an +excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes were just of the same +colour, but a striking test of the difference in their operation was seen in +the demeanour of Trip, the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected +dog unwarily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser’s +glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel came +within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ +takes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off. +</p> + +<p> +The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it was inconvenient to +have the whittaws, and why, consequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the +housemaid with unusual severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her +after-dinner work in an exemplary manner, had “cleaned herself” with great +dispatch, and now came to ask, submissively, if she should sit down to her +spinning till milking time. But this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. +Poyser, shrouded a secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now +dragged forth and held up to Molly’s view with cutting eloquence. +</p> + +<p> +“Spinning, indeed! It isn’t spinning as you’d be at, I’ll be bound, and let you +have your own way. I never knew your equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell +o’ your age wanting to go and sit with half-a-dozen men! I’d ha’ been ashamed +to let the words pass over my lips if I’d been you. And you, as have been here +ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you at Treddles’on stattits, without a +bit o’ character—as I say, you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a +respectable place; and you knew no more o’ what belongs to work when you come +here than the mawkin i’ the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, +you know you was. Who taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, +you’d leave the dirt in heaps i’ the corners—anybody ’ud think you’d never been +brought up among Christians. And as for spinning, why, you’ve wasted as much as +your wage i’ the flax you’ve spoiled learning to spin. And you’ve a right to +feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as thoughtless as if you was +beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That’s what you’d +like to be doing, is it? That’s the way with you—that’s the road you’d all like +to go, headlongs to ruin. You’re never easy till you’ve got some sweetheart as +is as big a fool as yourself: you think you’ll be finely off when you’re +married, I daresay, and have got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a +blanket to cover you, and a bit o’ oat-cake for your dinner, as three children +are a-snatching at.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I donna want t’ go wi’ the whittaws,” said Molly, whimpering, and +quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her future, “on’y we allays used to +comb the wool for ’n at Mester Ottley’s; an’ so I just axed ye. I donna want to +set eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Ottley’s, indeed! It’s fine talking o’ what you did at Mr. Ottley’s. Your +missis there might like her floors dirted wi’ whittaws for what I know. There’s +no knowing what people <i>wonna</i> like—such ways as I’ve heard of! I never +had a gell come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was; I think +people live like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty as was dairymaid at +Trent’s before she come to me, she’d ha’ left the cheeses without turning from +week’s end to week’s end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha’ wrote my name on +’em, when I come downstairs after my illness, as the doctor said it was +inflammation—it was a mercy I got well of it. And to think o’ your knowing no +better, Molly, and been here a-going i’ nine months, and not for want o’ +talking to, neither—and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run +down, instead o’ getting your wheel out? You’re a rare un for sitting down to +your work a little while after it’s time to put by.” +</p> + +<p> +“Munny, my iron’s twite told; pease put it down to warm.” +</p> + +<p> +The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from a little +sunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chair at the +end of the ironing table, was arduously clutching the handle of a miniature +iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required +her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!” said Mrs. Poyser, who was +remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from her official +objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. “Never mind! Mother’s +done her ironing now. She’s going to put the ironing things away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Munny, I tould ’ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, no; Totty ’ud get her feet wet,” said Mrs. Poyser, carrying away her +iron. “Run into the dairy and see cousin Hetty make the butter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tould ’ike a bit o’ pum-take,” rejoined Totty, who seemed to be provided +with several relays of requests; at the same time, taking the opportunity of +her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it +down so as to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the ironing +sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“Did ever anybody see the like?” screamed Mrs. Poyser, running towards the +table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. “The child’s allays i’ +mischief if your back’s turned a minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, +naughty gell?” +</p> + +<p> +Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, and was +already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of waddling run, and an amount +of fat on the nape of her neck which made her look like the metamorphosis of a +white suckling pig. +</p> + +<p> +The starch having been wiped up by Molly’s help, and the ironing apparatus put +by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting which always lay ready at hand, and was +the work she liked best, because she could carry it on automatically as she +walked to and fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she +looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her grey worsted stocking. +</p> + +<p> +“You look th’ image o’ your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. I could +almost fancy it was thirty years back, and I was a little gell at home, looking +at Judith as she sat at her work, after she’d done the house up; only it was a +little cottage, Father’s was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i’ one +corner as fast as you clean it in another—but for all that, I could fancy you +was your Aunt Judith, only her hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was +stouter and broader i’ the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, +though she had such queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, +your mother little thought as she’d have a daughter just cut out after the very +pattern o’ Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, +and bring up with a spoon when <i>she</i> was in the graveyard at Stoniton. I +allays said that o’ Judith, as she’d bear a pound weight any day to save +anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the same from the first o’ my +remembering her; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to +the Methodists, only she talked a bit different and wore a different sort o’ +cap; but she’d never in her life spent a penny on herself more than keeping +herself decent.” +</p> + +<p> +“She was a blessed woman,” said Dinah; “God had given her a loving, +self-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by grace. And she was very fond of +you too, Aunt Rachel. I often heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. +When she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she used to +say, ‘You’ll have a friend on earth in your Aunt Rachel, if I’m taken from you, +for she has a kind heart,’ and I’m sure I’ve found it so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know how, child; anybody ’ud be cunning to do anything for you, I +think; you’re like the birds o’ th’ air, and live nobody knows how. I’d ha’ +been glad to behave to you like a mother’s sister, if you’d come and live i’ +this country where there’s some shelter and victual for man and beast, and +folks don’t live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratching on a gravel +bank. And then you might get married to some decent man, and there’d be plenty +ready to have you, if you’d only leave off that preaching, as is ten times +worse than anything your Aunt Judith ever did. And even if you’d marry Seth +Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodist and’s never like to have a penny +beforehand, I know your uncle ’ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for +he’s allays been good-natur’d to my kin, for all they’re poor, and made ’em +welcome to the house; and ’ud do for you, I’ll be bound, as much as ever he’d +do for Hetty, though she’s his own niece. And there’s linen in the house as I +could well spare you, for I’ve got lots o’ sheeting and table-clothing, and +towelling, as isn’t made up. There’s a piece o’ sheeting I could give you as +that squinting Kitty spun—she was a rare girl to spin, for all she squinted, +and the children couldn’t abide her; and, you know, the spinning’s going on +constant, and there’s new linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. But +where’s the use o’ talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any +other woman in her senses, i’stead o’ wearing yourself out with walking and +preaching, and giving away every penny you get, so as you’ve nothing saved +against sickness; and all the things you’ve got i’ the world, I verily believe, +’ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all because you’ve got +notions i’ your head about religion more nor what’s i’ the Catechism and the +Prayer-book.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not more than what’s in the Bible, Aunt,” said Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,” Mrs. Poyser rejoined, rather +sharply; “else why shouldn’t them as know best what’s in the Bible—the parsons +and people as have got nothing to do but learn it—do the same as you do? But, +for the matter o’ that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to +a standstill; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with +poor eating and drinking, and was allays talking as we must despise the things +o’ the world as you say, I should like to know where the pick o’ the stock, and +the corn, and the best new-milk cheeses ’ud have to go. Everybody ’ud be +wanting bread made o’ tail ends and everybody ’ud be running after everybody +else to preach to ’em, istead o’ bringing up their families, and laying by +against a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can’t be the right religion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people are called to forsake +their work and their families. It’s quite right the land should be ploughed and +sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and +right that people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them, so +that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are not unmindful of +the soul’s wants while they are caring for the body. We can all be servants of +God wherever our lot is cast, but He gives us different sorts of work, +according as He fits us for it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending +my life in trying to do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help +running if you heard little Totty crying at the other end of the house; the +voice would go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble or +in danger, and you couldn’t rest without running to help her and comfort her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door, “I know it ’ud be +just the same if I was to talk to you for hours. You’d make me the same answer, +at th’ end. I might as well talk to the running brook and tell it to stan’ +still.” +</p> + +<p> +The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyser to +stand there quite pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard, the grey +worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all the while. But she +had not been standing there more than five minutes before she came in again, +and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-stricken tone, “If there isn’t +Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming into the yard! I’ll lay my life +they’re come to speak about your preaching on the Green, Dinah; it’s you must +answer ’em, for I’m dumb. I’ve said enough a’ready about your bringing such +disgrace upo’ your uncle’s family. I wouldn’t ha’ minded if you’d been Mr. +Poyser’s own niece—folks must put up wi’ their own kin, as they put up wi’ +their own noses—it’s their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o’ mine +being cause o’ my husband’s being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no +fortin but my savin’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah gently, “you’ve no cause for such fears. +I’ve strong assurance that no evil will happen to you and my uncle and the +children from anything I’ve done. I didn’t preach without direction.” +</p> + +<p> +“Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction,” said Mrs. Poyser, +knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. “When there’s a bigger maggot than +usual in your head you call it ‘direction’; and then nothing can stir you—you +look like the statty o’ the outside o’ Treddles’on church, a-starin’ and +a-smilin’ whether it’s fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with you.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and had got down from +their horses: it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the +door to meet them, curtsying low and trembling between anger with Dinah and +anxiety to conduct herself with perfect propriety on the occasion. For in those +days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a whispering awe at the sight of the +gentry, such as of old men felt when they stood on tiptoe to watch the gods +passing by in tall human shape. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?” said Mr. Irwine, +with his stately cordiality. “Our feet are quite dry; we shall not soil your +beautiful floor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Will you and the captain please +to walk into the parlour?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said the captain, looking eagerly round +the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could not find. “I delight +in your kitchen. I think it is the most charming room I know. I should like +every farmer’s wife to come and look at it for a pattern.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’re pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,” said Mrs. Poyser, +relieved a little by this compliment and the captain’s evident good-humour, but +still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and +advancing towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“Poyser is not at home, is he?” said Captain Donnithorne, seating himself where +he could see along the short passage to the open dairy-door. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, he isn’t; he’s gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the factor, about +the wool. But there’s Father i’ the barn, sir, if he’d be of any use.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you; I’ll just look at the whelps and leave a message about them +with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband; I want to +have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he’s likely to be +at liberty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it’s o’ Treddles’on +market-day—that’s of a Friday, you know. For if he’s anywhere on the farm we +can send for him in a minute. If we’d got rid o’ the Scantlands, we should have +no outlying fields; and I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens, +he’s sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen so contrairy, if +they’ve a chance; and it’s an unnat’ral thing to have one bit o’ your farm in +one county and all the rest in another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce’s farm, especially as he +wants dairyland and you’ve got plenty. I think yours is the prettiest farm on +the estate, though; and do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and +settle, I should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old house, and +turn farmer myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, “you wouldn’t like it at all. As +for farming, it’s putting money into your pocket wi’ your right hand and +fetching it out wi’ your left. As fur as I can see, it’s raising victual for +other folks and just getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you +go along. Not as you’d be like a poor man as wants to get his bread—you could +afford to lose as much money as you liked i’ farming—but it’s poor fun losing +money, I should think, though I understan’ it’s what the great folks i’ London +play at more than anything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey’s +eldest son had lost thousands upo’ thousands to the Prince o’ Wales, and they +said my lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know more +about that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think as you’d +like it; and this house—the draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and +it’s my opinion the floors upstairs are very rotten, and the rats i’ the cellar +are beyond anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that’s a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doing you a +service to turn you out of such a place. But there’s no chance of that. I’m not +likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I’m a stout gentleman of +forty; and my grandfather would never consent to part with such good tenants as +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, if he thinks so well o’ Mr. Poyser for a tenant I wish you could +put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Five closes, for my +husband’s been asking and asking till he’s tired, and to think o’ what he’s +done for the farm, and’s never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad or +good. And as I’ve said to my husband often and often, I’m sure if the captain +had anything to do with it, it wouldn’t be so. Not as I wish to speak +disrespectful o’ them as have got the power i’ their hands, but it’s more than +flesh and blood ’ull bear sometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early +and down late, and hardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for thinking as the +cheese may swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow green +again i’ the sheaf—and after all, at th’ end o’ the year, it’s like as if you’d +been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your pains.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed along without any +check from her preliminary awe of the gentry. The confidence she felt in her +own powers of exposition was a motive force that overcame all resistance. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speak about the +gates, Mrs. Poyser,” said the captain, “though I assure you there’s no man on +the estate I would sooner say a word for than your husband. I know his farm is +in better order than any other within ten miles of us; and as for the kitchen,” +he added, smiling, “I don’t believe there’s one in the kingdom to beat it. By +the by, I’ve never seen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, it’s not fit for you to go in, for Hetty’s in the middle o’ +making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I’m quite ashamed.” +This Mrs. Poyser said blushing, and believing that the captain was really +interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the +appearance of her dairy. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s in capital order. Take me in,” said the captain, +himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser followed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"></a> +Chapter VII<br/> +The Dairy</h2> + +<p> +The dairy was certainly worth looking at: it was a scene to sicken for with a +sort of calenture in hot and dusty streets—such coolness, such purity, such +fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels +perpetually bathed in pure water; such soft colouring of red earthenware and +creamy surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey limestone and rich +orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges. But one gets only a +confused notion of these details when they surround a distractingly pretty girl +of seventeen, standing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a +pound of butter out of the scale. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donnithorne entered the dairy and +spoke to her; but it was not at all a distressed blush, for it was inwreathed +with smiles and dimples, and with sparkles from under long, curled, dark +eyelashes; and while her aunt was discoursing to him about the limited amount +of milk that was to be spared for butter and cheese so long as the calves were +not all weaned, and a large quantity but inferior quality of milk yielded by +the shorthorn, which had been bought on experiment, together with other matters +which must be interesting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, +Hetty tossed and patted her pound of butter with quite a self-possessed, +coquettish air, slyly conscious that no turn of her head was lost. +</p> + +<p> +There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in +various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; but there is one order of +beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all +intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or +very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or +babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief—a beauty +with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for +inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Hetty +Sorrel’s was that sort of beauty. Her aunt, Mrs. Poyser, who professed to +despise all personal attractions and intended to be the severest of mentors, +continually gazed at Hetty’s charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; +and after administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety to +do well by her husband’s niece—who had no mother of her own to scold her, poor +thing!—she would often confess to her husband, when they were safe out of +hearing, that she firmly believed, “the naughtier the little huzzy behaved, the +prettier she looked.” +</p> + +<p> +It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty’s cheek was like a +rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her large dark +eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that her curly hair, +though all pushed back under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in +dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about her white shell-like ears; it is +of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of her pink-and-white +neckerchief, tucked into her low plum-coloured stuff bodice, or how the linen +butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by +duchesses, since it fell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings and +thick-soled buckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly +have had when empty of her foot and ankle—of little use, unless you have seen a +woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though +you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she would not in the least +resemble that distracting kittenlike maiden. I might mention all the divine +charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your life utterly +forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting lark, or in +wandering through the still lanes when the fresh-opened blossoms fill them with +a sacred silent beauty like that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of +my descriptive catalogue? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright +spring day. Hetty’s was a spring-tide beauty; it was the beauty of young +frisking things, round-limbed, gambolling, circumventing you by a false air of +innocence—the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that, being +inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a severe steeplechase over +hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the middle of a bog. +</p> + +<p> +And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a pretty girl is +thrown in making up butter—tossing movements that give a charming curve to the +arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white neck; little patting and +rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice adaptations and +finishings which cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting +mouth and the dark eyes. And then the butter itself seems to communicate a +fresh charm—it is so pure, so sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with +such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light! Moreover, +Hetty was particularly clever at making up the butter; it was the one +performance of hers that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism; so +she handled it with all the grace that belongs to mastery. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the thirtieth of July, Mrs. +Poyser,” said Captain Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admired the dairy +and given several improvised opinions on Swede turnips and shorthorns. “You +know what is to happen then, and I shall expect you to be one of the guests who +come earliest and leave latest. Will you promise me your hand for two dances, +Miss Hetty? If I don’t get your promise now, I know I shall hardly have a +chance, for all the smart young farmers will take care to secure you.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs. Poyser interposed, +scandalized at the mere suggestion that the young squire could be excluded by +any meaner partners. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. And I’m sure, +whenever you’re pleased to dance with her, she’ll be proud and thankful, if she +stood still all the rest o’ th’ evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows who can +dance. But you will promise me two dances, won’t you?” the captain continued, +determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half-shy, +half-coquettish glance at him as she said, “Yes, thank you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs. Poyser; your little +Totty, as well as the boys. I want all the youngest children on the estate to +be there—all those who will be fine young men and women when I’m a bald old +fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear, sir, that ’ull be a long time first,” said Mrs. Poyser, quite +overcome at the young squire’s speaking so lightly of himself, and thinking how +her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen +of high-born humour. The captain was thought to be “very full of his jokes,” +and was a great favourite throughout the estate on account of his free manners. +Every tenant was quite sure things would be different when the reins got into +his hands—there was to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of +lime, and returns of ten per cent. +</p> + +<p> +“But where <i>is</i> Totty to-day?” he said. “I want to see her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the little un, Hetty?” said Mrs. Poyser. “She came in here not long +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at +once into the back kitchen, in search of her, not, however, without misgivings +lest something should have happened to render her person and attire unfit for +presentation. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you carry the butter to market when you’ve made it?” said the Captain +to Hetty, meanwhile. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, sir; not when it’s so heavy. I’m not strong enough to carry it. Alick +takes it on horseback.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights. But you +go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evenings, don’t you? Why don’t you have +a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it’s so green and pleasant? I hardly ever +see you anywhere except at home and at church.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt doesn’t like me to go a-walking only when I’m going somewhere,” said +Hetty. “But I go through the Chase sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? I think I saw you +once in the housekeeper’s room.” +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t Mrs. Best, it’s Mrs. Pomfret, the lady’s maid, as I go to see. She’s +teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending. I’m going to tea with her +to-morrow afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +The reason why there had been space for this <i>tête-à-tête</i> can only be +known by looking into the back kitchen, where Totty had been discovered rubbing +a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same moment allowing some liberal +indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared holding +her mother’s hand—the end of her round nose rather shiny from a recent and +hurried application of soap and water. +</p> + +<p> +“Here she is!” said the captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low +stone shelf. “Here’s Totty! By the by, what’s her other name? She wasn’t +christened Totty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte’s her christened name. +It’s a name i’ Mr. Poyser’s family: his grandmother was named Charlotte. But we +began with calling her Lotty, and now it’s got to Totty. To be sure it’s more +like a name for a dog than a Christian child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Totty’s a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. Has she got a pocket on?” +said the captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets. +</p> + +<p> +Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and showed a tiny +pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. +</p> + +<p> +“It dot notin’ in it,” she said, as she looked down at it very earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“No! What a pity! Such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I’ve got some things in +mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. Yes! I declare I’ve got five little +round silver things, and hear what a pretty noise they make in Totty’s pink +pocket.” Here he shook the pocket with the five sixpences in it, and Totty +showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in great glee; but, divining that there +was nothing more to be got by staying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to +jingle her pocket in the hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, +“Oh for shame, you naughty gell! Not to thank the captain for what he’s given +you, I’m sure, sir, it’s very kind of you; but she’s spoiled shameful; her +father won’t have her said nay in anything, and there’s no managing her. It’s +being the youngest, and th’ only gell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, she’s a funny little fatty; I wouldn’t have her different. But I must be +going now, for I suppose the rector is waiting for me.” +</p> + +<p> +With a “good-bye,” a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty Arthur left the dairy. +But he was mistaken in imagining himself waited for. The rector had been so +much interested in his conversation with Dinah that he would not have chosen to +close it earlier; and you shall hear now what they had been saying to each +other. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"></a> +Chapter VIII<br/> +A Vocation</h2> + +<p> +Dinah, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of the +sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwine looking at +her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face to +face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes met his, was, “What a +well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seed might fall on that soil, for +it would surely flourish.” The agreeable impression must have been mutual, for +Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a benignant deference, which would have been +equally in place if she had been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +“You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?” were his first words, +as he seated himself opposite to her. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very kind, +wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I’d been ill, and she +invited me to come and stay with her for a while.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there. It’s a +dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; but that’s many +years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed by the employment +that mill must have brought.” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a +livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the +tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for thereby I +have enough and to spare. But it’s still a bleak place, as you say, sir—very +different from this country.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to the +place as your home?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But she was +taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that I know of, besides +my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and would have me come and live in this +country, which to be sure is a good land, wherein they eat bread without +scarceness. But I’m not free to leave Snowfield, where I was first planted, and +have grown deep into it, like the small grass on the hill-top.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; you are a +Methodist—a Wesleyan, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause to be +thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliest childhood.” +</p> + +<p> +“And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand you +preached at Hayslope last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your Society sanctions women’s preaching, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“It doesn’t forbid them, sir, when they’ve a clear call to the work, and when +their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and the strengthening of +God’s people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard about, was the first woman +to preach in the Society, I believe, before she was married, when she was Miss +Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved of her undertaking the work. She had a great +gift, and there are many others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in +the work of the ministry. I understand there’s been voices raised against it in +the Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to nought. +It isn’t for men to make channels for God’s Spirit, as they make channels for +the watercourses, and say, ‘Flow here, but flow not there.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t you find some danger among your people—I don’t mean to say that it +is so with you, far from it—but don’t you find sometimes that both men and +women fancy themselves channels for God’s Spirit, and are quite mistaken, so +that they set about a work for which they are unfit and bring holy things into +contempt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among us who have +sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive their own +selves. But we are not without discipline and correction to put a check upon +these things. There’s a very strict order kept among us, and the brethren and +sisters watch for each other’s souls as they that must give account. They don’t +go every one his own way and say, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me—if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing it—how you +first came to think of preaching?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, I didn’t think of it at all—I’d been used from the time I was +sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and sometimes I had had +my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much drawn out in prayer with the +sick. But I had felt no call to preach, for when I’m not greatly wrought upon, +I’m too much given to sit still and keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit +silent all day long with the thought of God overflowing my soul—as the pebbles +lie bathed in the Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great—aren’t they, sir? +They seem to lie upon us like a deep flood; and it’s my besetment to forget +where I am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could +give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of them in +words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes it seemed as if +speech came to me without any will of my own, and words were given to me that +came out as the tears come, because our hearts are full and we can’t help it. +And those were always times of great blessing, though I had never thought it +could be so with me before a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, +like the little children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach +quite suddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work +that was laid upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But tell me the circumstances—just how it was, the very day you began to +preach.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged man, one of +the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps—that’s a village where the +people get their living by working in the lead-mines, and where there’s no +church nor preacher, but they live like sheep without a shepherd. It’s better +than twelve miles from Snowfield, so we set out early in the morning, for it +was summertime; and I had a wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked +over the hills, where there’s no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to +make the sky look smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, +and you feel the everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, +brother Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, +for he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying, and +walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his trade of +linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people were expecting him, +for he’d appointed the time and the place when he was there before, and such of +them as cared to hear the Word of Life were assembled on a spot where the +cottages was thickest, so as others might be drawn to come. But he felt as he +couldn’t stand up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the first of the +cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people, thinking we’d go into one of +the houses, and I would read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the +cottages and saw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks +of the men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the +Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to the +sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I was shaken by a +strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went to where the little flock +of people was gathered together, and stepped on the low wall that was built +against the green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given to me +abundantly. And they all came round me out of all the cottages, and many wept +over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord. That was the beginning +of my preaching, sir, and I’ve preached ever since.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in her +usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling treble by which +she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and +then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply interested. He said to +himself, “He must be a miserable prig who would act the pedagogue here: one +might as well go and lecture the trees for growing in their own shape.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth—that you are +a lovely young woman on whom men’s eyes are fixed?” he said aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve no room for such feelings, and I don’t believe the people ever take +notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt through us, +we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it +was—he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I’ve preached to as rough ignorant +people as can be in the villages about Snowfield—men that looked very hard and +wild—but they never said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as +they made way for me to pass through the midst of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>That</i> I can believe—that I can well believe,” said Mr. Irwine, +emphatically. “And what did you think of your hearers last night, now? Did you +find them quiet and attentive?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except in a +young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned greatly, when my +eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up to folly and vanity. I had some +private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. +But I’ve noticed that in these villages where the people lead a quiet life +among the green pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending +the cattle, there’s a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be from +the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy woman who +preaches there. It’s wonderful how rich is the harvest of souls up those +high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear +is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil. I think maybe it is because the +promise is sweeter when this life is so dark and weary, and the soul gets more +hungry when the body is ill at ease.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take life almost as +slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent workmen about here. +I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a gracious young +man—sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his +great skill and knowledge and the kindness he shows to his brother and his +parents.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you don’t know the trouble that has just happened to them? Their +father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night, not far from +his own door. I’m going now to see Adam.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, their poor aged mother!” said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking before +her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy. “She will +mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she’s of an anxious, troubled heart. I must +go and see if I can give her any help.” +</p> + +<p> +As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne, having +exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the milk-pans, came out of +the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine now rose also, and, advancing +towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said, “Good-bye. I hear you are going +away soon; but this will not be the last visit you will pay your aunt—so we +shall meet again, I hope.” +</p> + +<p> +His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser’s anxieties at rest, and her +face was brighter than usual, as she said, “I’ve never asked after Mrs. Irwine +and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they’re as well as usual.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad +headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you sent us—my +mother especially.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I remembered Mrs. +Irwine was fond of ’em. Please to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and +Miss Anne. They’ve never been to look at my poultry this long while, and I’ve +got some beautiful speckled chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate might like +to have some of amongst hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye,” said the rector, +mounting his horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Just ride slowly on, Irwine,” said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also. “I’ll +overtake you in three minutes. I’m only going to speak to the shepherd about +the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I shall come and have a +long talk with him soon.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had +disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the pigs and +the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a +Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking of his chain. +Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was a fresh assurance to her that +the farm-yard was well guarded, and that no loiterers could enter unobserved; +and it was not until the gate had closed behind the captain that she turned +into the kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting +to speak to her aunt, before she set out for Lisbeth Bede’s cottage. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking on it +until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine’s behaviour. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Irwine wasn’t angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah? Didn’t he +scold you for preaching?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite drawn out +to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thought of him as a +worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the morning sunshine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but pleasant?” said Mrs. +Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. “I should think his countenance +<i>is</i> pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and’s got a mother like a +picter. You may go the country round and not find such another woman turned +sixty-six. It’s summat-like to see such a man as that i’ the desk of a Sunday! +As I say to Poyser, it’s like looking at a full crop o’ wheat, or a pasture +with a fine dairy o’ cows in it; it makes you think the world’s +comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I’d as +soon go to look at a lot o’ bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are +to tell you what’s right, as look as if they’d never tasted nothing better than +bacon-sword and sour-cake i’ their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you +about that fool’s trick o’ preaching on the Green?” +</p> + +<p> +“He only said he’d heard of it; he didn’t seem to feel any displeasure about +it. But, dear aunt, don’t think any more about that. He told me something that +I’m sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last +night in the Willow Brook, and I’m thinking that the aged mother will be +greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to her, so I have fetched +my bonnet and am going to set out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o’ tea first, child,” said +Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to the frank +and genial C. “The kettle’s boiling—we’ll have it ready in a minute; and the +young uns ’ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I’m quite willing you should +go and see th’ old woman, for you’re one as is allays welcome in trouble, +Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the matter o’ that, it’s the flesh and +blood folks are made on as makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o’ +skimmed milk and some o’ new milk, and it’s no matter what you call ’em, you +may tell which is which by the look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he’s +better out o’ the way nor in—God forgi’ me for saying so—for he’s done little +this ten year but make trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it ’ud +be well for you to take a little bottle o’ rum for th’ old woman, for I daresay +she’s got never a drop o’ nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and +be easy, for you shan’t stir out till you’ve had a cup o’ tea, and so I tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching down the +tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards the pantry for the loaf +(followed close by Totty, who had made her appearance on the rattling of the +tea-cups), when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting +them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Molly,” she said, rather languidly, “just run out and get me a bunch of +dock-leaves: the butter’s ready to pack up now.” +</p> + +<p> +“D’ you hear what’s happened, Hetty?” said her aunt. +</p> + +<p> +“No; how should I hear anything?” was the answer, in a pettish tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Not as you’d care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you’re too +feather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stay upstairs +a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody besides yourself +’ud mind about such things happening to them as think a deal more of you than +you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might be drownded for what you’d +care—you’d be perking at the glass the next minute.” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam Bede—drowned?” said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking rather +bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usual exaggerating with a +didactic purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my dear, no,” said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to the +pantry without deigning more precise information. “Not Adam. Adam’s father, the +old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. Mr. Irwine +has just told me about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how dreadful!” said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply affected; and +as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them silently and returned +to the dairy without asking further questions. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"></a> +Chapter IX<br/> +Hetty’s World</h2> + +<p> +While she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant butter as +the primrose is set off by its nest of green I am afraid Hetty was thinking a +great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam +and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young gentleman with +white hands, a gold chain, occasional regimentals, and wealth and grandeur +immeasurable—those were the warm rays that set poor Hetty’s heart vibrating and +playing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that +Memnon’s statue gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest +wind, or in response to any other influence divine or human than certain +short-lived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to +the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned instruments called human +souls have only a very limited range of music, and will not vibrate in the +least under a touch that fills others with tremulous rapture or quivering +agony. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her. She was +not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to Hayslope +Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her; and that he +would have made much more decided advances if her uncle Poyser, thinking but +lightly of a young man whose father’s land was so foul as old Luke Britton’s, +had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him by any civilities. She was aware, +too, that Mr. Craig, the gardener at the Chase, was over head and ears in love +with her, and had lately made unmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and +hyperbolical peas. She knew still better, that Adam Bede—tall, upright, clever, +brave Adam Bede—who carried such authority with all the people round about, and +whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that “Adam +knew a fine sight more o’ the natur o’ things than those as thought themselves +his betters”—she knew that this Adam, who was often rather stern to other +people and not much given to run after the lasses, could be made to turn pale +or red any day by a word or a look from her. Hetty’s sphere of comparison was +not large, but she couldn’t help perceiving that Adam was “something like” a +man; always knew what to say about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the +hovel, and had mended the churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the +value of the chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the +walls, and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand that +you could read off, and could do figures in his head—a degree of accomplishment +totally unknown among the richest farmers of that countryside. Not at all like +that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked with him all the way +from Broxton to Hayslope, had only broken silence to remark that the grey goose +had begun to lay. And as for Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man +enough, to be sure, but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song +in his talk; moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on +the way to forty. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and would be +pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there was no rigid +demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable artisan, and on the +home hearth, as well as in the public house, they might be seen taking their +jug of ale together; the farmer having a latent sense of capital, and of weight +in parish affairs, which sustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in +conversation. Martin Poyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he liked +a friendly chat over his own home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay +down the law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best of +his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something from a clever +fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three years—ever since he had +superintended the building of the new barn—Adam had always been made welcome at +the Hall Farm, especially of a winter evening, when the whole family, in +patriarchal fashion, master and mistress, children and servants, were assembled +in that glorious kitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. +And for the last two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing +her uncle say, “Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he’ll be a +master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is in the +right on’t to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if it’s true what +they say; the woman as marries him ’ull have a good take, be’t Lady day or +Michaelmas,” a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed up with her cordial +assent. “Ah,” she would say, “it’s all very fine having a ready-made rich man, +but mayhappen he’ll be a ready-made fool; and it’s no use filling your pocket +full o’ money if you’ve got a hole in the corner. It’ll do you no good to sit +in a spring-cart o’ your own, if you’ve got a soft to drive you: he’ll soon +turn you over into the ditch. I allays said I’d never marry a man as had got no +brains; for where’s the use of a woman having brains of her own if she’s +tackled to a geck as everybody’s a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself +fine to sit back’ards on a donkey.” +</p> + +<p> +These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of Mrs. +Poyser’s mind with regard to Adam; and though she and her husband might have +viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter of their own, it +was clear that they would have welcomed the match with Adam for a penniless +niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servant elsewhere, if her uncle had +not taken her in and brought her up as a domestic help to her aunt, whose +health since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more positive labour than +the superintendence of servants and children? But Hetty had never given Adam +any steady encouragement. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly +conscious of his superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought +herself to think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful, +keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he had shown +the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny and +attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have been grateful enough +for the most trifling notice from him. “Mary Burge, indeed! Such a sallow-faced +girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow-flower +and her hair was as straight as a hank of cotton.” And always when Adam stayed +away for several weeks from the Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of +resistance to his passion as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back +into the net by little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble +at his neglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair! +There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a +shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill when she saw him +passing along the causeway by the window, or advancing towards her unexpectedly +in the footpath across the meadow; she felt nothing, when his eyes rested on +her, but the cold triumph of knowing that he loved her and would not care to +look at Mary Burge. He could no more stir in her the emotions that make the +sweet intoxication of young love than the mere picture of a sun can stir the +spring sap in the subtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was—a poor man +with old parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to +give her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle’s house. And Hetty’s +dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a carpeted parlour, and always wear +white stockings; to have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as were all the +fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top of her gown, and something to +make her handkerchief smell nice, like Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s when she drew +it out at church; and not to be obliged to get up early or be scolded by +anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have given her these +things, she loved him well enough to marry him. +</p> + +<p> +But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty—vague, +atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects, but +producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground and go about +her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and showing her +all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if she were living not in this solid +world of brick and stone, but in a beatified world, such as the sun lights up +for us in the waters. Hetty had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would +take a good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed +himself at church so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and +standing; that he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, +and always would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak to +him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present the idea that +the young squire could ever be her lover than a baker’s pretty daughter in the +crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, +conceives that she shall be made empress. But the baker’s daughter goes home +and dreams of the handsome young emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss +while she is thinking what a heavenly lot it must be to have him for a husband. +And so, poor Hetty had got a face and a presence haunting her waking and +sleeping dreams; bright, soft glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life +with a strange, happy languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not +half so fine as Adam’s, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching +tenderness, but they had found a ready medium in Hetty’s little silly +imagination, whereas Adam’s could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For +three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of little else than living +through in memory the looks and words Arthur had directed towards her—of little +else than recalling the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the +house, and saw him enter, and became conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, +and then became conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes +that seemed to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture +with an odour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish +thoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years ago, and +Hetty was quite uneducated—a simple farmer’s girl, to whom a gentleman with a +white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until to-day, she had never looked +farther into the future than to the next time Captain Donnithorne would come to +the Farm, or the next Sunday when she should see him at church; but now she +thought, perhaps he would try to meet her when she went to the Chase +to-morrow—and if he should speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was +by! That had never happened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing +the past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow—whereabout in the +Chase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new +rose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say to her +to make her return his glance—a glance which she would be living through in her +memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day. +</p> + +<p> +In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam’s troubles, or +think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant +delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterflies sipping nectar; they are +isolated from all appeals by a barrier of dreams—by invisible looks and +impalpable arms. +</p> + +<p> +While Hetty’s hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled with +these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr. Irwine’s side +towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain indistinct +anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind while he was listening to +Mr. Irwine’s account of Dinah—indistinct, yet strong enough to make him feel +rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenly said, “What fascinated you so in Mrs. +Poyser’s dairy, Arthur? Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and +skimming dishes?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention would be of +any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, “No, I went to look at the +pretty butter-maker Hetty Sorrel. She’s a perfect Hebe; and if I were an +artist, I would paint her. It’s amazing what pretty girls one sees among the +farmers’ daughters, when the men are such clowns. That common, round, red face +one sees sometimes in the men—all cheek and no features, like Martin +Poyser’s—comes out in the women of the family as the most charming phiz +imaginable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic light, +but I must not have you feeding her vanity and filling her little noddle with +the notion that she’s a great beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will +spoil her for a poor man’s wife—honest Craig’s, for example, whom I have seen +bestowing soft glances on her. The little puss seems already to have airs +enough to make a husband as miserable as it’s a law of nature for a quiet man +to be when he marries a beauty. Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam +will get settled, now the poor old man’s gone. He will only have his mother to +keep in future, and I’ve a notion that there’s a kindness between him and that +nice modest girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one +day when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he +looked uneasy and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making doesn’t +run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he’s in a better position. He has +independence of spirit enough for two men—rather an excess of pride, if +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge’s shoes +and make a fine thing of that building business, I’ll answer for him. I should +like to see him well settled in this parish; he would be ready then to act as +my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan no end of repairs and +improvements together. I’ve never seen the girl, though, I think—at least I’ve +never looked at her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look at her next Sunday at church—she sits with her father on the left of the +reading-desk. You needn’t look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I’ve +made up my mind that I can’t afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no notice of +him, because if he took a strong fancy to me and looked lovingly at me, the +struggle between arithmetic and inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I +pique myself on my wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom +had become cheap, I bestow it upon you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day though I don’t know that I +have any present use for it. Bless me! How the brook has overflowed. Suppose we +have a canter, now we’re at the bottom of the hill.” +</p> + +<p> +That is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be merged any +minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from Socrates +himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the necessity of further +conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind Adam’s cottage. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"></a> +Chapter X<br/> +Dinah Visits Lisbeth</h2> + +<p> +At five o’clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand: it was +the key of the chamber where her husband lay dead. Throughout the day, except +in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been in incessant +movement, performing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and exactitude +that belong to religious rites. She had brought out her little store of +bleached linen, which she had for long years kept in reserve for this supreme +use. It seemed but yesterday—that time so many midsummers ago, when she had +told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure and reach it out for her +when <i>she</i> died, for she was the elder of the two. Then there had been the +work of cleansing to the strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, +and of removing from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small +window, which had hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm +summer sunrise on the working man’s slumber, must now be darkened with a fair +white sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters +as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected and unnoticeable +rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for the moments were few and precious +now in which she would be able to do the smallest office of respect or love for +the still corpse, to which in all her thoughts she attributed some +consciousness. Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they +can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our +aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the +smallest relic of their presence. And the aged peasant woman most of all +believes that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been +thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation +that she should know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by +her husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work of her life +were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently before her—under the +white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she lay in the coffin, yet +all the while saw the sunshine above and smelt the white blossoms that were so +thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went to be churched after Adam was born. +</p> + +<p> +But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamber of +death—had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons in lifting, for she +would let no one be fetched to help her from the village, not being fond of +female neighbours generally; and her favourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at +Mr. Burge’s, who had come to condole with her in the morning as soon as she +heard of Thias’s death, was too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked +the door, and now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a +chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in +ordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen had had none +of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread of muddy shoes and +untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But what at another time +would have been intolerable to Lisbeth’s habits of order and cleanliness seemed +to her now just what should be: it was right that things should look strange +and disordered and wretched, now the old man had come to his end in that sad +way; the kitchen ought not to look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome +with the agitations and exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had +fallen asleep on a bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back kitchen +making a fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade his +mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowed herself. +</p> + +<p> +There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herself into the +chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the +bright afternoon’s sun shone dismally; it was all of a piece with the sad +confusion of her mind—that confusion which belongs to the first hours of a +sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul is like one who has been deposited +sleeping among the ruins of a vast city, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not +knowing whether it is the growing or the dying day—not knowing why and whence +came this illimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate +in the midst of it. +</p> + +<p> +At another time Lisbeth’s first thought would have been, “Where is Adam?” but +the sudden death of her husband had restored him in these hours to that first +place in her affections which he had held six-and-twenty years ago. She had +forgotten his faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood, and +thought of nothing but the young husband’s kindness and the old man’s patience. +Her eyes continued to wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove +some of the scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he +might set out his mother’s tea upon it. +</p> + +<p> +“What art goin’ to do?” she said, rather peevishly. +</p> + +<p> +“I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother,” answered Seth, tenderly. “It’ll do +thee good; and I’ll put two or three of these things away, and make the house +look more comfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Comfortable! How canst talk o’ ma’in’ things comfortable? Let a-be, let a-be. +There’s no comfort for me no more,” she went on, the tears coming when she +began to speak, “now thy poor feyther’s gone, as I’n washed for and mended, an’ +got’s victual for him for thirty ’ear, an’ him allays so pleased wi’ iverything +I done for him, an’ used to be so handy an’ do the jobs for me when I war ill +an’ cumbered wi’ th’ babby, an’ made me the posset an’ brought it upstairs as +proud as could be, an’ carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five +mile an’ ne’er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, ’cause I wanted to go an’ +see my sister, as war dead an’ gone the very next Christmas as e’er come. An’ +him to be drownded in the brook as we passed o’er the day we war married an’ +come home together, an’ he’d made them lots o’ shelves for me to put my plates +an’ things on, an’ showed ’em me as proud as could be, ’cause he know’d I +should be pleased. An’ he war to die an’ me not to know, but to be a-sleepin’ +i’ my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An’ me to live to see that! An’ +us as war young folks once, an’ thought we should do rarely when we war +married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha’ no tay. I carena if I ne’er ate +nor drink no more. When one end o’ th’ bridge tumbles down, where’s th’ use o’ +th’ other stannin’? I may’s well die, an’ foller my old man. There’s no knowin’ +but he’ll want me.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards and +forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards his mother, +from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was useless to +attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past; so he contented +himself with tending the back kitchen fire and folding up his father’s clothes, +which had been hanging out to dry since morning—afraid to move about in the +room where his mother was, lest he should irritate her further. +</p> + +<p> +But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some minutes, she +suddenly paused and said aloud to herself, “I’ll go an’ see arter Adam, for I +canna think where he’s gotten; an’ I want him to go upstairs wi’ me afore it’s +dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is like the meltin’ snow.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother rose from +her chair, he said, “Adam’s asleep in the workshop, mother. Thee’dst better not +wake him. He was o’erwrought with work and trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wake him? Who’s a-goin’ to wake him? I shanna wake him wi’ lookin’ at him. I +hanna seen the lad this two hour—I’d welly forgot as he’d e’er growed up from a +babby when’s feyther carried him.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, which rested +from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table in the middle of the +workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few minutes’ rest and had +fallen asleep without slipping from his first attitude of sad, fatigued +thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday, looked pallid and clammy; his hair +was tossed shaggily about his forehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look +which follows upon watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face +had an expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat +on his haunches, resting his nose on his master’s stretched-out leg, and +dividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down and +glancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog was hungry and +restless, but would not leave his master, and was waiting impatiently for some +change in the scene. It was owing to this feeling on Gyp’s part that, when +Lisbeth came into the workshop and advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she +could, her intention not to awaken him was immediately defeated; for Gyp’s +excitement was too great to find vent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in +a moment Adam opened his eyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was +not very unlike his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living +through again, in a fevered delirious way, all that had happened since +daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was present to him through it +all. The chief difference between the reality and the vision was that in his +dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodily presence—strangely +mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which she had nothing to do. She +was even by the Willow Brook; she made his mother angry by coming into the +house; and he met her with her smart clothes quite wet through, as he walked in +the rain to Treddleston, to tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his +mother was sure to follow soon; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all +startling to see her standing near him. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, my lad, my lad!” Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulse +returning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating its loss +and its lament with every change of scene and incident, “thee’st got nobody now +but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden to thee. Thy poor feyther +’ull ne’er anger thee no more; an’ thy mother may’s well go arter him—the +sooner the better—for I’m no good to nobody now. One old coat ’ull do to patch +another, but it’s good for nought else. Thee’dst like to ha’ a wife to mend thy +clothes an’ get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. An’ I shall be nought +but cumber, a-sittin’ i’ th’ chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; +he dreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if thy +feyther had lived, he’d ne’er ha’ wanted me to go to make room for another, for +he could no more ha’ done wi’out me nor one side o’ the scissars can do wi’out +th’ other. Eh, we should ha’ been both flung away together, an’ then I shouldna +ha’ seen this day, an’ one buryin’ ’ud ha’ done for us both.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence—he could not speak +otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not help being +irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to know how it +affected Adam any more than it is possible for a wounded dog to know how his +moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all complaining women, she +complained in the expectation of being soothed, and when Adam said nothing, she +was only prompted to complain more bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know thee couldst do better wi’out me, for thee couldst go where thee +likedst an’ marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say thee nay, let +thee bring home who thee wut; I’d ne’er open my lips to find faut, for when +folks is old an’ o’ no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit +an’ the sup, though they’n to swallow ill words wi’t. An’ if thee’st set thy +heart on a lass as’ll bring thee nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha’ +them as ’ud make a man on thee, I’ll say nought, now thy feyther’s dead an’ +drownded, for I’m no better nor an old haft when the blade’s gone.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and walked +out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee wutna go upstairs an’ see thy feyther then? I’n done everythin’ now, an’ +he’d like thee to go an’ look at him, for he war allays so pleased when thee +wast mild to him.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam turned round at once and said, “Yes, mother; let us go upstairs. Come, +Seth, let us go together.” +</p> + +<p> +They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key was +turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did +not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his +mother’s querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. Lisbeth no sooner +entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her apron over her head, and +began to cry and moan and rock herself as before. Seth thought, “She will be +quieter by and by, now we have been upstairs”; and he went into the back +kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he should presently induce +her to have some tea. +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes, giving +a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she suddenly felt a +hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice said to her, “Dear sister, +the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from her +face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister’s spirit come back +to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled and dared not look. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for the +sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her bonnet, and +then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a +beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth’s chair and leaned over +her, that she might be aware of a friendly presence. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes. +She saw nothing at first but a face—a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, +and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased; perhaps it <i>was</i> an +angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on Lisbeth’s again, and +the old woman looked down at it. It was a much smaller hand than her own, but +it was not white and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, +and her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth +looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on +Dinah’s face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone of +surprise, “Why, ye’re a workin’ woman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; “ye comed in so light, like the +shadow on the wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit. +Ye’ve got a’most the face o’ one as is a-sittin’ on the grave i’ Adam’s new +Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +“I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser—she’s my aunt, and she has +heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I’m come to see if I can +be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, and I +know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of God +was heavy upon you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a command to come +and be to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I know who y’ are now; y’ are a Methody, like Seth; he’s tould me on you,” +said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain returning, now her +wonder was gone. “Ye’ll make it out as trouble’s a good thing, like <i>he</i> +allays does. But where’s the use o’ talkin’ to me a-that’n? Ye canna make the +smart less wi’ talkin’. Ye’ll ne’er make me believe as it’s better for me not +to ha’ my old man die in’s bed, if he must die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by +him, an’ me to sit by him, an’ tell him ne’er to mind th’ ill words I’ve gi’en +him sometimes when I war angered, an’ to gi’ him a bit an’ a sup, as long as a +bit an’ a sup he’d swallow. But eh! To die i’ the cold water, an’ us close to +him, an’ ne’er to know; an’ me a-sleepin’, as if I ne’er belonged to him no +more nor if he’d been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!” +</p> + +<p> +Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, “Yes, dear +friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to say that +your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn’t send me to you to make light of +your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a table +spread for a feast, and was making merry with your friends, you would think it +was kind to let me come and sit down and rejoice with you, because you’d think +I should like to share those good things; but I should like better to share in +your trouble and your labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me +that. You won’t send me away? You’re not angry with me for coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come. An’ +Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as +had no need, but ye donna think o’ gettin’ ’t for them as wants it. Sit ye +down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin’, for it’s little wage ye get +by walkin’ through the wet fields to see an old woman like me.... Nay, I’n got +no daughter o’ my own—ne’er had one—an’ I warna sorry, for they’re poor queechy +things, gells is; I allays wanted to ha’ lads, as could fend for theirsens. An’ +the lads ’ull be marryin’—I shall ha’ daughters eno’, an’ too many. But now, do +ye make the tay as ye like it, for I’n got no taste i’ my mouth this day—it’s +all one what I swaller—it’s all got the taste o’ sorrow wi’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted Lisbeth’s +invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old woman herself to +take the food and drink she so much needed after a day of hard work and +fasting. +</p> + +<p> +Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help thinking +her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief incessantly +followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached himself—it was almost as +if he were rejoicing in his father’s sad death. Nevertheless the joy of being +with Dinah <i>would</i> triumph—it was like the influence of climate, which no +resistance can overcome. And the feeling even suffused itself over his face so +as to attract his mother’s notice, while she was drinking her tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee may’st well talk o’ trouble bein’ a good thing, Seth, for thee thriv’st +on’t. Thee look’st as if thee know’dst no more o’ care an’ cumber nor when thee +wast a babby a-lyin’ awake i’ th’ cradle. For thee’dst allays lie still wi’ thy +eyes open, an’ Adam ne’er ’ud lie still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast +allays like a bag o’ meal as can ne’er be bruised—though, for the matter o’ +that, thy poor feyther war just such another. But <i>ye</i>’ve got the same +look too” (here Lisbeth turned to Dinah). “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody. +Not as I’m a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye’ve no call to be frettin’, an’ +somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o’ trouble, +they’re like to thrive: it’s a pity they canna ha’t all, an’ take it away from +them as donna like it. I could ha’ gi’en ’em plenty; for when I’d gotten my old +man I war worreted from morn till night; and now he’s gone, I’d be glad for the +worst o’er again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth’s, for her +reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued +in that finest woman’s tact which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy; “yes, +I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed for the sound of her bad cough +in the nights, instead of the silence that came when she was gone. But now, +dear friend, drink this other cup of tea and eat a little more.” +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous tone, +“had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about your aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby. She +had no children, for she was never married and she brought me up as tenderly as +if I’d been her own child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, she’d fine work wi’ ye, I’ll warrant, bringin’ ye up from a babby, an’ her +a lone woman—it’s ill bringin’ up a cade lamb. But I daresay ye warna franzy, +for ye look as if ye’d ne’er been angered i’ your life. But what did ye do when +your aunt died, an’ why didna ye come to live in this country, bein’ as Mrs. +Poyser’s your aunt too?” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth’s attention was attracted, told her the story of her +early life—how she had been brought up to work hard, and what sort of place +Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life there—all the details that +she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The old woman listened, and forgot to +be fretful, unconsciously subject to the soothing influence of Dinah’s face and +voice. After a while she was persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for +Dinah was bent on this, believing that the sense of order and quietude around +her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour +forth at her side. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that +Dinah would like to be left alone with his mother. +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and said at +last, “Ye’ve got a notion o’ cleanin’ up. I wouldna mind ha’in ye for a +daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad’s wage i’ fine clothes an’ waste. Ye’re +not like the lasses o’ this countryside. I reckon folks is different at +Snowfield from what they are here.” +</p> + +<p> +“They have a different sort of life, many of ’em,” said Dinah; “they work at +different things—some in the mill, and many in the mines, in the villages round +about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere, and there are the children +of this world and the children of light there as well as elsewhere. But we’ve +many more Methodists there than in this country.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there’s Will +Maskery’s wife, as they say’s a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at, at all. +I’d as lief look at a tooad. An’ I’m thinkin’ I wouldna mind if ye’d stay an’ +sleep here, for I should like to see ye i’ th’ house i’ th’ mornin’. But +mayhappen they’ll be lookin for ye at Mester Poyser’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Dinah, “they don’t expect me, and I should like to stay, if you’ll +let me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, there’s room; I’n got my bed laid i’ th’ little room o’er the back +kitchen, an’ ye can lie beside me. I’d be glad to ha’ ye wi’ me to speak to i’ +th’ night, for ye’ve got a nice way o’ talkin’. It puts me i’ mind o’ the +swallows as was under the thack last ’ear when they fust begun to sing low an’ +soft-like i’ th’ mornin’. Eh, but my old man war fond o’ them birds! An’ so war +Adam, but they’n ne’er comed again this ’ear. Happen they’re dead too.” +</p> + +<p> +“There,” said Dinah, “now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear Mother—for I’m +your daughter to-night, you know—I should like you to wash your face and have a +clean cap on. Do you remember what David did, when God took away his child from +him? While the child was yet alive he fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and +he would neither eat nor drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God +for the child. But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and +washed and anointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and +when they asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now the +child was dead, he said, ‘While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for +I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may +live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? +I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, that’s a true word,” said Lisbeth. “Yea, my old man wonna come back to me, +but I shall go to him—the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi’ me: +there’s a clean cap i’ that drawer, an’ I’ll go i’ the back kitchen an’ wash my +face. An’ Seth, thee may’st reach down Adam’s new Bible wi’ th’ picters in, an’ +she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I like them words—‘I shall go to him, but he +wonna come back to me.’” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater quietness of +spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had been trying to bring +about, through all her still sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her +girlhood upwards she had had experience among the sick and the mourning, among +minds hardened and shrivelled through poverty and ignorance, and had gained the +subtlest perception of the mode in which they could best be touched and +softened into willingness to receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. +As Dinah expressed it, “she was never left to herself; but it was always given +her when to keep silence and when to speak.” And do we not all agree to call +rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest +analysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that our +highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us. +</p> + +<p> +And so there was earnest prayer—there was faith, love, and hope pouring forth +that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretful Lisbeth, without +grasping any distinct idea, without going through any course of religious +emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love, and of something right lying +underneath and beyond all this sorrowing life. She couldn’t understand the +sorrow; but, for these moments, under the subduing influence of Dinah’s spirit, +she felt that she must be patient and still. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"></a> +Chapter XI<br/> +In the Cottage</h2> + +<p> +It was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lying awake +listening to the birds and watching the growing light through the little window +in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very quietly, lest she +should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was astir in the house, and +had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog’s pattering step was a sure sign +that it was Adam who went down; but Dinah was not aware of this, and she +thought it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had stayed +up working the night before. Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound +of the opening door. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at +last by Dinah’s unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodily +weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and so when he +went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours of tossing +wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning sleep than was +usual with him. +</p> + +<p> +But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual impatience +of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day and subdue sadness by his +strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in the valley; it was going to +be a bright warm day, and he would start to work again when he had had his +breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing but what’s bearable as long as a man can work,” he said to +himself; “the natur o’ things doesn’t change, though it seems as if one’s own +life was nothing but change. The square o’ four is sixteen, and you must +lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a man’s +miserable as when he’s happy; and the best o’ working is, it gives you a grip +hold o’ things outside your own lot.” +</p> + +<p> +As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely himself +again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thick black hair all +glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the workshop to look out the +wood for his father’s coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it with +them to Jonathan Burge’s and have the coffin made by one of the workmen there, +so that his mother might not see and hear the sad task going forward at home. +</p> + +<p> +He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a light rapid +foot on the stairs—certainly not his mother’s. He had been in bed and asleep +when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered whose step this +could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him strangely. As if it could be +Hetty! She was the last person likely to be in the house. And yet he felt +reluctant to go and look and have the clear proof that it was some one else. He +stood leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listening to sounds which his +imagination interpreted for him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became +suffused with a timid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, +followed by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the +lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path; and Adam’s +imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguish smiles +looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaning a little to +clasp the handle. A very foolish thought—it could not be Hetty; but the only +way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was to go and see <i>who</i> it +was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to belief while he stood there +listening. He loosed the plank and went to the kitchen door. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Adam Bede?” said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from her +sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. “I trust you feel rested and +strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the day.” +</p> + +<p> +It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adam had +seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he was not very +vividly conscious of any woman’s presence except Hetty’s, and he had only in +the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in love with her, so that +his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards her for his brother’s sake. +But now her slim figure, her plain black gown, and her pale serene face +impressed him with all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a +preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no answer, but looked +at her with the concentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object +in which he has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in +her life, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in the dark +penetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness and +timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as she +wondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness. +</p> + +<p> +“I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come and see my +mother in her trouble,” he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his quick mind +told him at once how she came to be there. “I hope my mother was thankful to +have you,” he added, wondering rather anxiously what had been Dinah’s +reception. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dinah, resuming her work, “she seemed greatly comforted after a +while, and she’s had a good deal of rest in the night, by times. She was fast +asleep when I left her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?” said Adam, his thoughts reverting +to some one there; he wondered whether <i>she</i> had felt anything about it. +</p> + +<p> +“It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved for your +mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come; and so is my uncle, I’m sure, +now he’s heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter all yesterday. They’ll look +for you there as soon as you’ve got time to go, for there’s nobody round that +hearth but what’s glad to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam was longing +to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble; she was too rigorously +truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived to say something in +which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way of cheating itself +consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased +with assurances that it all the while disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had +said so much that his mind was directly full of the next visit he should pay to +the Hall Farm, when Hetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had +ever done before. +</p> + +<p> +“But you won’t be there yourself any longer?” he said to Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to +Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go back +to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt and her +children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like me; and her +heart seemed inclined towards me last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, then, she’s sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at the +beginning, she’s sure to get fond of ’em; but she’s a strange way of not liking +young women. Though, to be sure,” Adam went on, smiling, “her not liking other +young women is no reason why she shouldn’t like you.” +</p> + +<p> +Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless silence, +seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his master’s face to +watch its expression and observing Dinah’s movements about the kitchen. The +kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words was apparently decisive with +Gyp of the light in which the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned +round after putting aside her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up +his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way. +</p> + +<p> +“You see Gyp bids you welcome,” said Adam, “and he’s very slow to welcome +strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor dog!” said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, “I’ve a strange feeling +about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to ’em +because they couldn’t. I can’t help being sorry for the dogs always, though +perhaps there’s no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how +to make us understand, for we can’t say half what we feel, with all our words.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; he wanted +Adam to know how much better she was than all other women. But after a few +words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, +and Dinah went on with her cleaning. +</p> + +<p> +By six o’clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as clean as +she could have made it herself. The window and door were open, and the morning +air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweet-briar +from the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at +first, but moved about, serving the others with the warm porridge and the +toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready in the usual way, for she had asked +Seth to tell her just what his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been +unusually silent since she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to +adjust her ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to +find all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations +seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting the +porridge, she broke silence: +</p> + +<p> +“Ye might ha’ made the parridge worse,” she said to Dinah; “I can ate it wi’out +its turnin’ my stomach. It might ha’ been a trifle thicker an’ no harm, an’ I +allays putten a sprig o’ mint in mysen; but how’s ye t’ know that? The lads +arena like to get folks as ’ll make their parridge as I’n made it for ’em; it’s +well if they get onybody as ’ll make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi’ a +bit o’ showin’; for ye’re a stirrin’ body in a mornin’, an’ ye’ve a light heel, +an’ ye’ve cleaned th’ house well enough for a ma’shift.” +</p> + +<p> +“Makeshift, mother?” said Adam. “Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I +don’t know how it could look better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee dostna know? Nay; how’s thee to know? Th’ men ne’er know whether the +floor’s cleaned or cat-licked. But thee’lt know when thee gets thy parridge +burnt, as it’s like enough to be when I’n gi’en o’er makin’ it. Thee’lt think +thy mother war good for summat then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah,” said Seth, “do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We’re +all served now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, come an’ sit ye down—do,” said Lisbeth, “an’ ate a morsel; ye’d need, +arter bein’ upo’ your legs this hour an’ half a’ready. Come, then,” she added, +in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, “I’ll be +loath for ye t’ go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi’ +ye i’ th’ house better nor wi’ most folks.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll stay till to-night if you’re willing,” said Dinah. “I’d stay longer, only +I’m going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with my aunt to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, I’d ne’er go back to that country. My old man come from that Stonyshire +side, but he left it when he war a young un, an’ i’ the right on’t too; for he +said as there war no wood there, an’ it ’ud ha’ been a bad country for a +carpenter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Adam, “I remember father telling me when I was a little lad that he +made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south’ard. But I’m not so sure +about it. Bartle Massey says—and he knows the South—as the northern men are a +finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal +taller. And then he says in some o’ those counties it’s as flat as the back o’ +your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance without climbing up the +highest trees. I couldn’t abide that. I like to go to work by a road that’ll +take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a +bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the +world’s a big place, and there’s other men working in it with their heads and +hands besides yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I like th’ hills best,” said Seth, “when the clouds are over your head and you +see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I’ve often done +o’ late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if that was heaven where there’s +always joy and sunshine, though this life’s dark and cloudy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,” said Dinah; “I shouldn’t like to set my face +towards the countries where they’re rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so +level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people +have to live such a hard life and the men spend their days in the mines away +from the sunlight. It’s very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is +hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one’s soul, and carry it +to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there’s nothing else to give comfort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh!” said Lisbeth, “that’s very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the +snowdrop-flowers as ha’ lived for days an’ days when I’n gethered ’em, wi’ +nothin’ but a drop o’ water an’ a peep o’ daylight; but th’ hungry foulks had +better leave th’ hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But,” +she went on, looking at Adam, “donna thee talk o’ goin’ south’ard or north’ard, +an’ leavin’ thy feyther and mother i’ the churchyard, an’ goin’ to a country as +they know nothin’ on. I’ll ne’er rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee i’ the +churchyard of a Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Donna fear, mother,” said Adam. “If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I +should ha’ been gone before now.” +</p> + +<p> +He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking. +</p> + +<p> +“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy feyther’s coffin?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood to the village and have +it made there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; “thee wotna +let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but thysen? Who’d make it so well? An’ him +as know’d what good work war, an’s got a son as is the head o’ the village an’ +all Treddles’on too, for cleverness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish, I’ll make the coffin at home; but I +thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ why shouldna I like ’t? It’s the right thing to be done. An’ what’s liking +got to do wi’t? It’s choice o’ mislikings is all I’n got i’ this world. One +morsel’s as good as another when your mouth’s out o’ taste. Thee mun set about +it now this mornin’ fust thing. I wonna ha’ nobody to touch the coffin but +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s eyes met Seth’s, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother,” he said, “I’ll not consent but Seth shall have a hand in it too, +if it’s to be done at home. I’ll go to the village this forenoon, because Mr. +Burge ’ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I +can come back at noon, and then he can go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, “I’n set my heart on’t as thee +shalt ma’ thy feyther’s coffin. Thee’t so stiff an’ masterful, thee’t ne’er do +as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi’ thy feyther when he war +alive; thee must be the better to him now he’s gone. He’d ha’ thought nothin’ +on’t for Seth to ma’s coffin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Say no more, Adam, say no more,” said Seth, gently, though his voice told that +he spoke with some effort; “Mother’s in the right. I’ll go to work, and do thee +stay at home.” +</p> + +<p> +He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while Lisbeth, +automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away the breakfast things, +as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, +but presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the +workshop. +</p> + +<p> +They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was standing with +his left hand on Seth’s shoulder, while he pointed with the hammer in his right +to some boards which they were looking at. Their backs were turned towards the +door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not aware +of her presence till they heard her voice saying, “Seth Bede!” Seth started, +and they both turned round. Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed +her eyes on Seth’s face, saying with calm kindness, “I won’t say farewell. I +shall see you again when you come from work. So as I’m at the farm before dark, +it will be quite soon enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It’ll perhaps +be the last time.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a little tremor in Seth’s voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, +“You’ll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your tenderness and +long-suffering towards your aged mother.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had +entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she had not +looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, “I don’t wonder at thee for +loving her, Seth. She’s got a face like a lily.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth’s soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his secret +to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered, +“Aye, Addy, I do love her—too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only +as one child o’ God loves another. She’ll never love any man as a +husband—that’s my belief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, lad, there’s no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She’s made out o’ stuff +with a finer grain than most o’ the women; I can see that clear enough. But if +she’s better than they are in other things, I canna think she’ll fall short of +’em in loving.” +</p> + +<p> +No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work on the +coffin. +</p> + +<p> +“God help the lad, and me too,” he thought, as he lifted the board. “We’re like +enough to find life a tough job—hard work inside and out. It’s a strange thing +to think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth and walk fifty mile on +end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of +all the rest i’ the world. It’s a mystery we can give no account of; but no +more we can of the sprouting o’ the seed, for that matter.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"></a> +Chapter XII<br/> +In the Wood</h2> + +<p> +That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about in his +dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person reflected in the +old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green piece of +tapestry, by Pharaoh’s daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding +the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time +his valet was tying the black silk sling over his shoulder, had issued in a +distinct practical resolution. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so,” he said aloud. “I shall +take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready by half-past +eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution, here +broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as he hurried along +it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar’s Opera, “When the heart of a +man is oppressed with care.” Not an heroic strain; nevertheless Arthur felt +himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables to give his orders about +the horses. His own approbation was necessary to him, and it was not an +approbation to be enjoyed quite gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount +of merit. He had never yet forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable +reliance on his own virtues. No young man could confess his faults more +candidly; candour was one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man’s candour +be seen in all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had +an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous kind—impetuous, +warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible +for Arthur Donnithorne to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. “No! I’m a +devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the +load shall fall on my own shoulders.” Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical +justice in hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their +worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly expressed +wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of things that +Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besides himself. He was nothing if +not good-natured; and all his pictures of the future, when he should come into +the estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their +landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman—mansion in first-rate +order, all elegance and high taste—jolly housekeeping, finest stud in +Loamshire—purse open to all public objects—in short, everything as different as +possible from what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of +the first good actions he would perform in that future should be to increase +Irwine’s income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he might keep a carriage +for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the rector dated from the +age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection partly filial, partly +fraternal—fraternal enough to make him like Irwine’s company better than that +of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink strongly from +incurring Irwine’s disapprobation. +</p> + +<p> +You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was “a good fellow”—all his college +friends thought him such. He couldn’t bear to see any one uncomfortable; he +would have been sorry even in his angriest moods for any harm to happen to his +grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia herself had the benefit of that +soft-heartedness which he bore towards the whole sex. Whether he would have +self-mastery enough to be always as harmless and purely beneficent as his +good-nature led him to desire, was a question that no one had yet decided +against him; he was but twenty-one, you remember, and we don’t inquire too +closely into character in the case of a handsome generous young fellow, who +will have property enough to support numerous peccadilloes—who, if he should +unfortunately break a man’s legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension +him handsomely; or if he should happen to spoil a woman’s existence for her, +will make it up to her with expensive <i>bon-bons</i>, packed up and directed +by his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analytic in such +cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We +use round, general, gentlemanly epithets about a young man of birth and +fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuition which is the distinguishing +attribute of their sex, see at once that he is “nice.” The chances are that he +will go through life without scandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no +one would refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which +sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their construction that would +never have been discoverable in smooth water; and many a “good fellow,” through +a disastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal. +</p> + +<p> +But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguries concerning +Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capable of a prudent +resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear: Nature has taken care +that he shall never go far astray with perfect comfort and satisfaction to +himself; he will never get beyond that border-land of sin, where he will be +perpetually harassed by assaults from the other side of the boundary. He will +never be a courtier of Vice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +It was about ten o’clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly; everything was +looking lovelier for the yesterday’s rain. It is a pleasant thing on such a +morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel on one’s way to the stables, +meditating an excursion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural +state of things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man’s life, +always brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There was no having his own +way in the stables; everything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His +grandfather persisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of +lever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire a +succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whom had lately +tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on Arthur’s bay mare. +This state of things is naturally embittering; one can put up with annoyances +in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexation and disgust is a +point beyond what human flesh and blood can be expected to endure long together +without danger of misanthropy. +</p> + +<p> +Old John’s wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that met Arthur’s +eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned for him the bark of +the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He could never speak quite patiently +to the old blockhead. +</p> + +<p> +“You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-past eleven, +and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Do you hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap’n,” said old John very deliberately, following the +young master into the stable. John considered a young master as the natural +enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor contrivance for +carrying on the world. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possible to see +anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper before breakfast. The +pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as +her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable +companion in the stable, was comfortably curled up on her back. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Meg, my pretty girl,” said Arthur, patting her neck, “we’ll have a +glorious canter this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be,” said John. +</p> + +<p> +“Not be? Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she’s got lamed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, th’ lad took her too close to Dalton’s hosses, an’ one on ’em flung out +at her, an’ she’s got her shank bruised o’ the near foreleg.” +</p> + +<p> +The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued. You +understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled with +soothing “who-ho’s” while the leg was examined; that John stood by with quite +as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved crab-tree walking-stick, +and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the +pleasure-ground without singing as he went. +</p> + +<p> +He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was not +another mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg and +Rattler. It was vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the way for a week +or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such a combination of +circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a broken arm when every other +fellow in his regiment was enjoying himself at Windsor—shut up with his +grandfather, who had the same sort of affection for him as for his parchment +deeds! And to be disgusted at every turn with the management of the house and +the estate! In such circumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and +works off the irritation by some excess or other. “Salkeld would have drunk a +bottle of port every day,” he muttered to himself, “but I’m not well seasoned +enough for that. Well, since I can’t go to Eagledale, I’ll have a gallop on +Rattler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine.” +</p> + +<p> +Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he lunched with +Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach the Chase again till nearly +five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in the housekeeper’s room; and +when she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, so he +should keep out of her way altogether. There really would have been no harm in +being kind to the little thing, and it was worth dancing with a dozen ballroom +belles only to look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not +take any more notice of her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had +hinted; though Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so +soft and easily bruised; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and +cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty’s case, it was out of +the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond for himself with perfect +confidence. +</p> + +<p> +So the twelve o’clock sun saw him galloping towards Norburne; and by good +fortune Halsell Common lay in his road and gave him some fine leaps for +Rattler. Nothing like “taking” a few bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon; +and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, with their immense advantages +in this way, have left so bad a reputation in history. +</p> + +<p> +After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear that although Gawaine was at +home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcely cleared the last +stroke of three when Arthur returned through the entrance-gates, got down from +the panting Rattler, and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I +believe there have been men since his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a +rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the +favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round +upon us at the moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own. +</p> + +<p> +“The cap’n’s been ridin’ the devil’s own pace,” said Dalton the coachman, whose +person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipe against the stable wall, +when John brought up Rattler. +</p> + +<p> +“An’ I wish he’d get the devil to do’s grooming for’n,” growled John. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye; he’d hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now,” observed Dalton—and +the joke appeared to him so good that, being left alone upon the scene, he +continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an +imaginary audience and shake luxuriously with a silent, ventral laughter, +mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the beginning, that he might recite it +with effect in the servants’ hall. +</p> + +<p> +When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it was +inevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in the day +should flash across his mind; but it was impossible for him now to dwell on the +remembrance—impossible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been +decisive with him then, any more than to recall the peculiar scent of the air +that had freshened him when he first opened his window. The desire to see Hetty +had rushed back like an ill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the force +with which this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous +as he brushed his hair—pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was +because he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if +it were of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty to-day, and +get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was all Irwine’s fault. “If Irwine +had said nothing, I shouldn’t have thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg’s +lameness.” However, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, +and he would go and finish Dr. Moore’s <i>Zeluco</i> there before dinner. The +Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove—the way Hetty was sure to come in walking +from the Hall Farm. So nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty +was a mere circumstance of his walk, not its object. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chase than +might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warm afternoon, +and it was still scarcely four o’clock when he stood before the tall narrow +gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the +Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, not because the firs were many, but +because they were few. It was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there +a light silver-stemmed birch—just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs: +you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from +behind the smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid +laughter—but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish +behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that their voice was only a +running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose themselves into a tawny squirrel +that scampers away and mocks you from the topmost bough. It was not a grove +with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with narrow, +hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss—paths +which look as if they were made by the free will of the trees and underwood, +moving reverently aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs. +</p> + +<p> +It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under +an avenue of limes and beeches. It was a still afternoon—the golden light was +lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there +on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in +which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, +encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. +Arthur strolled along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on +the ground as meditative men are apt to do; his eyes <i>would</i> fix +themselves on the distant bend in the road round which a little figure must +surely appear before long. Ah! There she comes. First a bright patch of colour, +like a tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a round hat +on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almost frightened, +but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance, +as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have +thought it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious of blushing +too—in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had been taken by surprise +instead of meeting just what he expected. Poor things! It was a pity they were +not in that golden age of childhood when they would have stood face to face, +eyeing each other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly +kiss, and toddled off to play together. Arthur would have gone home to his +silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow, and both would have +slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardly conscious of +a yesterday. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty’s side without giving a reason. They +were alone together for the first time. What an overpowering presence that +first privacy is! He actually dared not look at this little butter-maker for +the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was +borne along by warm zephyrs; she had forgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she +was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had passed into a +water-lily, resting on a liquid bed and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams. It +may seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and +confidence from his timidity: it was an entirely different state of mind from +what he had expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was of vague +feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the thought that his +previous debates and scruples were needless. +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase,” he said at +last, looking down at Hetty; “it is so much prettier as well as shorter than +coming by either of the lodges.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice. She +didn’t know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr. Arthur, and her very +vanity made her more coy of speech. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she’s got to go out with Miss +Donnithorne.” +</p> + +<p> +“And she’s teaching you something, is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the stocking-mending—it +looks just like the stocking, you can’t tell it’s been mended; and she teaches +me cutting-out too.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! are <i>you</i> going to be a lady’s maid?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to be one very much indeed.” Hetty spoke more audibly now, but +still rather tremulously; she thought, perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain +Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“She expects me at four o’clock. I’m rather late to-day, because my aunt +couldn’t spare me; but the regular time is four, because that gives us time +before Miss Donnithorne’s bell rings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you the +Hermitage. Did you ever see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I’ll show it +you some other time, if you’d like to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, please, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you afraid to come so +lonely a road?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, sir, it’s never late; I always set out by eight o’clock, and it’s so +light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if I didn’t get home +before nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?” +</p> + +<p> +A deep blush overspread Hetty’s face and neck. “I’m sure he doesn’t; I’m sure +he never did; I wouldn’t let him; I don’t like him,” she said hastily, and the +tears of vexation had come so fast that before she had done speaking a bright +drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was +crying, and for one long instant her happiness was all gone. But in the next +she felt an arm steal round her, and a gentle voice said, “Why, Hetty, what +makes you cry? I didn’t mean to vex you. I wouldn’t vex you for the world, you +little blossom. Come, don’t cry; look at me, else I shall think you won’t +forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, and was +stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long +dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with a sweet, timid, +beseeching look. What a space of time those three moments were while their eyes +met and his arms touched her! Love is such a simple thing when we have only +one-and-twenty summers and a sweet girl of seventeen trembles under our glance, +as if she were a bud first opening her heart with wondering rapture to the +morning. Such young unfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet +peaches that touch softly and are at rest; they mingle as easily as two +brooklets that ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with +ever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur gazed into +Hetty’s dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to him what sort of English +she spoke; and even if hoops and powder had been in fashion, he would very +likely not have been sensible just then that Hetty wanted those signs of high +breeding. +</p> + +<p> +But they started asunder with beating hearts: something had fallen on the +ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty’s basket; all her little workwoman’s +matters were scattered on the path, some of them showing a capability of +rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done in picking up, and not a +word was spoken; but when Arthur hung the basket over her arm again, the poor +child felt a strange difference in his look and manner. He just pressed her +hand, and said, with a look and tone that were almost chilling to her, “I have +been hindering you; I must not keep you any longer now. You will be expected at +the house. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurried back +towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursue her way in +a strange dream that seemed to have begun in bewildering delight and was now +passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would he meet her again as she came +home? Why had he spoken almost as if he were displeased with her? And then run +away so suddenly? She cried, hardly knowing why. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by a more +distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood in the heart +of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammed it after him, +pitched <i>Zeluco</i> into the most distant corner, and thrusting his right +hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up and down the scanty +length of the little room, and then seated himself on the ottoman in an +uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish not to abandon ourselves +to feeling. +</p> + +<p> +He was getting in love with Hetty—that was quite plain. He was ready to pitch +everything else—no matter where—for the sake of surrendering himself to this +delicious feeling which had just disclosed itself. It was no use blinking the +fact now—they would get too fond of each other, if he went on taking notice of +her—and what would come of it? He should have to go away in a few weeks, and +the poor little thing would be miserable. He <i>must not</i> see her alone +again; he must keep out of her way. What a fool he was for coming back from +Gawaine’s! +</p> + +<p> +He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of the +afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round the +Hermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as he leaned out and +looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolution sufficiently +fixed: there was no need to debate with himself any longer. He had made up his +mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he might give himself up to thinking how +immensely agreeable it would be if circumstances were different—how pleasant it +would have been to meet her this evening as she came back, and put his arm +round her again and look into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little +thing were thinking of him too—twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes +were with the tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for a day +with looking at them, and he <i>must</i> see her again—he must see her, simply +to remove any false impression from her mind about his manner to her just now. +He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her—just to prevent her from going home +with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that would be the best thing to do +after all. +</p> + +<p> +It was a long while—more than an hour before Arthur had brought his meditations +to this point; but once arrived there, he could stay no longer at the +Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement until he should see Hetty +again. And it was already late enough to go and dress for dinner, for his +grandfather’s dinner-hour was six. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"></a> +Chapter XIII<br/> +Evening in the Wood</h2> + +<p> +It happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs. Best, the +housekeeper, on this Thursday morning—a fact which had two consequences highly +convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own +room, and it inspired that exemplary lady’s maid with so lively a recollection +of former passages in Mrs. Best’s conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best +had decidedly the inferiority as an interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty +required no more presence of mind than was demanded for using her needle, and +throwing in an occasional “yes” or “no.” She would have wanted to put on her +hat earlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually +set out about eight o’clock, and if he <i>should</i> go to the Grove again +expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Her little +butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation. At +last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-faced timepiece was on the +last quarter to eight, and there was every reason for its being time to get +ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret’s preoccupied mind did not prevent her +from noticing what looked like a new flush of beauty in the little thing as she +tied on her hat before the looking-glass. +</p> + +<p> +“That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe,” was her inward +comment. “The more’s the pity. She’ll get neither a place nor a husband any the +sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don’t like such pretty wives. When I was a +girl, I was more admired than if I had been so very pretty. However, she’s +reason to be grateful to me for teaching her something to get her bread with, +better than farm-house work. They always told me I was good-natured—and that’s +the truth, and to my hurt too, else there’s them in this house that wouldn’t be +here now to lord it over me in the housekeeper’s room.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which she had to +traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardly have spoken +civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely under the oaks and among +the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready to be startled as the deer +that leaped away at her approach. She thought nothing of the evening light that +lay gently in the grassy alleys between the fern, and made the beauty of their +living green more visible than it had been in the overpowering flood of noon: +she thought of nothing that was present. She only saw something that was +possible: Mr. Arthur Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree +Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty’s picture; behind it lay a bright hazy +something—days that were not to be as the other days of her life had been. It +was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might any time take her to his +wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was no knowing what would come, +since this strange entrancing delight had come. If a chest full of lace and +satin and jewels had been sent her from some unknown source, how could she but +have thought that her whole lot was going to change, and that to-morrow some +still more bewildering joy would befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if +she had ever seen one, I think the words would have been too hard for her; how +then could she find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as the +sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past her as +she walked by the gate. +</p> + +<p> +She is at another gate now—that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She enters the +wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, the fear at +her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how dreary it was—the +thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into the unsheltered road, +without having seen him. She reaches the first turning towards the Hermitage, +walking slowly—he is not there. She hates the leveret that runs across the +path; she hates everything that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy +whenever she is coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. +She is beginning to cry: her heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; +she gives one great sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears +roll down. +</p> + +<p> +She doesn’t know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that she is +close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yards from her, +full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the object. He is going +to see Hetty again: that is the longing which has been growing through the last +three hours to a feverish thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way +into which he had unguardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right +with her by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and +prevent her from running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation. +</p> + +<p> +If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it would have +been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely as he had +intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end of the side-alley, +and looked up at him with two great drops rolling down her cheeks. What else +could he do but speak to her in a soft, soothing tone, as if she were a +bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her foot? +</p> + +<p> +“Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the wood? Don’t +be frightened—I’ll take care of you now.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was blushing so, she didn’t know whether she was happy or miserable. To +be crying again—what did gentlemen think of girls who cried in that way? She +felt unable even to say “no,” but could only look away from him and wipe the +tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop had fallen on her rose-coloured +strings—she knew that quite well. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what’s the matter. Come, +tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, “I thought you wouldn’t come,” +and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was too much: he must +have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly in return. +</p> + +<p> +“You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won’t cry +again, now I’m with you, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, he doesn’t know in the least what he is saying. This is not what he meant +to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it is tightening its clasp; +he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the round cheek; his lips are +meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a long moment time has vanished. He +may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught he knows, he may be the first youth +kissing the first maiden, he may be Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche—it +is all one. +</p> + +<p> +There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating hearts +till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood. Then they +looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for in their eyes +there was the memory of a kiss. +</p> + +<p> +But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the fountain of +sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his arm from Hetty’s waist, +and said, “Here we are, almost at the end of the Grove. I wonder how late it +is,” he added, pulling out his watch. “Twenty minutes past eight—but my watch +is too fast. However, I’d better not go any further now. Trot along quickly +with your little feet, and get home safely. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand, and looked at her half-sadly, half with a constrained smile. +Hetty’s eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but he patted her cheek +and said “Good-bye” again. She was obliged to turn away from him and go on. +</p> + +<p> +As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put a wide +space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage again; he +remembered how he had debated with himself there before dinner, and it had all +come to nothing—worse than nothing. He walked right on into the Chase, glad to +get out of the Grove, which surely was haunted by his evil genius. Those +beeches and smooth limes—there was something enervating in the very sight of +them; but the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in them—the sight +of them would give a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow +openings in the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the +twilight deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked +black as it darted across his path. +</p> + +<p> +He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it was as if +his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute his mastery. He +was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his +mind on the probable consequences of giving way to the emotions which had +stolen over him to-day—of continuing to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any +opportunity for such slight caresses as he had been betrayed into already—than +he refused to believe such a future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty +was a very different affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own +station: that was understood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became +serious, there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be +spoken ill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and then +those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious as if +they had the best blood in the land in their veins—he should hate himself if he +made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and +among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected. He could no more +believe that he should so fall in his own esteem than that he should break both +his legs and go on crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn’t imagine +himself in that position; it was too odious, too unlike him. +</p> + +<p> +And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of each +other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting, after all. No +gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer’s niece. There must be an end +to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish. +</p> + +<p> +And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went to Gawaine’s; +and while he was there something had taken hold of him and made him gallop +back. It seemed he couldn’t quite depend on his own resolution, as he had +thought he could; he almost wished his arm would get painful again, and then he +should think of nothing but the comfort it would be to get rid of the pain. +There was no knowing what impulse might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded +place, where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong +day. What could he do to secure himself from any more of this folly? +</p> + +<p> +There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine—tell him everything. +The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; the temptation would +vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the +indifferent. In every way it would help him to tell Irwine. He would ride to +Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfast to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think which of +the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither as he could. He +felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tire him, and there was no +more need for him to think. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"></a> +Chapter XIV<br/> +The Return Home</h2> + +<p> +While that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the +cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining her aged +eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the opposite +slope. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, I’m loath to see the last on her,” she said to Adam, as they turned into +the house again. “I’d ha’ been willin’ t’ ha’ her about me till I died and went +to lie by my old man. She’d make it easier dyin’—she spakes so gentle an’ moves +about so still. I could be fast sure that pictur’ was drawed for her i’ thy new +Bible—th’ angel a-sittin’ on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind +ha’in a daughter like that; but nobody ne’er marries them as is good for +aught.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a daughter; for Seth’s got a +liking for her, and I hope she’ll get a liking for Seth in time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s th’ use o’ talkin’ a-that’n? She caresna for Seth. She’s goin’ away +twenty mile aff. How’s she to get a likin’ for him, I’d like to know? No more +nor the cake ’ull come wi’out the leaven. Thy figurin’ books might ha’ tould +thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin +print, as Seth allays does.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother,” said Adam, laughing, “the figures tell us a fine deal, and we +couldn’t go far without ’em, but they don’t tell us about folks’s feelings. +It’s a nicer job to calculate <i>them</i>. But Seth’s as good-hearted a lad as +ever handled a tool, and plenty o’ sense, and good-looking too; and he’s got +the same way o’ thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there’s no +denying she’s a rare bit o’ workmanship. You don’t see such women turned off +the wheel every day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, thee’t allays stick up for thy brother. Thee’st been just the same, e’er +sin’ ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays for halving iverything wi’ +him. But what’s Seth got to do with marryin’, as is on’y three-an’-twenty? He’d +more need to learn an’ lay by sixpence. An’ as for his desarving her—she’s two +’ear older nor Seth: she’s pretty near as old as thee. But that’s the way; +folks mun allays choose by contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the +pork—a bit o’ good meat wi’ a bit o’ offal.” +</p> + +<p> +To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might be receive a +temporary charm from comparison with what is; and since Adam did not want to +marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score—as peevish as +she would have been if he <i>had</i> wanted to marry her, and so shut himself +out from Mary Burge and the partnership as effectually as by marrying Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talking in this +way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached the turning of the +lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from +the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up to her. They, too, like +Hetty, had lingered a little in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words +of comfort and strength to Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw +Hetty, they paused and shook hands; Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on +alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear,” she said, as she +reached Hetty, “but he’s very full of trouble to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what had been +said; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling self-engrossed +loveliness looked at by Dinah’s calm pitying face, with its open glance which +told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in feelings +which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she +had ever liked any woman; how was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who +always put in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who was +always ready to take Totty off her hands—little tiresome Totty, that was made +such a pet of by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all? +Dinah had never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during her +whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great deal in a serious +way, but Hetty didn’t mind that much, for she never listened: whatever Dinah +might say, she almost always stroked Hetty’s cheek after it, and wanted to do +some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in +the same way as one might imagine a little perching bird that could only +flutter from bough to bough, to look at the swoop of the swallow or the +mounting of the lark; but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than +she cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the Pilgrim’s Progress, or +in the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a +Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You look very happy to-night, dear child,” she said. “I shall think of you +often when I’m at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is now. It’s a +strange thing—sometimes when I’m quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes +closed, or walking over the hills, the people I’ve seen and known, if it’s only +been for a few days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see +them look and move almost plainer than I ever did when they were really with me +so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I +feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before +the Lord and resting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I +feel sure you will come before me.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“It has been a very precious time to me,” Dinah went on, “last night and +to-day—seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and +thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has +done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother; it’s wonderful +what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he’s ready to use it all +in behalf of them that are feeble. And I’m sure he has a loving spirit too. +I’ve noticed it often among my own people round Snowfield, that the strong, +skilful men are often the gentlest to the women and children; and it’s pretty +to see ’em carrying the little babies as if they were no heavier than little +birds. And the babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it +would be so with Adam Bede. Don’t you think so, Hetty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while in the +wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was assenting to. +Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would not have been time to +say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate. +</p> + +<p> +The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint struggling +stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a sound to be heard but the +stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was about twenty minutes after +sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the +straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the +falling-to of the gate disturbed them and set them barking, like good +officials, before they had any distinct knowledge of the reason. +</p> + +<p> +The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, +the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddy black-eyed face which +bore in it the possibility of looking extremely acute, and occasionally +contemptuous, on market-days, but had now a predominant after-supper expression +of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great scholars who have shown the +most pitiless acerbity in their criticism of other men’s scholarship have yet +been of a relenting and indulgent temper in private life; and I have heard of a +learned man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while +with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had +betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be +forgiven—alas! they are not alien to us—but the man who takes the wrong side on +the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as the enemy of his +race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of +so excellent a disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful than +ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, +and no man judged his neighbours more charitably on all personal matters; but +for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example, whose fallows were not well +cleaned, who didn’t know the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but +a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as +hard and implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make a +remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint of that +unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming +operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the +bar of the Royal George on market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other +side of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his black eyes, +as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as +they approached the door. Mr. Poyser had smoked his evening pipe, and now held +his hands in his pockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up +after the day’s business is done. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, lasses, ye’re rather late to-night,” he said, when they reached the +little gate leading into the causeway. “The mother’s begun to fidget about you, +an’ she’s got the little un ill. An’ how did you leave the old woman Bede, +Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He’d been but a poor bargain to her +this five year.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s been greatly distressed for the loss of him,” said Dinah, “but she’s +seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam’s been at home all day, working at +his father’s coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She’s been talking +about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though she’s sorely +given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her in +her old age.” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam’s sure enough,” said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah’s wish. “There’s +no fear but he’ll yield well i’ the threshing. He’s not one o’ them as is all +straw and no grain. I’ll be bond for him any day, as he’ll be a good son to the +last. Did he say he’d be coming to see us soon? But come in, come in,” he +added, making way for them; “I hadn’t need keep y’ out any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the +large window let in abundant light to show every corner of the house-place. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of the +“right-hand parlour,” was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not +disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised herself up and +showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were +defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. +</p> + +<p> +In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat old +Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly +black-haired son—his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed +backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the arm of the +chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as was usual indoors, +when it was not hanging over his head; and he sat watching what went forward +with the quiet <i>outward</i> glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from +any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one’s +minutest motions with an unexpectant purposeless tenacity, watches the +flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on +the floor, watches even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with +detecting a rhythm in the tick. +</p> + +<p> +“What a time o’ night this is to come home, Hetty!” said Mrs. Poyser. “Look at +the clock, do; why, it’s going on for half-past nine, and I’ve sent the gells +to bed this half-hour, and late enough too; when they’ve got to get up at half +after four, and the mowers’ bottles to fill, and the baking; and here’s this +blessed child wi’ the fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was +dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the physic but your uncle, and +fine work there’s been, and half of it spilt on her night-gown—it’s well if +she’s swallowed more nor ’ull make her worse i’stead o’ better. But folks as +have no mind to be o’ use have allays the luck to be out o’ the road when +there’s anything to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did set out before eight, aunt,” said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a +slight toss of her head. “But this clock’s so much before the clock at the +Chase, there’s no telling what time it’ll be when I get here.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! You’d be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks’s time, would you? An’ sit +up burnin’ candle, an’ lie a-bed wi’ the sun a-bakin’ you like a cowcumber i’ +the frame? The clock hasn’t been put forrard for the first time to-day, I +reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clocks when she +told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at eight, and this, with her +lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her +aunt’s attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, +perceiving at length that the arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring +anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, “Munny, munny,” in an +explosive manner. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, my pet, Mother’s got her, Mother won’t leave her; Totty be a good +dilling, and go to sleep now,” said Mrs. Poyser, leaning back and rocking the +chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried +louder, and said, “Don’t yock!” So the mother, with that wondrous patience +which love gives to the quickest temperament, sat up again, and pressed her +cheek against the linen night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any +longer. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Hetty,” said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, “go and get your +supper i’ the pantry, as the things are all put away; an’ then you can come and +take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, for she won’t lie down in +bed without her mother. An’ I reckon <i>you</i> could eat a bit, Dinah, for +they don’t keep much of a house down there.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, Uncle,” said Dinah; “I ate a good meal before I came away, for +Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want any supper,” said Hetty, taking off her hat. “I can hold Totty +now, if Aunt wants me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what nonsense that is to talk!” said Mrs. Poyser. “Do you think you can +live wi’out eatin’, an’ nourish your inside wi’ stickin’ red ribbons on your +head? Go an’ get your supper this minute, child; there’s a nice bit o’ cold +pudding i’ the safe—just what you’re fond of.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyser went on +speaking to Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down, my dear, an’ look as if you knowed what it was to make yourself a +bit comfortable i’ the world. I warrant the old woman was glad to see you, +since you stayed so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say she doesn’t like +young women about her commonly; and I thought just at first she was almost +angry with me for going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, it’s a poor look-out when th’ ould folks doesna like the young uns,” said +old Martin, bending his head down lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of +the quarries with his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, it’s ill livin’ in a hen-roost for them as doesn’t like fleas,” said Mrs. +Poyser. “We’ve all had our turn at bein’ young, I reckon, be’t good luck or +ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she must learn to ’commodate herself to young women,” said Mr. Poyser, +“for it isn’t to be counted on as Adam and Seth ’ull keep bachelors for the +next ten year to please their mother. That ’ud be unreasonable. It isn’t right +for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o’ their own side. What’s good +for one’s good all round i’ the long run. I’m no friend to young fellows +a-marrying afore they know the difference atween a crab an’ a apple; but they +may wait o’er long.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser; “if you go past your dinner-time, there’ll be +little relish o’ your meat. You turn it o’er an’ o’er wi’ your fork, an’ don’t +eat it after all. You find faut wi’ your meat, an’ the faut’s all i’ your own +stomach.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty now came back from the pantry and said, “I can take Totty now, Aunt, if +you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Rachel,” said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing that +Totty was at last nestling quietly, “thee’dst better let Hetty carry her +upstairs, while thee tak’st thy things off. Thee’t tired. It’s time thee wast +in bed. Thee’t bring on the pain in thy side again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she may hold her if the child ’ull go to her,” said Mrs. Poyser. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual smile, and +without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for her aunt to give the +child into her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go to bed? +Then Totty shall go into Mother’s bed, and sleep there all night.” +</p> + +<p> +Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in an +unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teeth against her +underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. +Then, without speaking, she nestled to her mother again. +</p> + +<p> +“Hey, hey,” said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, “not go to +Cousin Hetty? That’s like a babby. Totty’s a little woman, an’ not a babby.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use trying to persuade her,” said Mrs. Poyser. “She allays takes +against Hetty when she isn’t well. Happen she’ll go to Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated +in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and what was +considered Hetty’s proper work. But now she came forward, and, putting out her +arms, said, “Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her upstairs along with +Mother: poor, poor Mother! she’s so tired—she wants to go to bed.” +</p> + +<p> +Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then lifted +herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her from her mother’s +lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill humour, and, taking her hat from +the table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she should be +told to do anything else. +</p> + +<p> +“You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick’s been come in this long while,” +said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief from her low chair. “Get +me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i’ my room. +Come, Father.” +</p> + +<p> +The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin +prepared to move, by gathering up his blue handkerchief, and reaching his +bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser then led the way +out of the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her +arms—all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, +peeped into the room where her two boys lay; just to see their ruddy round +cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a moment their light regular breathing. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Hetty, get to bed,” said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing tone, as he himself +turned to go upstairs. “You didna mean to be late, I’ll be bound, but your +aunt’s been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench, good-night.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></a> +Chapter XV<br/> +The Two Bed-Chambers</h2> + +<p> +Hetty and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, +meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now +beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon—more than enough +strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She +could see quite well the pegs in the old painted linen-press on which she hung +her hat and gown; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth +pin-cushion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned +looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only +to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty +got into an ill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been +considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the +Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household +furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it: it had a great +deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied +with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk and sent the contents leaping +out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; +above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an +aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had +numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, +and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an +upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and +neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her +dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a +small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down +before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn’t get +near the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow +inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty +this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. +</p> + +<p> +Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large +pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers +in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle—secretly bought at +Treddleston—and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a +bundle of matches and lighted the candles; and last of all, a small red-framed +shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she +chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and +turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her +brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and +make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne’s +dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her +neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, +running at every opportunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all +backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into +relief her round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at +herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old +mottled glass couldn’t help sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely +because Hetty’s stays were not of white satin—such as I feel sure heroines must +generally wear—but of a dark greenish cotton texture. +</p> + +<p> +Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than +anybody about Hayslope—prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen +visiting at the Chase—indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly—and +prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller’s daughter, who was called the beauty of +Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself to-night with quite a different +sensation from what she had ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator +whose eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying +over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was +round her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The +vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved +by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. +</p> + +<p> +But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she +got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair +of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her +candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would make a becoming +border round her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she +would take out the little ear-rings she had in her ears—oh, how her aunt had +scolded her for having her ears bored!—and put in those large ones. They were +but coloured glass and gilding, but if you didn’t know what they were made of, +they looked just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, +with the large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round +her shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier down to a +little way below the elbow—they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her +cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were +coarsened by butter-making and other work that ladies never did. +</p> + +<p> +Captain Donnithorne couldn’t like her to go on doing work: he would like to see +her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps with silk +clocks to them; for he must love her very much—no one else had ever put his arm +round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her and make a +lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape the thought—yet how else could it +be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr. James, the doctor’s assistant, married the +doctor’s niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then +it was of no use to be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in +Hetty’s hearing. She didn’t know how it would be, but it was quite plain the +old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint +with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been +earth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been +young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was +frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But Captain +Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in +everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had +been again: perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, +and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair, and her +dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them +going into the dining-room one evening as she peeped through the little round +window in the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or +all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in +a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a +white one—she didn’t know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody +would perhaps see her going out in her carriage—or rather, they would +<i>hear</i> of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at +Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got +up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the +edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor; but she was too +eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up; and after a +momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and +forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old +black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her +ears. +</p> + +<p> +How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the easiest +folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a sweet babylike +roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so +charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with their long +eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out +of them. +</p> + +<p> +Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men +envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in +her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible +thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her +character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband’s +fault there: he can make her what he likes—that is plain. And the lover himself +thinks so too: the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so +bewitching, he wouldn’t consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike +glances and movements are just what one wants to make one’s hearth a paradise. +Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. +Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict +veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written +out his bride’s character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and +chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the +stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she +will dote on her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink +round things will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the +husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw +into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look +reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in +the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic and the women all +lovely and loving. +</p> + +<p> +It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; +only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved with cold +vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she doesn’t love me +well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the +most precious thing a man could possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as +deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to +believe evil of any pretty woman—if you ever <i>could</i>, without hard +head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the <i>one</i> supremely pretty +woman who has bewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to +think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he +had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, +good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a +young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look forward to +future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because +the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him. God made these dear women so—and +it is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. +</p> + +<p> +After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way sometimes, +and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Nature has +her language, and she is not unveracious; but we don’t know all the intricacies +of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the +very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now—what can be more +exquisite? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep +grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me +that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the +reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a +surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is +no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or else, that the eyelashes +express the disposition of the fair one’s grandmother, which is on the whole +less important to us. +</p> + +<p> +No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty’s; and now, while she walks +with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on her shoulders +bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink +cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an +imagination can make of the future; but of every picture she is the central +figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his +arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying +her—especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the +side of Hetty’s resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with +this dream of the future—any loving thought of her second parents—of the +children she had helped to tend—of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any +relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have +hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and +just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. +Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be +reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, +and did not like the Jacob’s Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the +garden better than other flowers—perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how +little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good +father to her—she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right +time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have +a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did +not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for +those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very +nuisance of her life—as bad as buzzing insects that will come teasing you on a +hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first +came to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so Hetty had +had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or +playing about her on wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. +The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse +than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. +And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have +been glad to hear that she should never see a child again; they were worse than +the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken +special care of in lambing time; for the lambs <i>were</i> got rid of sooner or +later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very +word “hatching,” if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry +by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks +peeping out from under their mother’s wing never touched Hetty with any +pleasure; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care +about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston +Fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, +as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must +have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, +the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a +tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the +poultry; but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more +than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. +</p> + +<p> +It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden +under the “dear deceit” of beauty, so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, +with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed +a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of +feeling, and in moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great +openness on the subject to her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s no better than a peacock, as ’ud strut about on the wall and spread its +tail when the sun shone if all the folks i’ the parish was dying: there’s +nothing seems to give her a turn i’ th’ inside, not even when we thought Totty +had tumbled into the pit. To think o’ that dear cherub! And we found her wi’ +her little shoes stuck i’ the mud an’ crying fit to break her heart by the far +horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she’s been at the +nussin’ o’ the child ever since it was a babby. It’s my belief her heart’s as +hard as a pebble.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, “thee mustn’t judge Hetty too hard. Them young +gells are like the unripe grain; they’ll make good meal by and by, but they’re +squashy as yet. Thee’t see Hetty ’ll be all right when she’s got a good husband +and children of her own.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> don’t want to be hard upo’ the gell. She’s got cliver fingers of her +own, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi’ the +butter, for she’s got a cool hand. An’ let be what may, I’d strive to do my +part by a niece o’ yours—an’ that I’ve done, for I’ve taught her everything as +belongs to a house, an’ I’ve told her her duty often enough, though, God knows, +I’ve no breath to spare, an’ that catchin’ pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi’ +them three gells in the house I’d need have twice the strength to keep ’em up +to their work. It’s like having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you’ve +basted one, another’s burnin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her +so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a sacrifice. She +could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs. Poyser +disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and +fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits +of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and ear-rings. To +prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten +to do so to-night. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with +a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. +She dared not stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and +let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it +was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to +Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother’s arms, and was +come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty’s. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that tall +house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall +formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could place her +chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was to seat herself +in this chair and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon +was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best where the +milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was +half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for +there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields +for a long time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, +to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all the dear +people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who +would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the +struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their +life’s journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was +befalling them; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her +to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, +that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper +and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often +Dinah’s mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel +herself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her yearning +anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had +sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap and the pale +light resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes when she was startled +by a loud sound, apparently of something falling in Hetty’s room. But like all +sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct +character, but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain +whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was +quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked +something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing +to the suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on +Hetty—that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before her—the +solemn daily duties of the wife and mother—and her mind so unprepared for them +all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its +toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will have to bear +hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, +because she shared Seth’s anxious interest in his brother’s lot, and she had +not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry +him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty’s +nature to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication +that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in +Hetty’s nature, instead of exciting Dinah’s dislike, only touched her with a +deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a +pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent divine +gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it +was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than +in a common pot-herb. +</p> + +<p> +By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about +Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had created a thorny +thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and +bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way +that Dinah’s imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each +heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty’s +ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But +perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard +still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. +Still she hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice +that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which said +that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would +only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without +a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light enough +for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what +it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on +what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or +number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid +it sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened +it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of +the left-hand page: “And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul’s neck and kissed +him.” That was enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at +Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and +warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and +tapped on Hetty’s. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out +her candles and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the +door was opened immediately. Dinah said, “Will you let me come in, Hetty?” and +Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider +and let her in. +</p> + +<p> +What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that mingled +twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from +her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a +curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with +her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued emotion, almost like a +lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets +and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a +little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty’s waist and kissed her +forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you were not in bed, my dear,” she said, in her sweet clear voice, +which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like +music with jangling chains, “for I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to +you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we +don’t know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with +you while you do up your hair?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in +the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her ear-rings. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting it +up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to confused +self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah’s eyes gradually relieved her; +they seemed unobservant of all details. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Hetty,” she said, “It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you +may some day be in trouble—trouble is appointed for us all here below, and +there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this +life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a +friend that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in +Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you come to her, or send for her, she’ll +never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you +remember it, Hetty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty, rather frightened. “But why should you think I shall be in +trouble? Do you know of anything?” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards +and took her hands as she answered, “Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in +this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn’t God’s will for us to +have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love are taken from us, and we +can joy in nothing because they are not with us; sickness comes, and we faint +under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go astray and do wrong, and bring +ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman born into +this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of +them must happen to you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you +should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support +which will not fail you in the evil day.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah paused and released Hetty’s hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty +sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah’s anxious +affection; but Dinah’s words uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, +affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness; she +had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking nature, which shrinks from the +hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the +more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some +time to befall her, began to cry. +</p> + +<p> +It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the +higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think +the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the art of +vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes +incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider +than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and, with +her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine +impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful +joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable state of mind in which there is no +calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for +the first time she became irritated under Dinah’s caress. She pushed her away +impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice, “Don’t talk to me so, +Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I’ve never done anything to you. Why +can’t you let me be?” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, +“Yes, my dear, you’re tired; I won’t hinder you any longer. Make haste and get +into bed. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a +ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees and +poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. +</p> + +<p> +As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again—her waking dreams being merged in +a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"></a> +Chapter XVI<br/> +Links</h2> + +<p> +Arthur Donnithorne, you remember, is under an engagement with himself to go and +see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing so early that +he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The rector, he knows, +breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family having a different +breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with +him. One can say everything best over a meal. +</p> + +<p> +The progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy and +cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a +less gloomy view of our errors now our father confessor listens to us over his +egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances are out of +the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not +incompatible with an appetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in +more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, +is quite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request for a +loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and third glasses of +claret. +</p> + +<p> +Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they committed you +to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed: when you have put your +mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall and are aware that there is an +expectant ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came out +with the intention of saying than if you were seated with your legs in an easy +attitude under the mahogany with a companion who will have no reason to be +surprised if you have nothing particular to say. +</p> + +<p> +However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback +in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to open his heart to the +rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all +the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the +promise of settled weather now, for getting in the hay, about which the farmers +have been fearful; and there is something so healthful in the sharing of a joy +that is general and not merely personal, that this thought about the +hay-harvest reacts on his state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier +matter. A man about town might perhaps consider that these influences were not +to be felt out of a child’s story-book; but when you are among the fields and +hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple +natural pleasures. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching the Broxton side +of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a figure about a hundred +yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam +Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He +was striding along at his usual rapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to +overtake him, for he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss +an opportunity of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good +fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: our friend +Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds +recognized. +</p> + +<p> +Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse’s heels, and +waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his head with a bright +smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more +for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was +hardly anything he would not rather have lost than the two-feet ruler which he +always carried in his pocket; it was Arthur’s present, bought with his +pocket-money when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited +so well by Adam’s lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every +female in the house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. +Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the +feeling had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into +the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the influence +of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who +had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher or a proletaire with +democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fund +of reverence in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims +unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about +setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done +by building with ill-seasoned timber—by ignorant men in fine clothes making +plans for outhouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of +things—by slovenly joiners’ work, and by hasty contracts that could never be +fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for his part, to set his +face against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion +against the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he +felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people who were +more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on +the estate were managed, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if +old Squire Donnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would +have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a respectful +demeanour towards a “gentleman” would have been strong within him all the +while. The word “gentleman” had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he +“couldn’t abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to’s +betters.” I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his +veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect +some of his characteristics to be obsolete. +</p> + +<p> +Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam’s was assisted by +boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that he thought far more +of Arthur’s good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions +of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman +like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope +when the young squire came into the estate—such a generous open-hearted +disposition as he had, and an “uncommon” notion about improvements and repairs, +considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and +affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne +rode up. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adam, how are you?” said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook +hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. “I could swear +to your back a long way off. It’s just the same back, only broader, as when you +used to carry me on it. Do you remember?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, sir, I remember. It ’ud be a poor look-out if folks didn’t remember what +they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old +friends than we do about new uns, then.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going to Broxton, I suppose?” said Arthur, putting his horse on at a +slow pace while Adam walked by his side. “Are you going to the rectory?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, I’m going to see about Bradwell’s barn. They’re afraid of the roof +pushing the walls out, and I’m going to see what can be done with it before we +send the stuff and the workmen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn’t he? I should +think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he’s wise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sir, I don’t see as he’d be much the better off for that. A foreman, if +he’s got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his business as well as +if he was a partner. I wouldn’t give a penny for a man as ’ud drive a nail in +slack because he didn’t get extra pay for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for +yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the +business to better account perhaps. The old man must give up his business +sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he’ll want a son-in-law who can take to +it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants +a man who can put some money into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, +I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you +settled on the estate. I’m sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I +shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I’m +of age; and when I’ve paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very good to say so, sir, and I’m not unthankful. But”—Adam continued, +in a decided tone—“I shouldn’t like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t’ have +any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want +to dispose of the business, that ’ud be a different matter. I should be glad of +some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, Adam,” said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said about a +probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, “we’ll say no +more about it at present. When is your father to be buried?” +</p> + +<p> +“On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine’s coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when +it’s over, for I think my mother ’ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one +sadly to see the grief of old people; they’ve no way o’ working it off, and the +new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you’ve had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don’t +think you’ve ever been hare-brained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. +You’ve always had some care on your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, sir; but that’s nothing to make a fuss about. If we’re men and have +men’s feelings, I reckon we must have men’s troubles. We can’t be like the +birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they’ve got their wings, and never +know their kin when they see ’em, and get a fresh lot every year. I’ve had +enough to be thankful for: I’ve allays had health and strength and brains to +give me a delight in my work; and I count it a great thing as I’ve had Bartle +Massey’s night-school to go to. He’s helped me to knowledge I could never ha’ +got by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a rare fellow you are, Adam!” said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had +looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. “I could hit out better +than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if +I were to have a battle with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid I should ever do that, sir,” said Adam, looking round at Arthur and +smiling. “I used to fight for fun, but I’ve never done that since I was the +cause o’ poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I’ll never fight any +man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap +that’s got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by +bunging his eyes up.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him +say presently, “I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within +yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was +not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow +who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making +up your mind that you won’t do a thing, and then doing it after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Adam, slowly, after a moment’s hesitation, “no. I don’t remember +ever being see-saw in that way, when I’d made my mind up, as you say, that a +thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o’ my mouth for things, when I know I +should have a heavy conscience after ’em. I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I +could cast up a sum, as you can never do what’s wrong without breeding sin and +trouble more than you can ever see. It’s like a bit o’ bad workmanship—you +never see th’ end o’ the mischief it’ll do. And it’s a poor look-out to come +into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o’ better. But +there’s a difference between the things folks call wrong. I’m not for making a +sin of every little fool’s trick, or bit o’ nonsense anybody may be let into, +like some o’ them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn’t +worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o’ fun. But it isn’t my +way to be see-saw about anything: I think my fault lies th’ other way. When +I’ve said a thing, if it’s only to myself, it’s hard for me to go back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s just what I expected of you,” said Arthur. “You’ve got an iron +will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man’s resolution may be, it +costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to +gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can’t +prevent our mouths from watering.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true, sir, but there’s nothing like settling with ourselves as there’s +a deal we must do without i’ this life. It’s no use looking on life as if it +was Treddles’on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we +do, we shall find it different. But where’s the use o’ me talking to you, sir? +You know better than I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not so sure of that, Adam. You’ve had four or five years of experience +more than I’ve had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than +college has been to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir, you seem to think o’ college something like what Bartle Massey does. +He says college mostly makes people like bladders—just good for nothing but t’ +hold the stuff as is poured into ’em. But he’s got a tongue like a sharp blade, +Bartle has—it never touches anything but it cuts. Here’s the turning, sir. I +must bid you good-morning, as you’re going to the rectory.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked along the +gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the rector +always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this +door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the old +part of the house—dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the +walls; yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open +window. For the morning sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish +in it, which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor +breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group which +would have made any room enticing. In the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. +Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his +morning toilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno’s +brown curly back; and close to Juno’s tail, which was wagging with calm +matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an +ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with +the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities as animal +weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of observing. On the +table, at Mr. Irwine’s elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis Æschylus, +which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was +bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights of a +bachelor breakfast. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Arthur, that’s a good fellow! You’re just in time,” said Mr. Irwine, as +Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill. “Carroll, we shall want +more coffee and eggs, and haven’t you got some cold fowl for us to eat with +that ham? Why, this is like old days, Arthur; you haven’t been to breakfast +with me these five years.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast,” said Arthur; “and I +used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading with you. My +grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour +in the day. I think his morning bath doesn’t agree with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had +no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine’s presence than the confidence which he +had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing in +the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in +quite a new light. How could he make Irwine understand his position unless he +told him those little scenes in the wood; and how could he tell them without +looking like a fool? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine’s, and +doing the very opposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a +shilly-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated +way; the conversation might lead up to it. +</p> + +<p> +“I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,” said Mr. +Irwine. “No dust has settled on one’s mind then, and it presents a clear mirror +to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I +enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to +me as if I should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent brings up +a poor fellow who has killed a hare, and when I’ve got through my ‘justicing,’ +as Carroll calls it, I’m inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way +back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a +mutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I’m always the same +lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of +sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D’Oyley left Treddleston. If you +had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter +prospect before me. But scholarship doesn’t run in your family blood.” +</p> + +<p> +“No indeed. It’s well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my +maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ‘Cras ingens iterabimus +aequor,’ and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall +arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don’t think a knowledge of +the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman; as far as I can see, +he’d much better have a knowledge of manures. I’ve been reading your friend +Arthur Young’s books lately, and there’s nothing I should like better than to +carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of +their land; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same +dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never +let me have any power while he lives, but there’s nothing I should like better +than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the estate—it’s in a dismal +condition—and set improvements on foot, and gallop about from one place to +another and overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see +them touching their hats to me with a look of goodwill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn’t make a +better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the quantity of +food to maintain scholars—and rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you +enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You’ll want a +portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe of all the respect +and honour you get by your hard work. Only don’t set your heart too strongly on +the goodwill you are to get in consequence. I’m not sure that men are the +fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the +curses of the whole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make +it quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old boy—popularity or +usefulness—else you may happen to miss both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn’t make himself personally +agreeable to his tenants. I don’t believe there’s anything you can’t prevail on +people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn’t live in a neighbourhood +where I was not respected and beloved. And it’s very pleasant to go among the +tenants here—they seem all so well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the +other day to them since I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a +sheep. And if fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended +to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don’t get a wife who will +drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. My mother and I +have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says, ‘I’ll never risk a +single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.’ She +thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel +bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know, and I maintain that you’re not +of that watery quality. So mind you don’t disgrace my judgment.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine’s opinion about him +had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only +another reason for persevering in his intention, and getting an additional +security against himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he +was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about Hetty. He was +of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal in other people’s opinions and +feelings concerning himself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of +an intimate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such +serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own belief in +the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss +about; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He +would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg’s lameness—go on Rattler, and let Pym +follow as well as he could on the old hack. That was his thought as he sugared +his coffee; but the next minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he +remembered how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. +No! He would not be vacillating again—he <i>would</i> do what he had meant to +do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the +conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his +difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this +rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, “But I think it is hardly an +argument against a man’s general strength of character that he should be apt to +be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn’t insure one against smallpox or +any other of those inevitable diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters +and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but there’s this difference between love and smallpox, or bewitchment +either—that if you detect the disease at an early stage and try change of air, +there is every chance of complete escape without any further development of +symptoms. And there are certain alternative doses which a man may administer to +himself by keeping unpleasant consequences before his mind: this gives you a +sort of smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and +discern her true outline; though I’m afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt +to be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man +fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent +marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus.” +</p> + +<p> +The smile that flitted across Arthur’s face was a faint one, and instead of +following Mr. Irwine’s playful lead, he said, quite seriously—“Yes, that’s the +worst of it. It’s a desperately vexatious thing, that after all one’s +reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one +can’t calculate on beforehand. I don’t think a man ought to be blamed so much +if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections +did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He +carries within him the germ of his most exceptional action; and if we wise +people make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must +endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our +ounce of wisdom.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of +circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, a man can’t very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note lies +within convenient reach; but he won’t make us think him an honest man because +he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way.” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you don’t think a man who struggles against a temptation into which +he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow +the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis. Consequences are +unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any +fluctuations that went before—consequences that are hardly ever confined to +ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of +considering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so +inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you +are considering in this philosophical, general way?” +</p> + +<p> +In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back +in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur +wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing the way for him by this +direct question. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the +brink of confession, Arthur shrank back and felt less disposed towards it than +ever. The conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended—it +would quite mislead Irwine—he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, +while there was no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed +at his boyishness. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, no danger,” he said as indifferently as he could. “I don’t know that I +am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there are little +incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen in the +future.” +</p> + +<p> +Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur’s which had +a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our mental business is +carried on much in the same way as the business of the State: a great deal of +hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, +too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal +to do with the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such +unrecognized agent secretly busy in Arthur’s mind at this moment—possibly it +was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession +to the rector a serious annoyance, in case he should <i>not</i> be able quite +to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. The +human soul is a very complex thing. +</p> + +<p> +The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s mind as he looked inquiringly +at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmed the thought which +had quickly followed—that there could be nothing serious in that direction. +There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her +own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about +her the other day had no more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing +her so as to rouse the little chit’s vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic +drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away: no, +there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur’s character had not +been a strong security against it. His honest, patronizing pride in the +good-will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against +foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been +anything special on Arthur’s mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he +was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to +imply even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be +welcome, and said, “By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s birthday fête there +were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and +Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the ‘generous youth,’ the hero +of the day. Don’t you think you should get up something of the same sort to +astonish our weak minds?” +</p> + +<p> +The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to which he +might have clung had drifted away—he must trust now to his own swimming. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business, and +Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense of +dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set off for +Eagledale without an hour’s delay. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></a> +Book Second</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"></a> +Chapter XVII<br/> +In Which the Story Pauses a Little</h2> + +<p> +“This Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!” I hear one of my +readers exclaim. “How much more edifying it would have been if you had made him +give Arthur some truly spiritual advice! You might have put into his mouth the +most beautiful things—quite as good as reading a sermon.” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the novelist to +represent things as they never have been and never will be. Then, of course, I +might refashion life and character entirely after my own liking; I might select +the most unexceptionable type of clergyman and put my own admirable opinions +into his mouth on all occasions. But it happens, on the contrary, that my +strongest effort is to avoid any such arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful +account of men and things as they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The +mirror is doubtless defective, the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the +reflection faint or confused; but I feel as much bound to tell you as precisely +as I can what that reflection is, as if I were in the witness-box, narrating my +experience on oath. +</p> + +<p> +Sixty years ago—it is a long time, so no wonder things have changed—all +clergymen were not zealous; indeed, there is reason to believe that the number +of zealous clergymen was small, and it is probable that if one among the small +minority had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you +would have liked him no better than you like Mr. Irwine. Ten to one, you would +have thought him a tasteless, indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very +rarely that facts hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions +and refined taste! Perhaps you will say, “Do improve the facts a little, then; +make them more accordant with those correct views which it is our privilege to +possess. The world is not just what we like; do touch it up with a tasteful +pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. Let all +people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unexceptionably. Let your most +faulty characters always be on the wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the +right. Then we shall see at a glance whom we are to condemn and whom we are to +approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the slightest disturbance of +our prepossessions: we shall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish +which belongs to undoubting confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow-parishioner who +opposes your husband in the vestry? With your newly appointed vicar, whose +style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regretted predecessor? +With the honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing? With your +neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you in your last illness, but has +said several ill-natured things about you since your convalescence? Nay, with +your excellent husband himself, who has other irritating habits besides that of +not wiping his shoes? These fellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they +are: you can neither straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor +rectify their dispositions; and it is these people—amongst whom your life is +passed—that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these more +or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements of goodness you +should be able to admire—for whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all +possible patience. And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever +novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up +in the morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, +colder eye on the dusty streets and the common green fields—on the real +breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by +your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling, +your forbearance, your outspoken, brave justice. +</p> + +<p> +So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things seem +better than they were; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite +of one’s best efforts, there is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so +difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a +griffin—the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better; but that +marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we +want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will +find that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to +say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings—much harder than to +say something fine about them which is <i>not</i> the exact truth. +</p> + +<p> +It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many +Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of +delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, +which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow-mortals than a life of +pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring +actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, +sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or +eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a +screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her +spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap common things which are +the precious necessaries of life to her—or I turn to that village wedding, kept +between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a +high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged friends look +on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with quart-pots in their +hands, but with an expression of unmistakable contentment and goodwill. “Foh!” +says my idealistic friend, “what vulgar details! What good is there in taking +all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low +phase of life! What clumsy, ugly people!” +</p> + +<p> +But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I +am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have not been ugly, and +even among those “lords of their kind,” the British, squat figures, ill-shapen +nostrils, and dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a +great deal of family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of +features is such that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be +decidedly trying; yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for +them, and their miniatures—flattering, but still not lovely—are kissed in +secret by motherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could have +never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow +love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her +sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of middle +stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love +anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in +middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! Thank God; human +feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for +beauty—it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it. +</p> + +<p> +All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to +the utmost in men, women, and children—in our gardens and in our houses. But +let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but +in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a +floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet +oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome +the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall +banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their +work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those +rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and +done the rough work of the world—those homes with their tin pans, their brown +pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there +are so many of these common coarse people, who have no picturesque sentimental +wretchedness! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may +happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy and frame lofty +theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind +us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of +a life to the faithful representing of commonplace things—men who see beauty in +these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven +falls on them. There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful +women; few heroes. I can’t afford to give all my love and reverence to such +rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, +especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I +know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. +Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as +your common labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly but +creditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a +fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs out my +sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with the handsomest +rascal in red scarf and green feathers—more needful that my heart should swell +with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty people +who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who +is perhaps rather too corpulent and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a +Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by +hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that was ever +conceived by an able novelist. +</p> + +<p> +And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you to be in perfect +charity, far as he may be from satisfying your demands on the clerical +character. Perhaps you think he was not—as he ought to have been—a living +demonstration of the benefits attached to a national church? But I am not sure +of that; at least I know that the people in Broxton and Hayslope would have +been very sorry to part with their clergyman, and that most faces brightened at +his approach; and until it can be proved that hatred is a better thing for the +soul than love, I must believe that Mr. Irwine’s influence in his parish was a +more wholesome one than that of the zealous Mr. Ryde, who came there twenty +years afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been gathered to his fathers. It is true, +Mr. Ryde insisted strongly on the doctrines of the Reformation, visited his +flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severe in rebuking the +aberrations of the flesh—put a stop, indeed, to the Christmas rounds of the +church singers, as promoting drunkenness and too light a handling of sacred +things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these matters in his +old age, that few clergymen could be less successful in winning the hearts of +their parishioners than Mr. Ryde. They learned a great many notions about +doctrine from him, so that almost every church-goer under fifty began to +distinguish as well between the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely +up to that standard, as if he had been born and bred a Dissenter; and for some +time after his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that +quiet rural district. “But,” said Adam, “I’ve seen pretty clear, ever since I +was a young un, as religion’s something else besides notions. It isn’t notions +sets people doing the right thing—it’s feelings. It’s the same with the notions +in religion as it is with math’matics—a man may be able to work problems +straight off in’s head as he sits by the fire and smokes his pipe, but if he +has to make a machine or a building, he must have a will and a resolution and +love something else better than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation began +to fall off, and people began to speak light o’ Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant +right at bottom; but, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beating +down prices with the people as worked for him; and his preaching wouldn’t go +down well with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i’ the +parish, punishing folks for doing wrong; and he scolded ’em from the pulpit as +if he’d been a Ranter, and yet he couldn’t abide the Dissenters, and was a deal +more set against ’em than Mr. Irwine was. And then he didn’t keep within his +income, for he seemed to think at first go-off that six hundred a-year was to +make him as big a man as Mr. Donnithorne. That’s a sore mischief I’ve often +seen with the poor curates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr. +Ryde was a deal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as +for math’matics and the natur o’ things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was +very knowing about doctrines, and used to call ’em the bulwarks of the +Reformation; but I’ve always mistrusted that sort o’ learning as leaves folks +foolish and unreasonable about business. Now Mester Irwine was as different as +could be: as quick!—he understood what you meant in a minute, and he knew all +about building, and could see when you’d made a good job. And he behaved as +much like a gentleman to the farmers, and th’ old women, and the labourers, as +he did to the gentry. You never saw <i>him</i> interfering and scolding, and +trying to play th’ emperor. Ah, he was a fine man as ever you set eyes on; and +so kind to’s mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne—he seemed to think +more of her than of anybody else in the world. There wasn’t a soul in the +parish had a word to say against him; and his servants stayed with him till +they were so old and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” I said, “that was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays; but I +daresay, if your old friend Mr. Irwine were to come to life again, and get into +the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he didn’t preach +better after all your praise of him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back in his +chair, as if he were ready to meet all inferences, “nobody has ever heard me +say Mr. Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn’t go into deep speritial +experience; and I know there’s a deal in a man’s inward life as you can’t +measure by the square, and say, ‘Do this and that ’ll follow,’ and, ‘Do that +and this ’ll follow.’ There’s things go on in the soul, and times when feelings +come into you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and part your +life in two a’most, so you look back on yourself as if you was somebody else. +Those are things as you can’t bottle up in a ‘do this’ and ‘do that’; and I’ll +go so far with the strongest Methodist ever you’ll find. That shows me there’s +deep speritial things in religion. You can’t make much out wi’ talking about +it, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine didn’t go into those things—he preached short +moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much up to what he +said; he didn’t set up for being so different from other folks one day, and +then be as like ’em as two peas the next. And he made folks love him and +respect him, and that was better nor stirring up their gall wi’ being overbusy. +Mrs. Poyser used to say—you know she would have her word about everything—she +said, Mr. Irwine was like a good meal o’ victual, you were the better for him +without thinking on it, and Mr. Ryde was like a dose o’ physic, he gripped you +and worreted you, and after all he left you much the same.” +</p> + +<p> +“But didn’t Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that spiritual part of +religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn’t you get more out of his sermons than +out of Mr. Irwine’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But I’ve seen pretty clear, +ever since I was a young un, as religion’s something else besides doctrines and +notions. I look at it as if the doctrines was like finding names for your +feelings, so as you can talk of ’em when you’ve never known ’em, just as a man +may talk o’ tools when he knows their names, though he’s never so much as seen +’em, still less handled ’em. I’ve heard a deal o’ doctrine i’ my time, for I +used to go after the Dissenting preachers along wi’ Seth, when I was a lad o’ +seventeen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th’ Arminians and the +Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you know, are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could +never abide anything harsh and was always for hoping the best, held fast by the +Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a hole or two in +their notions, and I got disputing wi’ one o’ the class leaders down at +Treddles’on, and harassed him so, first o’ this side and then o’ that, till at +last he said, ‘Young man, it’s the devil making use o’ your pride and conceit +as a weapon to war against the simplicity o’ the truth.’ I couldn’t help +laughing then, but as I was going home, I thought the man wasn’t far wrong. I +began to see as all this weighing and sifting what this text means and that +text means, and whether folks are saved all by God’s grace, or whether there +goes an ounce o’ their own will to’t, was no part o’ real religion at all. You +may talk o’ these things for hours on end, and you’ll only be all the more coxy +and conceited for’t. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hearing +nobody but Mr. Irwine, for he said nothing but what was good and what you’d be +the wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soul to be humble +before the mysteries o’ God’s dealings, and not be making a clatter about what +I could never understand. And they’re poor foolish questions after all; for +what have we got either inside or outside of us but what comes from God? If +we’ve got a resolution to do right, He gave it us, I reckon, first or last; but +I see plain enough we shall never do it without a resolution, and that’s enough +for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr. Irwine, +as, happily, some of us still are of the people we have known familiarly. +Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that lofty order of minds who +pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that their emotions +are of too exquisite a character to find fit objects among their everyday +fellowmen. I have often been favoured with the confidence of these select +natures, and find them to concur in the experience that great men are +overestimated and small men are insupportable; that if you would love a woman +without ever looking back on your love as a folly, she must die while you are +courting her; and if you would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, +you must never make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly +shrunk from confessing to these accomplished and acute gentlemen what my own +experience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent, +and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illusions, +which any one moderately acquainted with French literature can command at a +moment’s notice. Human converse, I think some wise man has remarked, is not +rigidly sincere. But I herewith discharge my conscience, and declare that I +have had quite enthusiastic movements of admiration towards old gentlemen who +spoke the worst English, who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who +had never moved in a higher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer; +and that the way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is +lovable—the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime +mysteries—has been by living a great deal among people more or less commonplace +and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear nothing very surprising if you were +to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most +of the small shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in them. For I +have observed this remarkable coincidence, that the select natures who pant +after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to +command their reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest +and pettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the landlord of the +Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours in the village of +Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his own parish—and they were +all the people he knew—in these emphatic words: “Aye, sir, I’ve said it often, +and I’ll say it again, they’re a poor lot i’ this parish—a poor lot, sir, big +and little.” I think he had a dim idea that if he could migrate to a distant +parish, he might find neighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequently +transfer himself to the Saracen’s Head, which was doing a thriving business in +the back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he has found +the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitants +of Shepperton—“a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as comes for a go o’ +gin are no better than them as comes for a pint o’ twopenny—a poor lot.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"></a> +Chapter XVIII<br/> +Church</h2> + +<p> +“Hetty, Hetty, don’t you know church begins at two, and it’s gone half after +one a’ready? Have you got nothing better to think on this good Sunday as poor +old Thias Bede’s to be put into the ground, and him drownded i’ th’ dead o’ the +night, as it’s enough to make one’s back run cold, but you must be ’dizening +yourself as if there was a wedding i’stid of a funeral?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Aunt,” said Hetty, “I can’t be ready so soon as everybody else, when +I’ve got Totty’s things to put on. And I’d ever such work to make her stand +still.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet and shawl, +was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been made of roses, +that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was trimmed with +pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a white ground. There was +nothing but pink and white about her, except in her dark hair and eyes and her +little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyser was provoked at herself, for she could hardly +keep from smiling, as any mortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round +things. So she turned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house +door, followed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some +one she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the ground she trod on. +</p> + +<p> +And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suit of +drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat and a green watch-ribbon having a large +cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from that promontory where +his watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a yellow tone round his +neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitted by Mrs. Poyser’s own hand, +setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr. Poyser had no reason to be ashamed +of his leg, and suspected that the growing abuse of top-boots and other +fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs had their origin in a pitiable +degeneracy of the human calf. Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his +round jolly face, which was good humour itself as he said, “Come, Hetty—come, +little uns!” and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causeway +gate into the yard. +</p> + +<p> +The “little uns” addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven, in +little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and +black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very small elephant is like +a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind came patient Molly, +whose task it was to carry Totty through the yard and over all the wet places +on the road; for Totty, having speedily recovered from her threatened fever, +had insisted on going to church to-day, and especially on wearing her +red-and-black necklace outside her tippet. And there were many wet places for +her to be carried over this afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the +morning, though now the clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery +masses on the horizon. +</p> + +<p> +You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the farmyard. +The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooning subdued noises; +the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would have been satisfied with a +smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed to call all things to rest and not +to labour. It was asleep itself on the moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of +white ducks nestling together with their bills tucked under their wings; on the +old black sow stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one +found an excellent spring-bed on his mother’s fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd, +in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting, half-standing on +the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church, like other luxuries, was +not to be indulged in often by a foreman who had the weather and the ewes on +his mind. “Church! Nay—I’n gotten summat else to think on,” was an answer which +he often uttered in a tone of bitter significance that silenced further +question. I feel sure Alick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind +was not of a speculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed +going to church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and “Whissuntide.” But he had +a general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies, like other +non-productive employments, were intended for people who had leisure. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Father a-standing at the yard-gate,” said Martin Poyser. “I reckon he +wants to watch us down the field. It’s wonderful what sight he has, and him +turned seventy-five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I often think it’s wi’ th’ old folks as it is wi’ the babbies,” said Mrs. +Poyser; “they’re satisfied wi’ looking, no matter what they’re looking at. It’s +God A’mighty’s way o’ quietening ’em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching, and +held it wide open, leaning on his stick—pleased to do this bit of work; for, +like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he liked to feel that he +was still useful—that there was a better crop of onions in the garden because +he was by at the sowing—and that the cows would be milked the better if he +stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon to look on. He always went to church on +Sacrament Sundays, but not very regularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or +whenever he had a touch of rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters +of Genesis instead. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll ha’ putten Thias Bede i’ the ground afore ye get to the churchyard,” +he said, as his son came up. “It ’ud ha’ been better luck if they’d ha’ buried +him i’ the forenoon when the rain was fallin’; there’s no likelihoods of a drop +now; an’ the moon lies like a boat there, dost see? That’s a sure sign o’ fair +weather—there’s a many as is false but that’s sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll hold up now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads,” said +Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of a +marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling, a little, +secretly, during the sermon. +</p> + +<p> +“Dood-bye, Dandad,” said Totty. “Me doin’ to church. Me dot my neklace on. Dive +me a peppermint.” +</p> + +<p> +Grandad, shaking with laughter at this “deep little wench,” slowly transferred +his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and slowly thrust his +finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes with a +confident look of expectation. +</p> + +<p> +And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again, watching +them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the far gate, till they +disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For the hedgerows in those days shut +out one’s view, even on the better-managed farms; and this afternoon, the +dog-roses were tossing out their pink wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow +and purple glory, the pale honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out +of a holly bush, and over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its +shadow across the path. +</p> + +<p> +There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let them +pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of cows standing +one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that their large bodies +might be in the way; at the far gate there was the mare holding her head over +the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured foal with its head towards its +mother’s flank, apparently still much embarrassed by its own straddling +existence. The way lay entirely through Mr. Poyser’s own fields till they +reached the main road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the +stock and the crops as they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a +running commentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large share +in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock and +their “keep”—an exercise which strengthens her understanding so much that she +finds herself able to give her husband advice on most other subjects. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s that shorthorned Sally,” she said, as they entered the Home Close, and +she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud and looking at her +with a sleepy eye. “I begin to hate the sight o’ the cow; and I say now what I +said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, for there’s that +little yallow cow as doesn’t give half the milk, and yet I’ve twice as much +butter from her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thee’t not like the women in general,” said Mr. Poyser; “they like the +shorthorns, as give such a lot o’ milk. There’s Chowne’s wife wants him to buy +no other sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s it sinnify what Chowne’s wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi’ no more +head-piece nor a sparrow. She’d take a big cullender to strain her lard wi’, +and then wonder as the scratchin’s run through. I’ve seen enough of her to know +as I’ll niver take a servant from her house again—all hugger-mugger—and you’d +niver know, when you went in, whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash +draggin’ on to th’ end o’ the week; and as for her cheese, I know well enough +it rose like a loaf in a tin last year. And then she talks o’ the weather bein’ +i’ fault, as there’s folks ’ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was +i’ their boots.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Chowne’s been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if thee +lik’st,” said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife’s superior power of +putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-days he had more than +once boasted of her discernment in this very matter of shorthorns. “Aye, them +as choose a soft for a wife may’s well buy up the shorthorns, for if you get +your head stuck in a bog, your legs may’s well go after it. Eh! Talk o’ legs, +there’s legs for you,” Mrs. Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down +now the road was dry, toddled on in front of her father and mother. “There’s +shapes! An’ she’s got such a long foot, she’ll be her father’s own child.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, she’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten years’ time, on’y she’s got +<i>thy</i> coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i’ my family; my mother +had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“The child ’ull be none the worse for having summat as isn’t like Hetty. An’ +I’m none for having her so overpretty. Though for the matter o’ that, there’s +people wi’ light hair an’ blue eyes as pretty as them wi’ black. If Dinah had +got a bit o’ colour in her cheeks, an’ didn’t stick that Methodist cap on her +head, enough to frighten the cows, folks ’ud think her as pretty as Hetty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, “thee dostna +know the pints of a woman. The men ’ud niver run after Dinah as they would +after Hetty.” +</p> + +<p> +“What care I what the men ’ud run after? It’s well seen what choice the most of +’em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o’ wives you see, like bits o’ +gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour’s gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice when I +married thee,” said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled little conjugal disputes by +a compliment of this sort; “and thee wast twice as buxom as Dinah ten year +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a house. +There’s Chowne’s wife ugly enough to turn the milk an’ save the rennet, but +she’ll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah, poor child, she’s +niver likely to be buxom as long as she’ll make her dinner o’ cake and water, +for the sake o’ giving to them as want. She provoked me past bearing sometimes; +and, as I told her, she went clean again’ the Scriptur’, for that says, ‘Love +your neighbour as yourself’; ‘but,’ I said, ‘if you loved your neighbour no +better nor you do yourself, Dinah, it’s little enough you’d do for him. You’d +be thinking he might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.’ Eh, I wonder +where she is this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as +she’d set her heart on going to all of a sudden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when she might +ha’ stayed wi’ us all summer, and eaten twice as much as she wanted, and it ’ud +niver ha’ been missed. She made no odds in th’ house at all, for she sat as +still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at running +to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married, theed’st like to ha’ Dinah wi’ thee +constant.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Mrs. Poyser. “You might as well beckon to +the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an’ live here comfortable, like other +folks. If anything could turn her, <i>I</i> should ha’ turned her, for I’ve +talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded her too; for she’s my own sister’s +child, and it behoves me to do what I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon +as she’d said us ‘good-bye’ an’ got into the cart, an’ looked back at me with +her pale face, as is welly like her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun +to be frightened to think o’ the set-downs I’d given her; for it comes over you +sometimes as if she’d a way o’ knowing the rights o’ things more nor other +folks have. But I’ll niver give in as that’s ’cause she’s a Methodist, no more +nor a white calf’s white ’cause it eats out o’ the same bucket wi’ a black un.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as his good-nature +would allow; “I’m no opinion o’ the Methodists. It’s on’y tradesfolks as turn +Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi’ them maggots. There’s maybe a +workman now an’ then, as isn’t overclever at’s work, takes to preachin’ an’ +that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as has got one o’ the best head-pieces +hereabout, knows better; he’s a good Churchman, else I’d never encourage him +for a sweetheart for Hetty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, goodness me,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her husband was +speaking, “look where Molly is with them lads! They’re the field’s length +behind us. How <i>could</i> you let ’em do so, Hetty? Anybody might as well set +a pictur’ to watch the children as you. Run back and tell ’em to come on.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they set Totty +on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshire stile, and +awaited the loiterers; Totty observing with complacency, “Dey naughty, naughty +boys—me dood.” +</p> + +<p> +The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with great +excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on in the +hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peeping than if they had +been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite sure he saw a +yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while he was peeping, he +missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which had run across the path and +was described with much fervour by the junior Tommy. Then there was a little +greenfinch, just fledged, fluttering along the ground, and it seemed quite +possible to catch it, till it managed to flutter under the blackberry bush. +Hetty could not be got to give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on +for her ready sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and +said “Lawks!” whenever she was expected to wonder. +</p> + +<p> +Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called to them +that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting, “We’ve found the +speckled turkey’s nest, Mother!” with the instinctive confidence that people +who bring good news are never in fault. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this pleasant +surprise, “that’s a good lad; why, where is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking after the +greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else she’ll forsake it.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly—didn’t I, Molly?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, now come on,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and walk before Father and +Mother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight on now. +Good boys don’t look after the birds of a Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mother,” said Marty, “you said you’d give half-a-crown to find the +speckled turkey’s nest. Mayn’t I have the half-crown put into my money-box?” +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy.” +</p> + +<p> +The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at their +eldest-born’s acuteness; but on Tommy’s round face there was a cloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” he said, half-crying, “Marty’s got ever so much more money in his box +nor I’ve got in mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Munny, <i>me</i> want half-a-toun in <i>my</i> bots,” said Totty. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush, hush,” said Mrs. Poyser, “did ever anybody hear such naughty +children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if they don’t make +haste and go on to church.” +</p> + +<p> +This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two remaining +fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any serious +interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles, alias “bullheads,” +which the lads looked at wistfully. +</p> + +<p> +The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was not a +cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had often some +mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no temptation would +have induced him to carry on any field-work, however early in the morning, on a +Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a pair of oxen “sweltered” while he +was ploughing on Good Friday? That was a demonstration that work on sacred days +was a wicked thing; and with wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite +clear that he would have nothing to do, since money got by such means would +never prosper. +</p> + +<p> +“It a’most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines so,” he +observed, as they passed through the “Big Meadow.” “But it’s poor foolishness +to think o’ saving by going against your conscience. There’s that Jim +Wakefield, as they used to call ‘Gentleman Wakefield,’ used to do the same of a +Sunday as o’ weekdays, and took no heed to right or wrong, as if there was +nayther God nor devil. An’ what’s he come to? Why, I saw him myself last +market-day a-carrying a basket wi’ oranges in’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, “you make but a poor trap to +catch luck if you go and bait it wi’ wickedness. The money as is got so’s like +to burn holes i’ your pocket. I’d niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence +but what was got i’ the rightful way. And as for the weather, there’s One above +makes it, and we must put up wi’t: it’s nothing of a plague to what the wenches +are.” +</p> + +<p> +Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit which Mrs. +Poyser’s clock had of taking time by the forelock had secured their arrival at +the village while it was still a quarter to two, though almost every one who +meant to go to church was already within the churchyard gates. Those who stayed +at home were chiefly mothers, like Timothy’s Bess, who stood at her own door +nursing her baby and feeling as women feel in that position—that nothing else +can be expected of them. +</p> + +<p> +It was not entirely to see Thias Bede’s funeral that the people were standing +about the churchyard so long before service began; that was their common +practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church at once, and the +farmers’ wives talked in an undertone to each other, over the tall pews, about +their illnesses and the total failure of doctor’s stuff, recommending +dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, as far preferable—about the +servants, and their growing exorbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of +their services declined from year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to be +trusted any further than you could see her—about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the +Treddleston grocer, was giving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might +be held as to his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible +woman, and they were all sorry for <i>her</i>, for she had very good kin. +Meantime the men lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, +who had a humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the church +until Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that premature +entrance—what could they do in church if they were there before service +began?—and they did not conceive that any power in the universe could take it +ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about “bus’ness.” +</p> + +<p> +Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has got his +clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cry at him as a +stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him at once as the village +blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with which the big saucy fellow +took off his hat and stroked his hair to the farmers; for Chad was accustomed +to say that a working-man must hold a candle to a personage understood to be as +black as he was himself on weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he +meant what was, after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who +had horses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher sort +of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, where the burial +was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the farm-labourers, made a +group round it, and stood with their hats off, as fellow-mourners with the +mother and sons. Others held a midway position, sometimes watching the group at +the grave, sometimes listening to the conversation of the farmers, who stood in +a knot near the church door, and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his +family passed into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, +the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude—that is to +say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his +waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very much on one +side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a mono-syllabic part +entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience discern his fitness for the +leading business; curiously in contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his +hands behind him and leaned forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward +scorn of all knowingness that could not be turned into cash. The talk was in +rather a lower tone than usual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. +Irwine’s voice reading the final prayers of the burial-service. They had all +had their word of pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer +subject of their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire’s bailiff, who +played the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr. +Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receive his own +rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject of conversation was +an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself might presently +be walking up the paved road to the church door. And soon they became suddenly +silent; for Mr. Irwine’s voice had ceased, and the group round the white thorn +was dispersing itself towards the church. +</p> + +<p> +They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine passed. +Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them; for Joshua Rann +officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not yet ready to follow the +rector into the vestry. But there was a pause before the three mourners came +on: Lisbeth had turned round to look again towards the grave! Ah! There was +nothing now but the brown earth under the white thorn. Yet she cried less +to-day than she had done any day since her husband’s death. Along with all her +grief there was mixed an unusual sense of her own importance in having a +“burial,” and in Mr. Irwine’s reading a special service for her husband; and +besides, she knew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt this +counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with her +sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods of their +fellow-parishioners. +</p> + +<p> +The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the loiterers +followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr. Donnithorne’s +carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhaps helping to make them +feel that there was no need for haste. +</p> + +<p> +But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth; the +evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every one must +now enter and take his place. +</p> + +<p> +I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for anything +except for the grey age of its oaken pews—great square pews mostly, ranged on +each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish of +galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves in the middle of the +right-hand row, so that it was a short process for Joshua Rann to take his +place among them as principal bass, and return to his desk after the singing +was over. The pulpit and desk, grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of +the arch leading into the chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. +Donnithorne’s family and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the +buff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior, and +agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats. And there +were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, for the pulpit and Mr. +Donnithorne’s own pew had handsome crimson cloth cushions; and, to close the +vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth, embroidered with golden rays by Miss +Lydia’s own hand. +</p> + +<p> +But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm and cheering +when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, looking benignly round on that simple +congregation—on the hardy old men, with bent knees and shoulders, perhaps, but +with vigour left for much hedge-clipping and thatching; on the tall stalwart +frames and roughly cut bronzed faces of the stone-cutters and carpenters; on +the half-dozen well-to-do farmers, with their apple-cheeked families; and on +the clean old women, mostly farm-labourers’ wives, with their bit of snow-white +cap-border under their black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from +the elbow, folded passively over their chests. For none of the old people held +books—why should they? Not one of them could read. But they knew a few “good +words” by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved silently, following +the service without any very clear comprehension indeed, but with a simple +faith in its efficacy to ward off harm and bring blessing. And now all faces +were visible, for all were standing up—the little children on the seats peeping +over the edge of the grey pews, while good Bishop Ken’s evening hymn was being +sung to one of those lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation +of rectors and choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, +with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not in his usual +place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his mother and Seth, and he +noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absent too—all the more agreeable +for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass notes with unusual complacency and +threw an extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over his spectacles at +the recusant Will Maskery. +</p> + +<p> +I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in his ample +white surplice that became him so well, with his powdered hair thrown back, his +rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril and upper lip; for there was +a certain virtue in that benignant yet keen countenance as there is in all +human faces from which a generous soul beams out. And over all streamed the +delicious June sunshine through the old windows, with their desultory patches +of yellow, red, and blue, that threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite +wall. +</p> + +<p> +I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instant longer +than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and his family. And +there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible not to wander +thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But Hetty was at that +moment quite careless of any glances—she was absorbed in the thought that +Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church, for the carriage must +surely be at the church-gate by this time. She had never seen him since she +parted with him in the wood on Thursday evening, and oh, how long the time had +seemed! Things had gone on just the same as ever since that evening; the +wonders that had happened then had brought no changes after them; they were +already like a dream. When she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat +so, she dared not look up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied +herself. That must be old Mr. Donnithorne—he always came first, the wrinkled +small old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing and +curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing, and though Hetty +liked so much to look at her fashionable little coal-scuttle bonnet, with the +wreath of small roses round it, she didn’t mind it to-day. But there were no +more curtsies—no, he was not come; she felt sure there was nothing else passing +the pew door but the house-keeper’s black bonnet and the lady’s maid’s +beautiful straw hat that had once been Miss Lydia’s, and then the powdered +heads of the butler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look +now—she might be mistaken—for, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted up +her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in the chancel—there was +no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacles with his white +handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged prayer-book. The +chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt herself turning pale, her +lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what <i>should</i> she do? Everybody +would know the reason; they would know she was crying because Arthur was not +there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderful hothouse plant in his button-hole, was +staring at her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before the General Confession +began, so that she could kneel down. Two great drops <i>would</i> fall then, +but no one saw them except good-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt +with their backs towards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in +church except faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drew +out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle, and after much +labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against Hetty’s +nostrils. “It donna smell,” she whispered, thinking this was a great advantage +which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you good without biting your +nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but this little flash of temper did what +the salts could not have done—it roused her to wipe away the traces of her +tears, and try with all her might not to shed any more. Hetty had a certain +strength in her vain little nature: she would have borne anything rather than +be laughed at, or pointed at with any other feeling than admiration; she would +have pressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people should know +a secret she did not want them to know. +</p> + +<p> +What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, while Mr. +Irwine was pronouncing the solemn “Absolution” in her deaf ears, and through +all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close to +disappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures her small +ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur’s absence on the supposition that +he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her again. And by the time she +rose from her knees mechanically, because all the rest were rising, the colour +had returned to her cheeks even with a heightened glow, for she was framing +little indignant speeches to herself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her +this pain—she would like him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was +going on in her soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer-book, and the +eyelids with their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so, +as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees. +</p> + +<p> +But Adam’s thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; they rather +blended with all the other deep feelings for which the church service was a +channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousness of our entire past +and our imagined future blends itself with all our moments of keen sensibility. +And to Adam the church service was the best channel he could have found for his +mingled regret, yearning, and resignation; its interchange of beseeching cries +for help with outbursts of faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the +familiar rhythm of its collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of +worship could have done; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from +their childhood upwards in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must have +seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the streets. +The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but in its subtle +relations to our own past: no wonder the secret escapes the unsympathizing +observer, who might as well put on his spectacles to discern odours. +</p> + +<p> +But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the service +in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other village nooks in the +kingdom—a reason of which I am sure you have not the slightest suspicion. It +was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where that good shoemaker got his +notion of reading from remained a mystery even to his most intimate +acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got it chiefly from Nature, who had +poured some of her music into this honest conceited soul, as she had been known +to do into other narrow souls before his. She had given him, at least, a fine +bass voice and a musical ear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone +had sufficed to inspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the +responses. The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, +subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance, like +the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare to nothing for +its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the wind among the +autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading of a +parish clerk—a man in rusty spectacles, with stubbly hair, a large occiput, and +a prominent crown. But that is Nature’s way: she will allow a gentleman of +splendid physiognomy and poetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and +not give him the slightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed +fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to his +intervals as a bird. +</p> + +<p> +Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and it was +always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from the desk to +the choir. Still more to-day: it was a special occasion, for an old man, +familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death—not in his bed, a circumstance +the most painful to the mind of the peasant—and now the funeral psalm was to be +sung in memory of his sudden departure. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at +church, and Joshua’s importance in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was a +solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, +and the words— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Thou sweep’st us off as with a flood;<br/> +We vanish hence like dreams”— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poor Thias. The +mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings. Lisbeth had a vague +belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; it was part of that decent +burial which she would have thought it a greater wrong to withhold from him +than to have caused him many unhappy days while he was living. The more there +was said about her husband, the more there was done for him, surely the safer +he would be. It was poor Lisbeth’s blind way of feeling that human love and +pity are a ground of faith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, +shed tears, and tried to recall, as he had done continually since his father’s +death, all that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment of +consciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement; for +was it not written in the very psalm they were singing that the Divine dealings +were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam had never been unable to join +in a psalm before. He had known plenty of trouble and vexation since he had +been a lad, but this was the first sorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and +strangely enough it was sorrow because the chief source of his past trouble and +vexation was for ever gone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his +father’s hand before their parting, and say, “Father, you know it was all right +between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgive me if +I have been too hot and hasty now and then!” Adam thought but little to-day of +the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his father: his thoughts ran +constantly on what the old man’s feelings had been in moments of humiliation, +when he had held down his head before the rebukes of his son. When our +indignation is borne in submissive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt +afterwards as to our own generosity, if not justice; how much more when the +object of our anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his +face for the last time in the meekness of death! +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I was always too hard,” Adam said to himself. “It’s a sore fault in me as +I’m so hot and out o’ patience with people when they do wrong, and my heart +gets shut up against ’em, so as I can’t bring myself to forgive ’em. I see +clear enough there’s more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner make a +thousand strokes with th’ hammer for my father than bring myself to say a kind +word to him. And there went plenty o’ pride and temper to the strokes, as the +devil <i>will</i> be having his finger in what we call our duties as well as +our sins. Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing what was +easiest for myself. It’s allays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, +but the real tough job for me ’ud be to master my own will and temper and go +right against my own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at home +to-night, I should behave different; but there’s no knowing—perhaps nothing ’ud +be a lesson to us if it didn’t come too late. It’s well we should feel as +life’s a reckoning we can’t make twice over; there’s no real making amends in +this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your +addition right.” +</p> + +<p> +This was the key-note to which Adam’s thoughts had perpetually returned since +his father’s death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm was only an +influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger emphasis. So was the +sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias’s funeral. It spoke +briefly and simply of the words, “In the midst of life we are in death”—how the +present moment is all we can call our own for works of mercy, of righteous +dealing, and of family tenderness. All very old truths—but what we thought the +oldest truth becomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked +on the dead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want +to impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not +let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure its intensity by +remembering the former dimness? +</p> + +<p> +Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublime words, +“The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” seemed to blend with the +calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of the congregation; and +then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the little maidens +who had slept through the sermon, the fathers collecting the prayer-books, +until all streamed out through the old archway into the green churchyard and +began their neighbourly talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to +tea; for on a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guest—it was the day when +all must be in their best clothes and their best humour. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they were waiting for +Adam to come up, not being contented to go away without saying a kind word to +the widow and her sons. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Bede,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, “you must keep +up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they’ve lived to rear +their children and see one another’s hair grey.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Poyser; “they wonna have long to wait for one another +then, anyhow. And ye’ve got two o’ the strapping’st sons i’ th’ country; and +well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a broad-shouldered fellow as +need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why you’re straighter i’ the back nor +half the young women now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh,” said Lisbeth, “it’s poor luck for the platter to wear well when it’s +broke i’ two. The sooner I’m laid under the thorn the better. I’m no good to +nobody now.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam never took notice of his mother’s little unjust plaints; but Seth said, +“Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons ’ull never get another mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true, lad, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser; “and it’s wrong on us to give +way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it’s like the children cryin’ when the fathers and +mothers take things from ’em. There’s One above knows better nor us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, “an’ it’s poor work allays settin’ the dead above the +livin’. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon—it ’ud be better if +folks ’ud make much on us beforehand, i’stid o’ beginnin’ when we’re gone. It’s +but little good you’ll do a-watering the last year’s crop.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adam,” said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife’s words were, as usual, +rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well to change the subject, +“you’ll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with you this +long while, and the missis here wants you to see what can be done with her best +spinning-wheel, for it’s got broke, and it’ll be a nice job to mend it—there’ll +want a bit o’ turning. You’ll come as soon as you can now, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see where +Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was not without a +companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about her than ever, for +she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white hot-house plant, with a very +long name—a Scotch name, she supposed, since people said Mr. Craig the gardener +was Scotch. Adam took the opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you +will not require of him that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting +expression on Hetty’s face as she listened to the gardener’s small talk. Yet in +her secret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps +learn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she cared to +ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be given +spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fond of giving +information. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were received +coldly, for to shift one’s point of view beyond certain limits is impossible to +the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of us aware of the impression +we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble understanding—it is possible they see +hardly anything in us. Moreover, Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was +already in his tenth year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of +matrimony and bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a +little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty that +the “lass was well enough,” and that “a man might do worse”; but on convivial +occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly. +</p> + +<p> +Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who “knew his business” and +who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he was less of a +favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said in confidence to her +husband, “You’re mighty fond o’ Craig, but for my part, I think he’s welly like +a cock as thinks the sun’s rose o’ purpose to hear him crow.” For the rest, Mr. +Craig was an estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high +opinion of himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung +his head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches +pockets. I think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being +Scotch, and not his “bringing up”; for except that he had a stronger burr in +his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people about +him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Poyser,” he said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, +“ye’ll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I’m thinking. The glass sticks at +‘change,’ and ye may rely upo’ my word as we’ll ha’ more downfall afore +twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo’ the +’rizon—ye know what I mean by the ’rizon, where the land and sky seems to +meet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye, I see the cloud,” said Mr. Poyser, “’rizon or no ’rizon. It’s right +o’er Mike Holdsworth’s fallow, and a foul fallow it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you mark my words, as that cloud ’ull spread o’er the sky pretty nigh as +quick as you’d spread a tarpaulin over one o’ your hay-ricks. It’s a great +thing to ha’ studied the look o’ the clouds. Lord bless you! Th’ met’orological +almanecks can learn me nothing, but there’s a pretty sight o’ things I could +let <i>them</i> up to, if they’d just come to me. And how are <i>you</i>, Mrs. +Poyser?—thinking o’ getherin’ the red currants soon, I reckon. You’d a deal +better gether ’em afore they’re o’erripe, wi’ such weather as we’ve got to look +forward to. How do ye do, Mistress Bede?” Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, +nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. “I hope y’ enjoyed them spinach and +gooseberries as I sent Chester with th’ other day. If ye want vegetables while +ye’re in trouble, ye know where to come to. It’s well known I’m not giving +other folks’ things away, for when I’ve supplied the house, the garden’s my own +spekilation, and it isna every man th’ old squire could get as ’ud be equil to +the undertaking, let alone asking whether he’d be willing. I’ve got to run my +calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make sure o’ getting back the money as I +pay the squire. I should like to see some o’ them fellows as make the almanecks +looking as far before their noses as I’ve got to do every year as comes.” +</p> + +<p> +“They look pretty fur, though,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side +and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. “Why, what could come truer +nor that pictur o’ the cock wi’ the big spurs, as has got its head knocked down +wi’ th’ anchor, an’ th’ firin’, an’ the ships behind? Why, that pictur was made +afore Christmas, and yit it’s come as true as th’ Bible. Why, th’ cock’s +France, an’ th’ anchor’s Nelson—an’ they told us that beforehand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pee—ee-eh!” said Mr. Craig. “A man doesna want to see fur to know as th’ +English ’ull beat the French. Why, I know upo’ good authority as it’s a big +Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an’ they live upo’ spoon-meat mostly. I +knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge o’ the French. I should +like to know what them grasshoppers are to do against such fine fellows as our +young Captain Arthur. Why, it ’ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his +arm’s thicker nor a Frenchman’s body, I’ll be bound, for they pinch theirsells +in wi’ stays; and it’s easy enough, for they’ve got nothing i’ their insides.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?” said Adam. “I was talking +to him o’ Friday, and he said nothing about his going away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he’s only gone to Eagledale for a bit o’ fishing; I reckon he’ll be back +again afore many days are o’er, for he’s to be at all th’ arranging and +preparing o’ things for the comin’ o’ age o’ the 30th o’ July. But he’s fond o’ +getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th’ old squire fit one another +like frost and flowers.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation, but the +subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached the turning in the +road where Adam and his companions must say “good-bye.” The gardener, too, +would have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not accepted Mr. +Poyser’s invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly seconded the invitation, for she +would have held it a deep disgrace not to make her neighbours welcome to her +house: personal likes and dislikes must not interfere with that sacred custom. +Moreover, Mr. Craig had always been full of civilities to the family at the +Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had “nothing to +say again’ him, on’y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o’er again, an’ +hatched different.” +</p> + +<p> +So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down to the +valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory had taken the +place of a long, long anxiety—where Adam would never have to ask again as he +entered, “Where’s Father?” +</p> + +<p> +And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back to the +pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm—all with quiet minds, except +Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only the more puzzled and +uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite voluntary; he need not have +gone—he would not have gone if he had wanted to see her. She had a sickening +sense that no lot could ever be pleasant to her again if her Thursday night’s +vision was not to be fulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry +disappointment and doubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with +Arthur again, of meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words with +that eager yearning which one may call the “growing pain” of passion. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"></a> +Chapter XIX<br/> +Adam on a Working Day</h2> + +<p> +Notwithstanding Mr. Craig’s prophecy, the dark-blue cloud dispersed itself +without having produced the threatened consequences. “The weather”—as he +observed the next morning—“the weather, you see, ’s a ticklish thing, an’ a +fool ’ull hit on’t sometimes when a wise man misses; that’s why the almanecks +get so much credit. It’s one o’ them chancy things as fools thrive on.” +</p> + +<p> +This unreasonable behaviour of the weather, however, could displease no one +else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All hands were to be out in the meadows +this morning as soon as the dew had risen; the wives and daughters did double +work in every farmhouse, that the maids might give their help in tossing the +hay; and when Adam was marching along the lanes, with his basket of tools over +his shoulder, he caught the sound of jocose talk and ringing laughter from +behind the hedges. The jocose talk of hay-makers is best at a distance; like +those clumsy bells round the cows’ necks, it has rather a coarse sound when it +comes close, and may even grate on your ears painfully; but heard from far off, +it mingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men’s muscles +move better when their souls are making merry music, though their merriment is +of a poor blundering sort, not at all like the merriment of birds. +</p> + +<p> +And perhaps there is no time in a summer’s day more cheering than when the +warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshness of the +morning—when there is just a lingering hint of early coolness to keep off +languor under the delicious influence of warmth. The reason Adam was walking +along the lanes at this time was because his work for the rest of the day lay +at a country-house about three miles off, which was being put in repair for the +son of a neighbouring squire; and he had been busy since early morning with the +packing of panels, doors, and chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on +before him, while Jonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, +to await its arrival and direct the workmen. +</p> + +<p> +This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under the charm +of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the +sunshine—a sunshine without glare, with slanting rays that tremble between the +delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday when he put out his hand +to her as they came out of church, that there was a touch of melancholy +kindness in her face, such as he had not seen before, and he took it as a sign +that she had some sympathy with his family trouble. Poor fellow! That touch of +melancholy came from quite another source, but how was he to know? We look at +the one little woman’s face we love as we look at the face of our mother earth, +and see all sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Adam +not to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the prospect of +marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger that some other +man might step in and get possession of Hetty’s heart and hand, while he +himself was still in a position that made him shrink from asking her to accept +him. Even if he had had a strong hope that she was fond of him—and his hope was +far from being strong—he had been too heavily burdened with other claims to +provide a home for himself and Hetty—a home such as he could expect her to be +content with after the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, +Adam had confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; he felt +sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family and make a +good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head not to estimate to the +full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the time would be so long! And +there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple hanging over the orchard wall, +within sight of everybody, and everybody must long for her! To be sure, if she +loved him very much, she would be content to wait for him: but <i>did</i> she +love him? His hopes had never risen so high that he had dared to ask her. He +was clear-sighted enough to be aware that her uncle and aunt would have looked +kindly on his suit, and indeed, without this encouragement he would never have +persevered in going to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but +fluctuating conclusions about Hetty’s feelings. She was like a kitten, and had +the same distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that +came near her. +</p> + +<p> +But now he could not help saying to himself that the heaviest part of his +burden was removed, and that even before the end of another year his +circumstances might be brought into a shape that would allow him to think of +marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew: she +would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had set her mind +especially against Hetty—perhaps for no other reason than that she suspected +Hetty to be the woman he <i>had</i> chosen. It would never do, he feared, for +his mother to live in the same house with him when he was married; and yet how +hard she would think it if he asked her to leave him! Yes, there was a great +deal of pain to be gone through with his mother, but it was a case in which he +must make her feel that his will was strong—it would be better for her in the +end. For himself, he would have liked that they should all live together till +Seth was married, and they might have built a bit themselves to the old house, +and made more room. He did not like “to part wi’ th’ lad”: they had hardly ever +been separated for more than a day since they were born. +</p> + +<p> +But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in this +way—making arrangements for an uncertain future—than he checked himself. “A +pretty building I’m making, without either bricks or timber. I’m up i’ the +garret a’ready, and haven’t so much as dug the foundation.” Whenever Adam was +strongly convinced of any proposition, it took the form of a principle in his +mind: it was knowledge to be acted on, as much as the knowledge that damp will +cause rust. Perhaps here lay the secret of the hardness he had accused himself +of: he had too little fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of +foreseen consequences. Without this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough +patience and charity towards our stumbling, falling companions in the long and +changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong determined soul +can learn it—by getting his heart-strings bound round the weak and erring, so +that he must share not only the outward consequence of their error, but their +inward suffering. That is a long and hard lesson, and Adam had at present only +learned the alphabet of it in his father’s sudden death, which, by annihilating +in an instant all that had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush +of thought and memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness. +</p> + +<p> +But it was Adam’s strength, not its correlative hardness, that influenced his +meditations this morning. He had long made up his mind that it would be wrong +as well as foolish for him to marry a blooming young girl, so long as he had no +other prospect than that of growing poverty with a growing family. And his +savings had been so constantly drawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying +for Seth’s substitute in the militia) that he had not enough money beforehand +to furnish even a small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy +day. He had good hope that he should be “firmer on his legs” by and by; but he +could not be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he must +have definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership with Jonathan +Burge was not to be thought of at present—there were things implicitly tacked +to it that he could not accept; but Adam thought that he and Seth might carry +on a little business for themselves in addition to their journeyman’s work, by +buying a small stock of superior wood and making articles of household +furniture, for which Adam had no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by +working at separate jobs under Adam’s direction than by his journeyman’s work, +and Adam, in his overhours, could do all the “nice” work that required peculiar +skill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he received as +foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the world, so sparingly +as they would all live now. No sooner had this little plan shaped itself in his +mind than he began to be busy with exact calculations about the wood to be +bought and the particular article of furniture that should be undertaken +first—a kitchen cupboard of his own contrivance, with such an ingenious +arrangement of sliding-doors and bolts, such convenient nooks for stowing +household provender, and such a symmetrical result to the eye, that every good +housewife would be in raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of +melancholy longing till her husband promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured +to himself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye and trying in vain to +find out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty, and +Adam was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into dreams and +hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening—it was so long since he had +been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go to the night-school, to see +why Bartle Massey had not been at church yesterday, for he feared his old +friend was ill; but, unless he could manage both visits, this last must be put +off till to-morrow—the desire to be near Hetty and to speak to her again was +too strong. +</p> + +<p> +As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end of his walk, +within the sound of the hammers at work on the refitting of the old house. The +sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his work is like the tentative +sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who has to bear his part in the +overture: the strong fibres begin their accustomed thrill, and what was a +moment before joy, vexation, or ambition, begins its change into energy. All +passion becomes strength when it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our +personal lot in the labour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or +the still, creative activity of our thought. Look at Adam through the rest of +the day, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in his hand, +whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a floor-joist or a +window-frame is to be overcome; or as he pushes one of the younger workmen +aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight of timber, saying, “Let alone, +lad! Thee’st got too much gristle i’ thy bones yet”; or as he fixes his keen +black eyes on the motions of a workman on the other side of the room and warns +him that his distances are not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with +the bare muscular arms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like +trodden meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong +barytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn psalm-tunes, as +if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet presently checking himself, +apparently crossed by some thought which jars with the singing. Perhaps, if you +had not been already in the secret, you might not have guessed what sad +memories, what warm affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in +this athletic body with the broken finger-nails—in this rough man, who knew no +better lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional +hymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and for whom +the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the changes of +the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by fragmentary +knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble and work in overhours to +know what he knew over and above the secrets of his handicraft, and that +acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the nature of the materials he +worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn inherited faculty—to get the +mastery of his pen, and write a plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes +than must in fairness be attributed to the unreasonable character of +orthography rather than to any deficiency in the speller, and, moreover, to +learn his musical notes and part-singing. Besides all this, he had read his +Bible, including the apocryphal books; Poor Richard’s Almanac, Taylor’s Holy +Living and Dying, The Pilgrim’s Progress, with Bunyan’s Life and Holy War, a +great deal of Bailey’s Dictionary, Valentine and Orson, and part of a History +of Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many more books +from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading “the commin print,” as +Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in all the leisure moments +which he did not fill up with extra carpentry. +</p> + +<p> +Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, nor, properly speaking, a +genius, yet I will not pretend that his was an ordinary character among +workmen; and it would not be at all a safe conclusion that the next best man +you may happen to see with a basket of tools over his shoulder and a paper cap +on his head has the strong conscience and the strong sense, the blended +susceptibility and self-command, of our friend Adam. He was not an average man. +Yet such men as he are reared here and there in every generation of our peasant +artisans—with an inheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of +common need and common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trained in +skilful courageous labour: they make their way upwards, rarely as geniuses, +most commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and conscience to do +well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have no discernible echo +beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but you are almost sure to find +there some good piece of road, some building, some application of mineral +produce, some improvement in farming practice, some reform of parish abuses, +with which their names are associated by one or two generations after them. +Their employers were the richer for them, the work of their hands has worn +well, and the work of their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They +went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with +coal-dust or streaked with lime and red paint; in old age their white hairs are +seen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they tell their +well-dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on winter +evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their twopence a-day. +Others there are who die poor and never put off the workman’s coat on weekdays. +They have not had the art of getting rich, but they are men of trust, and when +they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if some main screw had +got loose in a machine; the master who employed them says, “Where shall I find +their like?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></a> +Chapter XX<br/> +Adam Visits the Hall Farm</h2> + +<p> +Adam came back from his work in the empty waggon—that was why he had changed +his clothes—and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when it still wanted a +quarter to seven. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?” said Lisbeth complainingly, as he +came downstairs. “Thee artna goin’ to th’ school i’ thy best coat?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother,” said Adam, quietly. “I’m going to the Hall Farm, but mayhap I may +go to the school after, so thee mustna wonder if I’m a bit late. Seth ’ull be +at home in half an hour—he’s only gone to the village; so thee wutna mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, an’ what’s thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th’ Hall Farm? The +Poyser folks see’d thee in ’em yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean by turnin’ +worki’day into Sunday a-that’n? It’s poor keepin’ company wi’ folks as donna +like to see thee i’ thy workin’ jacket.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, mother, I can’t stay,” said Adam, putting on his hat and going out. +</p> + +<p> +But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbeth became +uneasy at the thought that she had vexed him. Of course, the secret of her +objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that they were put on for +Hetty’s sake; but deeper than all her peevishness lay the need that her son +should love her. She hurried after him, and laid hold of his arm before he had +got half-way down to the brook, and said, “Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away +angered wi’ thy mother, an’ her got nought to do but to sit by hersen an’ think +on thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, Mother,” said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put his arm +on her shoulder, “I’m not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee’dst be +more contented to let me do what I’ve made up my mind to do. I’ll never be no +other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings +besides what he owes to’s father and mother, and thee oughtna to want to rule +over me body and soul. And thee must make up thy mind as I’ll not give way to +thee where I’ve a right to do what I like. So let us have no more words about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh,” said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the real bearing of +Adam’s words, “and’ who likes to see thee i’ thy best cloose better nor thy +mother? An’ when thee’st got thy face washed as clean as the smooth white +pibble, an’ thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyes a-sparklin’—what else is +there as thy old mother should like to look at half so well? An’ thee sha’t put +on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik’st for me—I’ll ne’er plague thee no moor +about’n.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well; good-bye, mother,” said Adam, kissing her and hurrying away. He +saw there was no other means of putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood +still on the spot, shading her eyes and looking after him till he was quite out +of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had lain in Adam’s words, +and, as she lost sight of him and turned back slowly into the house, she said +aloud to herself—for it was her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long +days when her husband and sons were at their work—“Eh, he’ll be tellin’ me as +he’s goin’ to bring her home one o’ these days; an’ she’ll be missis o’er me, +and I mun look on, belike, while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks +’em, mayhap, though there’s ne’er been one broke sin’ my old man an’ me bought +’em at the fair twenty ’ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!” she went on, still +louder, as she caught up her knitting from the table, “but she’ll ne’er knit +the lad’s stockin’s, nor foot ’em nayther, while I live; an’ when I’m gone, +he’ll bethink him as nobody ’ull ne’er fit’s leg an’ foot as his old mother +did. She’ll know nothin’ o’ narrowin’ an’ heelin’, I warrand, an’ she’ll make a +long toe as he canna get’s boot on. That’s what comes o’ marr’in’ young +wenches. I war gone thirty, an’ th’ feyther too, afore we war married; an’ +young enough too. She’ll be a poor dratchell by then <i>she’s</i> thirty, +a-marr’in’ a-that’n, afore her teeth’s all come.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. Martin Poyser +and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow: every one was in the +meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier—no one kept watch in the yard but the +bull-dog; and when Adam reached the house-door, which stood wide open, he saw +there was no one in the bright clean house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. +Poyser and some one else would be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the +door and said in his strong voice, “Mrs. Poyser within?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come in, Mr. Bede, come in,” Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She always +gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house. “You may come into +the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushing the first +evening cheese. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house,” said Mrs. Poyser, as he +stood in the open doorway; “they’re all i’ the meadow; but Martin’s sure to be +in afore long, for they’re leaving the hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying +first thing to-morrow. I’ve been forced t’ have Nancy in, upo’ ’count as Hetty +must gether the red currants to-night; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, +just when every hand’s wanted. An’ there’s no trustin’ the children to gether +it, for they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as +well set the wasps to gether the fruit.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. Poyser came in, but he +was not quite courageous enough, so he said, “I could be looking at your +spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it stands in the +house, where I can find it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be till I can fetch +it and show it you. I’d be glad now if you’d go into the garden and tell Hetty +to send Totty in. The child ’ull run in if she’s told, an’ I know Hetty’s +lettin’ her eat too many currants. I’ll be much obliged to you, Mr. Bede, if +you’ll go and send her in; an’ there’s the York and Lankester roses beautiful +in the garden now—you’ll like to see ’em. But you’d like a drink o’ whey first, +p’r’aps; I know you’re fond o’ whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to +crush it out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Adam; “a drink o’ whey’s allays a treat to me. +I’d rather have it than beer any day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on the +shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, “the smell o’ bread’s sweet t’ +everybody but the baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, ‘Oh, Mrs. Poyser, I envy +you your dairy; and I envy you your chickens; and what a beautiful thing a +farm-house is, to be sure!’ An’ I say, ‘Yes; a farm-house is a fine thing for +them as look on, an’ don’t know the liftin’, an’ the stannin’, an’ the +worritin’ o’ th’ inside as belongs to’t.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn’t like to live anywhere else but in a farm-house, +so well as you manage it,” said Adam, taking the basin; “and there can be +nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to’ts knees in +pasture, and the new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter ready for +market, and the calves, and the poultry. Here’s to your health, and may you +allays have strength to look after your own dairy, and set a pattern t’ all the +farmers’ wives in the country.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a compliment, +but a quiet complacency over-spread her face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave +a milder glance than usual to her blue-grey eyes, as she looked at Adam +drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey now—with a flavour so delicate +that one can hardly distinguish it from an odour, and with that soft gliding +warmth that fills one’s imagination with a still, happy dreaminess. And the +light music of the dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering of +a bird outside the wire network window—the window overlooking the garden, and +shaded by tall Guelder roses. +</p> + +<p> +“Have a little more, Mr. Bede?” said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the basin. +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you; I’ll go into the garden now, and send in the little lass.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to the little +wooden gate leading into the garden—once the well-tended kitchen-garden of a +manor-house; now, but for the handsome brick wall with stone coping that ran +along one side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy perennial flowers, +unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen vegetables growing together in careless, +half-neglected abundance. In that leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any +one in this garden was like playing at “hide-and-seek.” There were the tall +hollyhocks beginning to flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and +yellow; there were the syringas and Guelder roses, all large and disorderly for +want of trimming; there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and late peas; there +was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree +making a barren circle under its low-spreading boughs. But what signified a +barren patch or two? The garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of +broad beans—it took nine or ten of Adam’s strides to get to the end of the +uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, +there was so much more room than was necessary for them that in the rotation of +crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrence on one spot +or other. The very rose-trees at which Adam stopped to pluck one looked as if +they grew wild; they were all huddled together in bushy masses, now flaunting +with wide-open petals, almost all of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, +which doubtless dated from the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam +was wise enough to choose a compact Provence rose that peeped out +half-smothered by its flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his +hand—he thought he should be more at ease holding something in his hand—as he +walked on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered there was the +largest row of currant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour. +</p> + +<p> +But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the shaking of a +bough, and a boy’s voice saying, “Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny—there’s +a duck.” +</p> + +<p> +The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where Adam had no +difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in a commodious +position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the +screen of peas. Yes—with her bonnet hanging down her back, and her fat face, +dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up towards the cherry-tree, while she +held her little round hole of a mouth and her red-stained pinafore to receive +the promised downfall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell +were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in +useless regrets, and she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, +“There now, Totty, you’ve got your cherries. Run into the house with ’em to +Mother—she wants you—she’s in the dairy. Run in this minute—there’s a good +little girl.” +</p> + +<p> +He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony +which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to cherry-eating; and when he +set her down she trotted off quite silently towards the house, sucking her +cherries as she went along. +</p> + +<p> +“Tommy, my lad, take care you’re not shot for a little thieving bird,” said +Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees. +</p> + +<p> +He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty would not be +far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking at him. Yet when he +turned the corner she was standing with her back towards him, and stooping to +gather the low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him coming! +Perhaps it was because she was making the leaves rustle. She started when she +became conscious that some one was near—started so violently that she dropped +the basin with the currants in it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she +turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat with a new +happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him before. +</p> + +<p> +“I frightened you,” he said, with a delicious sense that it didn’t signify what +he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did; “let <i>me</i> pick the +currants up.” +</p> + +<p> +That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the +grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, looked straight +into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to the first moments of +hopeful love. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she met his +glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because it was so unlike +anything he had seen in her before. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s not many more currants to get,” she said; “I shall soon ha’ done now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll help you,” said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was nearly +full of currants, and set it close to them. +</p> + +<p> +Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam’s heart was too +full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that was in it. She was not +indifferent to his presence after all; she had blushed when she saw him, and +then there was that touch of sadness about her which must surely mean love, +since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which had often impressed him as +indifference. And he could glance at her continually as she bent over the +fruit, while the level evening sunbeams stole through the thick apple-tree +boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in love with +her. It was to Adam the time that a man can least forget in after-life, the +time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a +slight something—a word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an +eyelid—that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so +slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye—he could describe it to no +one—it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, +to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of +everything but the present moment. So much of our early gladness vanishes +utterly from our memory: we can never recall the joy with which we laid our +heads on our mother’s bosom or rode on our father’s back in childhood. +Doubtless that joy is wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past +mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot, but it is gone +for ever from our imagination, and we can only <i>believe</i> in the joy of +childhood. But the first glad moment in our first love is a vision which +returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and +special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hour +of happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to tenderness, +that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the last keenness to the agony of +despair. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen of +apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotion as he +looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and that there was no +need for them to talk—Adam remembered it all to the last moment of his life. +</p> + +<p> +And Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Like many +other men, he thought the signs of love for another were signs of love towards +himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her, she was absorbed as usual in +thinking and wondering about Arthur’s possible return. The sound of any man’s +footstep would have affected her just in the same way—she would have +<i>felt</i> it might be Arthur before she had time to see, and the blood that +forsook her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling would have rushed +back again at the sight of any one else just as much as at the sight of Adam. +He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come over Hetty: the anxieties +and fears of a first passion, with which she was trembling, had become stronger +than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless dependence +on another’s feeling which awakens the clinging deprecating womanhood even in +the shallowest girl that can ever experience it, and creates in her a +sensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first time +Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam’s timid yet manly +tenderness. She wanted to be treated lovingly—oh, it was very hard to bear this +blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of +glowing love! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with love-making and +flattering speeches like her other admirers; he had always been so reserved to +her; she could enjoy without any fear the sense that this strong brave man +loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam was +pitiable too—that Adam too must suffer one day. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently to the man +who loved her in vain because she had herself begun to love another. It was a +very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet +delusion. +</p> + +<p> +“That’ll do,” said Hetty, after a little while. “Aunt wants me to leave some on +the trees. I’ll take ’em in now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very well I came to carry the basket,” said Adam “for it ’ud ha’ been too +heavy for your little arms.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I could ha’ carried it with both hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I daresay,” said Adam, smiling, “and been as long getting into the house +as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen those tiny fellows +carrying things four times as big as themselves?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of ant +life. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I used to watch ’em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can carry +the basket with one arm, as if it was an empty nutshell, and give you th’ other +arm to lean on. Won’t you? Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like +yours to lean on.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at her, but +her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner of the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever been to Eagledale?” she said, as they walked slowly along. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about himself. “Ten years +ago, when I was a lad, I went with father to see about some work there. It’s a +wonderful sight—rocks and caves such as you never saw in your life. I never had +a right notion o’ rocks till I went there.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long did it take to get there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, it took us the best part o’ two days’ walking. But it’s nothing of a +day’s journey for anybody as has got a first-rate nag. The captain ’ud get +there in nine or ten hours, I’ll be bound, he’s such a rider. And I shouldn’t +wonder if he’s back again to-morrow; he’s too active to rest long in that +lonely place, all by himself, for there’s nothing but a bit of a inn i’ that +part where he’s gone to fish. I wish he’d got th’ estate in his hands; that ’ud +be the right thing for him, for it ’ud give him plenty to do, and he’d do’t +well too, for all he’s so young; he’s got better notions o’ things than many a +man twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th’ other day about lending me +money to set up i’ business; and if things came round that way, I’d rather be +beholding to him nor to any man i’ the world.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he thought Hetty would be +pleased to know that the young squire was so ready to befriend him; the fact +entered into his future prospects, which he would like to seem promising in her +eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest which brought a new +light into her eyes and a half-smile upon her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“How pretty the roses are now!” Adam continued, pausing to look at them. “See! +I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I think these as are +all pink, and have got a finer sort o’ green leaves, are prettier than the +striped uns, don’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole. +</p> + +<p> +“It smells very sweet,” he said; “those striped uns have no smell. Stick it in +your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It ’ud be a pity to let it +fade.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that Arthur +could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope and happiness in +her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what she had very often +done before—stuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. The tender +admiration in Adam’s face was slightly shadowed by reluctant disapproval. +Hetty’s love of finery was just the thing that would most provoke his mother, +and he himself disliked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike +anything that belonged to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” he said, “that’s like the ladies in the pictures at the Chase; they’ve +mostly got flowers or feathers or gold things i’ their hair, but somehow I +don’t like to see ’em; they allays put me i’ mind o’ the painted women outside +the shows at Treddles’on Fair. What can a woman have to set her off better than +her own hair, when it curls so, like yours? If a woman’s young and pretty, I +think you can see her good looks all the better for her being plain dressed. +Why, Dinah Morris looks very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. +It seems to me as a woman’s face doesna want flowers; it’s almost like a flower +itself. I’m sure yours is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well,” said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the rose out of +her hair. “I’ll put one o’ Dinah’s caps on when we go in, and you’ll see if I +look better in it. She left one behind, so I can take the pattern.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, I don’t want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah’s. I daresay +it’s a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here as it was +nonsense for her to dress different t’ other people; but I never rightly +noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap +seemed to fit her face somehow as th ‘acorn-cup fits th’ acorn, and I shouldn’t +like to see her so well without it. But you’ve got another sort o’ face; I’d +have you just as you are now, without anything t’ interfere with your own +looks. It’s like when a man’s singing a good tune—you don’t want t’ hear bells +tinkling and interfering wi’ the sound.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her arm and put it within his again, looking down on her fondly. He was +afraid she should think he had lectured her, imagining, as we are apt to do, +that she had perceived all the thoughts he had only half-expressed. And the +thing he dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this evening’s +happiness. For the world he would not have spoken of his love to Hetty yet, +till this commencing kindness towards him should have grown into unmistakable +love. In his imagination he saw long years of his future life stretching before +him, blest with the right to call Hetty his own: he could be content with very +little at present. So he took up the basket of currants once more, and they +went on towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in the garden. +The yard was full of life now: Marty was letting the screaming geese through +the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing at him; the granary-door +was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing out the corn; the +horses were being led out to watering, amidst much barking of all the three +dogs and many “whups” from Tim the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held +down their meek, intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy feet so +deliberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direction but the right. +Everybody was come back from the meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the +house-place, Mr. Poyser was seated in the three-cornered chair, and the +grandfather in the large arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant +expectation while the supper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had +laid the cloth herself—a cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered +pattern on it, and of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible +housewives like to see—none of your bleached “shop-rag” that would wear into +holes in no time, but good homespun that would last for two generations. The +cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine might well look tempting +to hungry men who had dined at half-past twelve o’clock. On the large deal +table against the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons and cans, +ready for Alick and his companions; for the master and servants ate their +supper not far off each other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a +remark about to-morrow morning’s work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand +to hear it. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adam, I’m glad to see ye,” said Mr. Poyser. “What! ye’ve been helping +Hetty to gether the curran’s, eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it’s +pretty near a three-week since y’ had your supper with us; and the missis has +got one of her rare stuffed chines. I’m glad ye’re come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hetty,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currants to see if +the fruit was fine, “run upstairs and send Molly down. She’s putting Totty to +bed, and I want her to draw th’ ale, for Nancy’s busy yet i’ the dairy. You can +see to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from you along wi’ +Tommy for, and stuff herself wi’ fruit as she can’t eat a bit o’ good victual?” +</p> + +<p> +This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talking to +Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence to her own rules of propriety, +and she considered that a young girl was not to be treated sharply in the +presence of a respectable man who was courting her. That would not be +fair-play: every woman was young in her turn, and had her chances of matrimony, +which it was a point of honour for other women not to spoil—just as one +market-woman who has sold her own eggs must not try to balk another of a +customer. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer to her +aunt’s question, and Mrs. Poyser went out to see after Marty and Tommy and +bring them in to supper. +</p> + +<p> +Soon they were all seated—the two rosy lads, one on each side, by the pale +mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was +come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating cold broad beans out of a +large dish with his pocket-knife, and finding a flavour in them which he would +not have exchanged for the finest pineapple. +</p> + +<p> +“What a time that gell is drawing th’ ale, to be sure!” said Mrs. Poyser, when +she was dispensing her slices of stuffed chine. “I think she sets the jug under +and forgets to turn the tap, as there’s nothing you can’t believe o’ them +wenches: they’ll set the empty kettle o’ the fire, and then come an hour after +to see if the water boils.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s drawin’ for the men too,” said Mr. Poyser. “Thee shouldst ha’ told her +to bring our jug up first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Told her?” said Mrs. Poyser. “Yes, I might spend all the wind i’ my body, an’ +take the bellows too, if I was to tell them gells everything as their own +sharpness wonna tell ’em. Mr. Bede, will you take some vinegar with your +lettuce? Aye you’re i’ the right not. It spoils the flavour o’ the chine, to my +thinking. It’s poor eating where the flavour o’ the meat lies i’ the cruets. +There’s folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t’ hide it.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser’s attention was here diverted by the appearance of Molly, carrying +a large jug, two small mugs, and four drinking-cans, all full of ale or small +beer—an interesting example of the prehensile power possessed by the human +hand. Poor Molly’s mouth was rather wider open than usual, as she walked along +with her eyes fixed on the double cluster of vessels in her hands, quite +innocent of the expression in her mistress’s eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Molly, I niver knew your equils—to think o’ your poor mother as is a widow, +an’ I took you wi’ as good as no character, an’ the times an’ times I’ve told +you....” +</p> + +<p> +Molly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook her nerves the more for +the want of that preparation. With a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow +comport herself differently, she hastened her step a little towards the far +deal table, where she might set down her cans—caught her foot in her apron, +which had become untied, and fell with a crash and a splash into a pool of +beer; whereupon a tittering explosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious +“Ello!” from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred. +</p> + +<p> +“There you go!” resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose and went +towards the cupboard while Molly began dolefully to pick up the fragments of +pottery. “It’s what I told you ’ud come, over and over again; and there’s your +month’s wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I’ve had i’ the house this +ten year, and nothing ever happened to’t before; but the crockery you’ve broke +sin’ here in th’ house you’ve been ’ud make a parson swear—God forgi’ me for +saying so—an’ if it had been boiling wort out o’ the copper, it ’ud ha’ been +the same, and you’d ha’ been scalded and very like lamed for life, as there’s +no knowing but what you will be some day if you go on; for anybody ’ud think +you’d got the St. Vitus’s Dance, to see the things you’ve throwed down. It’s a +pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it’s neither +seeing nor hearing as ’ull make much odds to you—anybody ’ud think you war +case-hardened.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Molly’s tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her desperation at +the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick’s legs, she was converting +her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a +blighting eye upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she went on, “you’ll do no good wi’ crying an’ making more wet to wipe +up. It’s all your own wilfulness, as I tell you, for there’s nobody no call to +break anything if they’ll only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had +need ha’ wooden things t’ handle. And here must I take the brown-and-white jug, +as it’s niver been used three times this year, and go down i’ the cellar +myself, and belike catch my death, and be laid up wi’ inflammation....” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown-and-white jug in +her hand, when she caught sight of something at the other end of the kitchen; +perhaps it was because she was already trembling and nervous that the +apparition had so strong an effect on her; perhaps jug-breaking, like other +crimes, has a contagious influence. However it was, she stared and started like +a ghost-seer, and the precious brown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting +for ever with its spout and handle. +</p> + +<p> +“Did ever anybody see the like?” she said, with a suddenly lowered tone, after +a moment’s bewildered glance round the room. “The jugs are bewitched, <i>I</i> +think. It’s them nasty glazed handles—they slip o’er the finger like a snail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thee’st let thy own whip fly i’ thy face,” said her husband, who had now +joined in the laugh of the young ones. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all very fine to look on and grin,” rejoined Mrs. Poyser; “but there’s +times when the crockery seems alive an’ flies out o’ your hand like a bird. +It’s like the glass, sometimes, ’ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke +<i>will</i> be broke, for I never dropped a thing i’ my life for want o’ +holding it, else I should never ha’ kept the crockery all these ’ears as I +bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad? Whativer do you mean by +coming down i’ that way, and making one think as there’s a ghost a-walking i’ +th’ house?” +</p> + +<p> +A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by +her sudden conversion to a fatalistic view of jug-breaking than by that strange +appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The little minx had found a +black gown of her aunt’s, and pinned it close round her neck to look like +Dinah’s, had made her hair as flat as she could, and had tied on one of Dinah’s +high-crowned borderless net caps. The thought of Dinah’s pale grave face and +mild grey eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with it, made it a +laughable surprise enough to see them replaced by Hetty’s round rosy cheeks and +coquettish dark eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, +clapping their hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked up +from his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the back +kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure, which had +some chance of being free from bewitchment. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?” said Mr. Poyser, with that +comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh which one only sees in stout people. “You +must pull your face a deal longer before you’ll do for one; mustna she, Adam? +How come you put them things on, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam said he liked Dinah’s cap and gown better nor my clothes,” said Hetty, +sitting down demurely. “He says folks looks better in ugly clothes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Adam, looking at her admiringly; “I only said they seemed to +suit Dinah. But if I’d said you’d look pretty in ’em, I should ha’ said nothing +but what was true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thee thought’st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?” said Mr. Poyser to his wife, +who now came back and took her seat again. “Thee look’dst as scared as scared.” +</p> + +<p> +“It little sinnifies how I looked,” said Mrs. Poyser; “looks ’ull mend no jugs, +nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, I’m sorry you’ve to wait so long for +your ale, but it’s coming in a minute. Make yourself at home wi’ th’ cold +potatoes: I know you like ’em. Tommy, I’ll send you to bed this minute, if you +don’t give over laughing. What is there to laugh at, I should like to know? I’d +sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o’ that poor thing’s cap; and there’s them as +’ud be better if they could make theirselves like her i’ more ways nor putting +on her cap. It little becomes anybody i’ this house to make fun o’ my sister’s +child, an’ her just gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi’ her. +An’ I know one thing, as if trouble was to come, an’ I was to be laid up i’ my +bed, an’ the children was to die—as there’s no knowing but what they will—an’ +the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an’ everything went to rack an’ +ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o’ Dinah’s cap again, wi’ her own +face under it, border or no border. For she’s one o’ them things as looks the +brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when you’re most i’ need +on’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so likely to expel +the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was of a susceptible disposition, and +very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten so many cherries as to +have his feelings less under command than usual, was so affected by the +dreadful picture she had made of the possible future that he began to cry; and +the good-natured father, indulgent to all weaknesses but those of negligent +farmers, said to Hetty, “You’d better take the things off again, my lass; it +hurts your aunt to see ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty went upstairs again, and the arrival of the ale made an agreeable +diversion; for Adam had to give his opinion of the new tap, which could not be +otherwise than complimentary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followed a discussion on +the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in “hopping,” and the +doubtful economy of a farmer’s making his own malt. Mrs. Poyser had so many +opportunities of expressing herself with weight on these subjects that by the +time supper was ended, the ale-jug refilled, and Mr. Poyser’s pipe alight she +was once more in high good humour, and ready, at Adam’s request, to fetch the +broken spinning-wheel for his inspection. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Adam, looking at it carefully, “here’s a nice bit o’ turning wanted. +It’s a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in the village and +do it there, for I’ve no convenence for turning at home. If you’ll send it to +Mr. Burge’s shop i’ the morning, I’ll get it done for you by Wednesday. I’ve +been turning it over in my mind,” he continued, looking at Mr. Poyser, “to make +a bit more convenence at home for nice jobs o’ cabinet-making. I’ve always done +a deal at such little things in odd hours, and they’re profitable, for there’s +more workmanship nor material in ’em. I look for me and Seth to get a little +business for ourselves i’ that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as ’ull take +as many things as we should make, besides what we could get orders for round +about.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step towards +Adam’s becoming a “master-man,” and Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the +scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable of containing +grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen in the utmost compactness without +confusion. Hetty, once more in her own dress, with her neckerchief pushed a +little backwards on this warm evening, was seated picking currants near the +window, where Adam could see her quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly +till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay +longer, for at this busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being +sleepy at five o’clock in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall take a step farther,” said Adam, “and go on to see Mester Massey, for +he wasn’t at church yesterday, and I’ve not seen him for a week past. I’ve +never hardly known him to miss church before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Mr. Poyser, “we’ve heared nothing about him, for it’s the boys’ +hollodays now, so we can give you no account.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ll niver think o’ going there at this hour o’ the night?” said Mrs. +Poyser, folding up her knitting. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mester Massey sits up late,” said Adam. “An’ the night-school’s not over +yet. Some o’ the men don’t come till late—they’ve got so far to walk. And +Bartle himself’s never in bed till it’s gone eleven.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldna have him to live wi’ me, then,” said Mrs. Poyser, “a-dropping +candle-grease about, as you’re like to tumble down o’ the floor the first thing +i’ the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, eleven o’clock’s late—it’s late,” said old Martin. “I ne’er sot up so i’ +<i>my</i> life, not to say as it warna a marr’in’, or a christenin’, or a wake, +or th’ harvest supper. Eleven o’clock’s late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, I sit up till after twelve often,” said Adam, laughing, “but it isn’t t’ +eat and drink extry, it’s to work extry. Good-night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, +Hetty.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp with +currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the large palm that was +held out to them, and said, “Come again, come again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, think o’ that now,” said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was out of on the +causeway. “Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work! Ye’ll not find many +men o’ six-an’ twenty as ’ull do to put i’ the shafts wi’ him. If you can catch +Adam for a husband, Hetty, you’ll ride i’ your own spring-cart some day, I’ll +be your warrant.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did not see +the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ride in a +spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"></a> +Chapter XXI<br/> +The Night-School and the Schoolmaster</h2> + +<p> +Bartle Massey’s was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of a common, +which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of +an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had his hand on the +door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight +or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips. +</p> + +<p> +When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Massey merely +nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He had not come for the +sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too full of personal matters, too +full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty’s presence, for him to amuse +himself with a book till school was over; so he sat down in a corner and looked +on with an absent mind. It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost +weekly for years; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed +specimen of Bartle Massey’s handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster’s +head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew +the backs of all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall +above the pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out of +the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long ago +exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to think how the bunch of +leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native element; and from the place +where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of England that hung against +the opposite wall, for age had turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like +that of a well-seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as +familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, +and even in his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of +the old fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or +pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through their reading +lesson. +</p> + +<p> +The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster’s desk +consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have known it only by +seeing Bartle Massey’s face as he looked over his spectacles, which he had +shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present purposes. The +face wore its mildest expression: the grizzled bushy eyebrows had taken their +more acute angle of compassionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually +compressed with a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak +a helpful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expression was the more +interesting because the schoolmaster’s nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a +little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, +had that peculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen +impatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under the +transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened by no tendency +to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length, +stood round it in as close ranks as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Bill, nay,” Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, +“begin that again, and then perhaps, it’ll come to you what d-r-y spells. It’s +the same lesson you read last week, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bill” was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent stone-sawyer, +who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of his years; but he found +a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the +hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so +“uncommon alike, there was no tellin’ ’em one from another,” the sawyer’s +business not being concerned with minute differences such as exist between a +letter with its tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill +had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two +reasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything “right off,” +whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty +miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and had got an +overlooker’s place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had +learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could be done by a little +fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing +that he could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he +was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and turning his head +on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word which +was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey +must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill’s imagination recoiled +before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that the schoolmaster might +have something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and the +changes in the weather. +</p> + +<p> +The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was a Methodist +brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life in perfect satisfaction +with his ignorance, had lately “got religion,” and along with it the desire to +read the Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his +way out to-night he had offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that +he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the nourishment of his +soul—that he might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to +banish evil memories and the temptations of old habit—or, in brief language, +the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was suspected, +though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a +neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that +shortly after the accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival +of an awakening Methodist preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been +observed in the brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neighbourhood +by his old sobriquet of “Brimstone,” there was nothing he held in so much +horror as any further transactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a +broad-chested fellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in +imbibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human +knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in his +resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a mere +obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too eager +for the knowledge that puffeth up. +</p> + +<p> +The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall but thin and +wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face and hands stained a +deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old +women’s petticoats had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more +about the strange secrets of colour. He had already a high reputation in the +district for his dyes, and he was bent on discovering some method by which he +could reduce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston +had given him a notion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and +expense if he could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours +to the night-school, resolving that his “little chap” should lose no time in +coming to Mr. Massey’s day-school as soon as he was old enough. +</p> + +<p> +It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard labour +about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfully making out, +“The grass is green,” “The sticks are dry,” “The corn is ripe”—a very hard +lesson to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first +letter. It was almost as if three rough animals were making humble efforts to +learn how they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle +Massey’s nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for +whom he had no severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with +an imperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patience +could never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glances over his +spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on one side with +a desperate sense of blankness before the letters d-r-y, his eyes shed their +mildest and most encouraging light. +</p> + +<p> +After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came up with +the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out on their slates +and were now required to calculate “off-hand”—a test which they stood with such +imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them +ominously through his spectacles for some minutes, at length burst out in a +bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing between every sentence to rap the floor with +a knobbed stick which rested between his legs. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, you see, you don’t do this thing a bit better than you did a fortnight +ago, and I’ll tell you what’s the reason. You want to learn accounts—that’s +well and good. But you think all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me +and do sums for an hour or so, two or three times a-week; and no sooner do you +get your caps on and turn out of doors again than you sweep the whole thing +clean out of your mind. You go whistling about, and take no more care what +you’re thinking of than if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill +through that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in ’em, +it’s pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be got +cheap—you’ll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he’ll make you +clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge isn’t to be +got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you’re to know figures, you must +turn ’em over in your heads and keep your thoughts fixed on ’em. There’s +nothing you can’t turn into a sum, for there’s nothing but what’s got number in +it—even a fool. You may say to yourselves, ‘I’m one fool, and Jack’s another; +if my fool’s head weighed four pound, and Jack’s three pound three ounces and +three quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack’s?’ A +man that had got his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and +work ’em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he’d count his stitches by +fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, and then see +how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himself how much money +he’d get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would get working +three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate—and all the while his needle +would be going just as fast as if he left his head empty for the devil to dance +in. But the long and the short of it is—I’ll have nobody in my night-school +that doesn’t strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was +striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I’ll send no man away +because he’s stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I’d +not refuse to teach him. But I’ll not throw away good knowledge on people who +think they can get it by the sixpenn’orth, and carry it away with ’em as they +would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you can’t show that +you’ve been working with your own heads, instead of thinking that you can pay +for mine to work for you. That’s the last word I’ve got to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his +knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with a sulky look. The +other pupils had happily only their writing-books to show, in various stages of +progress from pot-hooks to round text; and mere pen-strokes, however perverse, +were less exasperating to Bartle than false arithmetic. He was a little more +severe than usual on Jacob Storey’s Z’s, of which poor Jacob had written a +pageful, all with their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that +they were not right “somehow.” But he observed in apology, that it was a letter +you never wanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there “to finish off +th’ alphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha’ done as well, for what he +could see.” +</p> + +<p> +At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their “Good-nights,” and +Adam, knowing his old master’s habits, rose and said, “Shall I put the candles +out, Mr. Massey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I’ll carry into the house; and just lock +the outer door, now you’re near it,” said Bartle, getting his stick in the +fitting angle to help him in descending from his stool. He was no sooner on the +ground than it became obvious why the stick was necessary—the left leg was much +shorter than the right. But the school-master was so active with his lameness +that it was hardly thought of as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his +way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would +perhaps have understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might +be indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them even in +their swiftest run. +</p> + +<p> +The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his hand, a faint +whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and a brown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of +that wise-looking breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmechanical +generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and +hesitating at every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided +between the hamper in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not +leave without a greeting. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?” said the schoolmaster, making +haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle over the low hamper, +where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light from +a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her master look at them +without painful excitement: she got into the hamper and got out again the next +moment, and behaved with true feminine folly, though looking all the while as +wise as a dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most +abbreviated legs. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you’ve got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?” said Adam, smiling, as he came +into the kitchen. “How’s that? I thought it was against the law here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Law? What’s the use o’ law when a man’s once such a fool as to let a woman +into his house?” said Bartle, turning away from the hamper with some +bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all +consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. “If I’d known Vixen was a +woman, I’d never have held the boys from drowning her; but when I’d got her +into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now you see what she’s brought +me to—the sly, hypocritical wench”—Bartle spoke these last words in a rasping +tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked down her head and turned up +her eyes towards him with a keen sense of opprobrium—“and contrived to be +brought to bed on a Sunday at church-time. I’ve wished again and again I’d been +a bloody minded man, that I could have strangled the mother and the brats with +one cord.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church,” said Adam. “I was +afraid you must be ill for the first time i’ your life. And I was particularly +sorry not to have you at church yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why,” said Bartle kindly, going up to Adam and +raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a level with his own +head. “You’ve had a rough bit o’ road to get over since I saw you—a rough bit +o’ road. But I’m in hopes there are better times coming for you. I’ve got some +news to tell you. But I must get my supper first, for I’m hungry, I’m hungry. +Sit down, sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +Bartle went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent home-baked +loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear times to eat bread once +a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified it by observing, that what a +schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of +brains. Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of foam upon +it. He placed them all on the round deal table which stood against his large +arm-chair in the chimney-corner, with Vixen’s hamper on one side of it and a +window-shelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as +clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered apron; so was +the quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs, which in +these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in +that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them for an old +song, were as free from dust as things could be at the end of a summer’s day. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We’ll not talk about business till we’ve +had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But,” said Bartle, +rising from his chair again, “I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her! +Though she’ll do nothing with it but nourish those unnecessary babbies. That’s +the way with these women—they’ve got no head-pieces to nourish, and so their +food all runs either to fat or to brats.” +</p> + +<p> +He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixed her +eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmost dispatch. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had my supper, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, “so I’ll look on while you eat +yours. I’ve been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supper betimes, +you know: they don’t keep your late hours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know little about their hours,” said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread and not +shrinking from the crust. “It’s a house I seldom go into, though I’m fond of +the boys, and Martin Poyser’s a good fellow. There’s too many women in the +house for me: I hate the sound of women’s voices; they’re always either a-buzz +or a-squeak—always either a-buzz or a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o’ +the talk like a fife; and as for the young lasses, I’d as soon look at +water-grubs. I know what they’ll turn to—stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, +take some ale, my boy: it’s been drawn for you—it’s been drawn for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, who took his old friend’s whim more seriously +than usual to-night, “don’t be so hard on the creaturs God has made to be +companions for us. A working-man ’ud be badly off without a wife to see to th’ +house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense! It’s the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed, to say +a woman makes a house comfortable. It’s a story got up because the women are +there and something must be found for ’em to do. I tell you there isn’t a thing +under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a +woman, unless it’s bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way; +it had better ha’ been left to the men—it had better ha’ been left to the men. +I tell you, a woman ’ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come +to see that the hotter th’ oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman ’ull +make your porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuring the +proportion between the meal and the milk—a little more or less, she’ll think, +doesn’t signify. The porridge <i>will</i> be awk’ard now and then: if it’s +wrong, it’s summat in the meal, or it’s summat in the milk, or it’s summat in +the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, and there’s no difference between +one batch and another from year’s end to year’s end; but if I’d got any other +woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give +me patience if the bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is +cleaner than any other house on the Common, though the half of ’em swarm with +women. Will Baker’s lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much +cleaning done in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman ’ud get done in three, +and all the while be sending buckets o’ water after your ankles, and let the +fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o’ the floor half the day for you +to break your shins against ’em. Don’t tell me about God having made such +creatures to be companions for us! I don’t say but He might make Eve to be a +companion to Adam in Paradise—there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no +other woman to cackle with and make mischief, though you see what mischief she +did as soon as she’d an opportunity. But it’s an impious, unscriptural opinion +to say a woman’s a blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and +wasps, and foxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they’re only the evils +that belong to this state o’ probation, which it’s lawful for a man to keep as +clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of ’em for ever in +another—hoping to get quit of ’em for ever in another.” +</p> + +<p> +Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective that he +had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for the purpose of rapping +the table with the haft. But towards the close, the raps became so sharp and +frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her to +jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely. +</p> + +<p> +“Quiet, Vixen!” snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. “You’re like the rest +o’ the women—always putting in <i>your</i> word before you know why.” +</p> + +<p> +Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her master continued his +supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to interrupt; he knew the old man +would be in a better humour when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. +Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never learned so much of +Bartle’s past life as to know whether his view of married comfort was founded +on experience. On that point Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he +had lived previous to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants and +artisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their only +schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle +always replied, “Oh, I’ve seen many places—I’ve been a deal in the south,” and +the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of asking for a particular town or +village in Africa as in “the south.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, my boy,” said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug +of ale and lighted his pipe, “now then, we’ll have a little talk. But tell me +first, have you heard any particular news to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Adam, “not as I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, they’ll keep it close, they’ll keep it close, I daresay. But I found it +out by chance; and it’s news that may concern you, Adam, else I’m a man that +don’t know a superficial square foot from a solid.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly the +while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion of keeping +his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting it go nearly +out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he said, “Satchell’s +got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston +for the doctor, before seven o’clock this morning. He’s a good way beyond +sixty, you know; it’s much if he gets over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Adam, “I daresay there’d be more rejoicing than sorrow in the +parish at his being laid up. He’s been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous +fellow; but, after all, there’s nobody he’s done so much harm to as to th’ old +squire. Though it’s the squire himself as is to blame—making a stupid fellow +like that a sort o’ man-of-all-work, just to save th’ expense of having a +proper steward to look after th’ estate. And he’s lost more by ill management +o’ the woods, I’ll be bound, than ’ud pay for two stewards. If he’s laid on the +shelf, it’s to be hoped he’ll make way for a better man, but I don’t see how +it’s like to make any difference to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I see it, but I see it,” said Bartle, “and others besides me. The +captain’s coming of age now—you know that as well as I do—and it’s to be +expected he’ll have a little more voice in things. And I know, and you know +too, what ’ud be the captain’s wish about the woods, if there was a fair +opportunity for making a change. He’s said in plenty of people’s hearing that +he’d make you manager of the woods to-morrow, if he’d the power. Why, Carroll, +Mr. Irwine’s butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll +looked in when we were smoking our pipes o’ Saturday night at Casson’s, and he +told us about it; and whenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson’s +ready to back it, that I’ll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can +tell you, at Casson’s, and one and another had their fling at you; for if +donkeys set to work to sing, you’re pretty sure what the tune’ll be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?” said Adam; “or wasn’t he there +o’ Saturday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson—he’s always for setting other +folks right, you know—would have it Burge was the man to have the management of +the woods. ‘A substantial man,’ says he, ‘with pretty near sixty years’ +experience o’ timber: it ’ud be all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, +but it isn’t to be supposed the squire ’ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, +when there’s his elders and betters at hand!’ But I said, ‘That’s a pretty +notion o’ yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to <i>buy</i> timber; would you +put the woods into his hands and let him make his own bargains? I think you +don’t leave your customers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, +what that’s worth depends on the quality o’ the liquor. It’s pretty well known +who’s the backbone of Jonathan Burge’s business.’” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “But, for all that, +Casson was partly i’ the right for once. There’s not much likelihood that th’ +old squire ’ud ever consent t’ employ me. I offended him about two years ago, +and he’s never forgiven me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, how was that? You never told me about it,” said Bartle. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it was a bit o’ nonsense. I’d made a frame for a screen for Miss +Lyddy—she’s allays making something with her worsted-work, you know—and she’d +given me particular orders about this screen, and there was as much talking and +measuring as if we’d been planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o’ work, +and I liked doing it for her. But, you know, those little friggling things take +a deal o’ time. I only worked at it in overhours—often late at night—and I had +to go to Treddleston over an’ over again about little bits o’ brass nails and +such gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th’ open +work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it +when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it +into her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about fastening on +the work—very fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a-kissing one another among the +sheep, like a picture—and th’ old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits +with her. Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to +know what pay she was to give me. I didn’t speak at random—you know it’s not my +way; I’d calculated pretty close, though I hadn’t made out a bill, and I said, +‘One pound thirteen.’ That was paying for the mater’als and paying me, but none +too much, for my work. Th’ old squire looked up at this, and peered in his way +at the screen, and said, ‘One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that! Lydia, +my dear, if you must spend money on these things, why don’t you get them at +Rosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy work here? Such things are +not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.’ Well, Miss +Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she’s not overfond o’ parting +with the money herself—she’s not a bad woman at bottom, but she’s been brought +up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as red as +her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, ‘No, thank you, madam; I’ll make you a +present o’ the screen, if you please. I’ve charged the regular price for my +work, and I know it’s done well; and I know, begging His Honour’s pardon, that +you couldn’t get such a screen at Rosseter under two guineas. I’m willing to +give you my work—it’s been done in my own time, and nobody’s got anything to do +with it but me; but if I’m paid, I can’t take a smaller price than I asked, +because that ’ud be like saying I’d asked more than was just. With your leave, +madam, I’ll bid you good-morning.’ I made my bow and went out before she’d time +to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost +foolish. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I could; +but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out as I’m trying to +overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the one pound thirteen +wrapped in paper. But since then I’ve seen pretty clear as th’ old squire can’t +abide me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s likely enough, that’s likely enough,” said Bartle meditatively. “The +only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his own interest, +and that the captain may do—that the captain may do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I don’t know,” said Adam; “the squire’s ’cute enough but it takes +something else besides ’cuteness to make folks see what’ll be their interest in +the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see +that pretty clear. You’d hardly ever bring round th’ old squire to believe he’d +gain as much in a straightfor’ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, +I’ve not much mind to work under him: I don’t want to quarrel with any +gentleman, more particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we +couldn’t agree long. If the captain was master o’ th’ estate, it ’ud be +different: he’s got a conscience and a will to do right, and I’d sooner work +for him nor for any man living.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don’t you put your head +out at window and tell it to be gone about its business, that’s all. You must +learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, +as I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for +wanting to pass a bad shilling before you knew whether he was in jest or +earnest—you’re overhasty and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks +that don’t square to your notions. It’s no harm for me to be a bit fiery and +stiff-backed—I’m an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a +higher perch. But where’s the use of all the time I’ve spent in teaching you +writing and mapping and mensuration, if you’re not to get for’ard in the world +and show folks there’s some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, +instead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every +opportunity because it’s got a bit of a smell about it that nobody finds out +but yourself? It’s as foolish as that notion o’ yours that a wife is to make a +working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to +fools that never got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addition enough! +Add one fool to another fool, and in six years’ time six fools more—they’re all +of the same denomination, big and little’s nothing to do with the sum!” +</p> + +<p> +During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the pipe had +gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking a light +furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing his eye still +on Adam, who was trying not to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a good deal o’ sense in what you say, Mr. Massey,” Adam began, as soon +as he felt quite serious, “as there always is. But you’ll give in that it’s no +business o’ mine to be building on chances that may never happen. What I’ve got +to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and mater’als I’ve got in my +hands. If a good chance comes to me, I’ll think o’ what you’ve been saying; but +till then, I’ve got nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own +head-piece. I’m turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the +cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. +But it’s getting late now—it’ll be pretty near eleven before I’m at home, and +Mother may happen to lie awake; she’s more fidgety nor usual now. So I’ll bid +you good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, we’ll go to the gate with you—it’s a fine night,” said Bartle, +taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without further words +the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of Bartle’s potato-beds, +to the little gate. +</p> + +<p> +“Come to the music o’ Friday night, if you can, my boy,” said the old man, as +he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was +the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible +in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone images—as still as +the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his +eye on the moving figure till it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a +state of divided affection, had twice run back to the house to bestow a +parenthetic lick on her puppies. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, “there you go, +stalking along—stalking along; but you wouldn’t have been what you are if you +hadn’t had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have +something to suck at. There’s plenty of these big, lumbering fellows ’ud never +have known their <small>A B C</small> if it hadn’t been for Bartle Massey. +Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it? I must go in, +must I? Aye, aye, I’m never to have a will o’ my own any more. And those +pups—what do you think I’m to do with ’em, when they’re twice as big as you? +For I’m pretty sure the father was that hulking bull-terrier of Will +Baker’s—wasn’t he now, eh, you sly hussy?”(Here Vixen tucked her tail between +her legs and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached which +a well-bred female will ignore.) +</p> + +<p> +“But where’s the use of talking to a woman with babbies?” continued Bartle. +“She’s got no conscience—no conscience; it’s all run to milk.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a> +Book Third</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"></a> +Chapter XXII<br/> +Going to the Birthday Feast</h2> + +<p> +The thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm days +which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No rain had +fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was perfect for that +time of the year: there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge-rows +and on the wild camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry +enough for the little children to roll on it, and there was no cloud but a long +dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect +weather for an outdoor July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year +to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest +flowers are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and +yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the +possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of its ripeness. +The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the waggon-loads of hay no longer +creep along the lanes, scattering their sweet-smelling fragments on the +blackberry branches; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has +not got its last splendour of red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all +traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep +and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm—that pause between hay-and +corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought +the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could give their +undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed +the autumn after “the heir” was born, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first +birthday. The air had been merry with the ringing of church-bells very early +this morning, and every one had made haste to get through the needful work +before twelve, when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the +Chase. +</p> + +<p> +The midday sun was streaming into Hetty’s bedchamber, and there was no blind to +temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at herself in the +old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could +see her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the +next room—the room that had been Dinah’s—would show her nothing below her +little chin; and that beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek +melted into another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she +thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this evening +she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her +spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or +short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the evening, with a +tucker made of “real” lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled +occasion, but with no ornaments besides; she had even taken out her small round +ear-rings which she wore every day. But there was something more to be done, +apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was +to wear in the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private +treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, +and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that +these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large +coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful +pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined +with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking out that little box and looking at +the ear-rings! Do not reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that +Hetty, being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she +had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she +could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the +essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others; you +will never understand women’s natures if you are so excessively rational. Try +rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you +were studying the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of +this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an +unconscious smile at the ear-rings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it +is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are +gone back now to the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why +should she have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know +that she had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could +imagine. +</p> + +<p> +“Little, little ears!” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, +as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. “I wish I had some pretty +ear-rings!” she said in a moment, almost before she knew what she was +saying—the wish lay so close to her lips, it <i>would</i> flutter past them at +the slightest breath. And the next day—it was only last week—Arthur had ridden +over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively uttered +seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything +like it before; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he +might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes +flashed back their new delight into his. +</p> + +<p> +No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the ear-rings, +for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them to her lips, but +to fasten them in her ears—only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as +she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the +head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on +the subject of ear-rings as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls +and crystals be made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with +the tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps +water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little round +holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be one +of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman’s destiny +before her—a woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain +hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, a rancorous +poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly +sensations into a life of deep human anguish. +</p> + +<p> +But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt +wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them up. Some day she +will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and already she lives in an +invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and +velvet, such as the lady’s maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia’s +wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in +front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can +venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown +berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat +scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she <i>must</i> put +on her brown berries—her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was +not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a handsome +large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold border +round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock, forming a +background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and +no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong +than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear the +locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had +dared to encounter her aunt’s questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now +she slipped it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain +round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang +a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do but to +put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat +trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather faded +under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty’s cup to-day, +for it was not quite new—everybody would see that it was a little tanned +against the white ribbon—and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or +bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they +really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for +them. Hetty’s dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in +the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would never +care about looking at other people, but then those other people didn’t know how +he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in +their eyes even for a short space. +</p> + +<p> +The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down, all of +course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so this morning +in honour of the captain’s twenty-first birthday, and the work had all been got +done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until +their mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the day’s +festivities. Mr. Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up and +left to take care of itself; “for,” said he, “there’s no danger of anybody’s +breaking in—everybody’ll be at the Chase, thieves an’ all. If we lock th’ house +up, all the men can go: it’s a day they wonna see twice i’ their lives.” But +Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: “I never left the house to take care +of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There’s been ill-looking +tramps enoo’ about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an’ every +spoon we’n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it’s a mercy +they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we +knowed, some Friday night when we’n got the money in th’ house to pay the men. +And it’s like enough the tramps know where we’re going as well as we do +oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he’ll find the +means.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. Poyser; “I’ve got a gun i’ +our room, hanna I? and thee’st got ears as ’ud find it out if a mouse was +gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home +i’ the forepart o’ the day, and Tim can come back tow’rds five o’clock, and let +Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do +mischief, and there’s Alick’s dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp +if Alick gives him a wink.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt +to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting, Nancy, the +dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place, although the window, +lying under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been +supposed the least likely to be selected for a burglarious attempt. +</p> + +<p> +The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole family +except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in +front, and within there was room for all the women and children; the fuller the +cart the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy’s +broad person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. +Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk +of jolting as possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange +greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, +specking the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with +bits of movable bright colour—a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that +nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with +ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton and all +Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour of “th’ heir”; +and the old men and women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill +for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one +of the farmer’s waggons, at Mr. Irwine’s suggestion. The church-bells had +struck up again now—a last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have +their share in the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was +heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. +Poyser’s cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, +which had mustered in all its glory—that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and +blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, “Let brotherly love +continue,” encircling a picture of a stone-pit. +</p> + +<p> +The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at +the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from +the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks, and the boys +running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the +fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. “I +should ha’ thought there wasna so many people i’ the two parishes. Mercy on us! +How hot it is out o’ the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be +burnt to a scratchin’! They might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open space an’ +saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “There’s th’ waggin coming wi’ th’ +old folks in’t; it’ll be such a sight as wonna come o’er again, to see ’em get +down an’ walk along all together. You remember some on ’em i’ their prime, eh, +Father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge porch, +from which he could see the aged party descend. “I remember Jacob Taft walking +fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton.” +</p> + +<p> +He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the +Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards +him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice—for +though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a +greeting—“you’re hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you’re +ninety an’ better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, +perceiving that he was in company. +</p> + +<p> +The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, +passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house, where a +special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party wisely struck +across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the +house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped +marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger +marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were to be +played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen +Anne’s time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one +end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high +and prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant stood +a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun was now on +the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house +seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite sad to look at it: Arthur +must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not +possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long +while—not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a +speech. +</p> + +<p> +But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was come except +the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that +moment not in a back room, but walking with the rector into the broad stone +cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage +tenants and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, +in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode—his arm no +longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have +their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word,” he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, “I think the +cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful dining-room on +a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners—to let +them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: +especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather +talked of a <i>carte blanche</i>, he couldn’t make up his mind to trust me, +when it came to the point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, you’ll give more pleasure in this quiet way,” said Mr. Irwine. “In +this sort of thing people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and +disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted +whole, and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens +that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a +moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the day, they’ll be able to enjoy the +games as the day cools. You can’t hinder some of them from getting too much +towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than +drunkenness and daylight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I hope there won’t be much of it. I’ve kept the Treddleston people away +by having a feast for them in the town; and I’ve got Casson and Adam Bede and +some other good fellows to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to +take care things don’t go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the +dinner-tables for the large tenants.” +</p> + +<p> +They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery above the +cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old pictures had been +banished for the last three generations—mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and +her ladies, General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark +among the lions, and Julius Cæsar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel +crown, holding his Commentaries in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old abbey!” said +Arthur. “If I’m ever master here, I shall do up the gallery in first-rate +style. We’ve got no room in the house a third as large as this. That second +table is for the farmers’ wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more +comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. I was determined +to have the children, and make a regular family thing of it. I shall be ‘the +old squire’ to those little lads and lasses some day, and they’ll tell their +children what a much finer young fellow I was than my own son. There’s a table +for the women and children below as well. But you will see them all—you will +come up with me after dinner, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Irwine. “I wouldn’t miss your maiden speech to the +tenantry.” +</p> + +<p> +“And there will be something else you’ll like to hear,” said Arthur. “Let us go +into the library and I’ll tell you all about it while my grandfather is in the +drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will surprise you,” he continued, +as they sat down. “My grandfather has come round after all.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, about Adam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so busy. You +know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with him—I thought it +was hopeless—but yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before I +went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided on all the new +arrangements he should make in consequence of old Satchell being obliged to lay +by work, and that he intended to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a +salary of a guinea a-week, and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the +secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he +had some particular dislike of Adam to get over—and besides, the fact that I +propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There’s the +most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to leave me all +the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt +Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only five hundred a-year, +for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I sometimes think he positively +hates me because I’m his heir. I believe if I were to break my neck, he would +feel it the greatest misfortune that could befall him, and yet it seems a +pleasure to him to make my life a series of petty annoyances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my boy, it is not only woman’s love that is +ἀπέρωτος ἒρως as +old Æschylus calls it. There’s plenty of ‘unloving love’ in the world of a +masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted the post? I don’t see +that it can be much more profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, +it will leave him a good deal of time on his own hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to hesitate +at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my +grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason +prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the employment and +would not be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured +me he should like it of all things—it would be a great step forward for him in +business, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give +up working for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a +little business of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps +be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged +that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to announce the +appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam’s health. It’s a little drama +I’ve got up in honour of my friend Adam. He’s a fine fellow, and I like the +opportunity of letting people know that I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part to +play,” said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on +relentingly, “My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy who sees +nothing to admire in the young folks. I don’t like to admit that I’m proud of +my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play the amiable old +gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of Adam. Has your +grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a respectable +man as steward?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience and +walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. “He’s got some project or +other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for a supply of milk and +butter for the house. But I ask no questions about it—it makes me too angry. I +believe he means to do all the business himself, and have nothing in the shape +of a steward. It’s amazing what energy he has, though.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’ll go to the ladies now,” said Mr. Irwine, rising too. “I want to +tell my mother what a splendid throne you’ve prepared for her under the +marquee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too,” said Arthur. “It must be two +o’clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants’ dinners.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"></a> +Chapter XXIII<br/> +Dinner-Time</h2> + +<p> +When Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he felt +rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way above his mother +and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But Mr. Mills, the butler, +assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given particular orders about it, and +would be very angry if Adam was not there. +</p> + +<p> +Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off. “Seth, lad,” +he said, “the captain has sent to say I’m to dine upstairs—he wishes it +particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it ’ud be behaving ill for me not to +go. But I don’t like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better than +my own flesh and blood. Thee’t not take it unkind, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, lad,” said Seth, “thy honour’s our honour; and if thee get’st +respect, thee’st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee above me, +the better, so long as thee feel’st like a brother to me. It’s because o’ thy +being appointed over the woods, and it’s nothing but what’s right. That’s a +place o’ trust, and thee’t above a common workman now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Adam, “but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven’t given notice +to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don’t like to tell anybody else about it +before he knows, for he’ll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People ’ull be +wondering to see me there, and they’ll like enough be guessing the reason and +asking questions, for there’s been so much talk up and down about my having the +place, this last three weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the reason. +That’s the truth. And mother ’ull be fine and joyful about it. Let’s go and +tell her.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds than the +amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other people in the two +parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than from their +pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was rather slower +than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind when the bell rang for +dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend; for he was a little too shy +to join the Poyser party on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to +Hetty’s side would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and Adam +contented himself with that for he disliked any risk of being “joked” about +Hetty—the big, outspoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his +love-making. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mester Massey,” said Adam, as Bartle came up “I’m going to dine upstairs +with you to-day: the captain’s sent me orders.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. “Then there’s something +in the wind—there’s something in the wind. Have you heard anything about what +the old squire means to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” said Adam; “I’ll tell you what I know, because I believe you can +keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you’ll not let drop a +word till it’s common talk, for I’ve particular reasons against its being +known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I’ve got no wife to worm it out of me and +then run out and cackle it in everybody’s hearing. If you trust a man, let him +be a bachelor—let him be a bachelor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I’m to take the management o’ +the woods. The captain sent for me t’ offer it me, when I was seeing to the +poles and things here and I’ve agreed to’t. But if anybody asks any questions +upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn the talk to something else, and +I’ll be obliged to you. Now, let us go on, for we’re pretty nigh the last, I +think.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know what to do, never fear,” said Bartle, moving on. “The news will be good +sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you’ll get on. I’ll back you for an eye +at measuring and a head-piece for figures, against any man in this county and +you’ve had good teaching—you’ve had good teaching.” +</p> + +<p> +When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as to who +was to be president, and who vice, was still under discussion, so that Adam’s +entrance passed without remark. +</p> + +<p> +“It stands to sense,” Mr. Casson was saying, “as old Mr. Poyser, as is th’ +oldest man i’ the room, should sit at top o’ the table. I wasn’t butler fifteen +year without learning the rights and the wrongs about dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said old Martin, “I’n gi’en up to my son; I’m no tenant now: let my +son take my place. Th’ ould foulks ha’ had their turn: they mun make way for +the young uns.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should ha’ thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor th’ +oldest,” said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr. Poyser; +“there’s Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th’ estate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Poyser, “suppose we say the man wi’ the foulest land shall sit +at top; then whoever gets th’ honour, there’ll be no envying on him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, here’s Mester Massey,” said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the +dispute, had no interest but in conciliation; “the schoolmaster ought to be +able to tell you what’s right. Who’s to sit at top o’ the table, Mr. Massey?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the broadest man,” said Bartle; “and then he won’t take up other folks’ +room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom.” +</p> + +<p> +This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter—a smaller joke +would have sufficed for that. Mr. Casson, however, did not feel it compatible +with his dignity and superior knowledge to join in the laugh, until it turned +out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, +as the broadest, was to be president, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to +be vice. +</p> + +<p> +Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the table, +fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too much occupied with +the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr. Casson, +we have seen, considered Adam “rather lifted up and peppery-like”: he thought +the gentry made more fuss about this young carpenter than was necessary; they +made no fuss about Mr. Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for +fifteen years. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Bede, you’re one o’ them as mounts hup’ards apace,” he said, when +Adam sat down. “You’ve niver dined here before, as I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Casson,” said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard along the +table; “I’ve never dined here before, but I come by Captain Donnithorne’s wish, +and I hope it’s not disagreeable to anybody here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said several voices at once, “we’re glad ye’re come. Who’s got +anything to say again’ it?” +</p> + +<p> +“And ye’ll sing us ‘Over the hills and far away,’ after dinner, wonna ye?” said +Mr. Chowne. “That’s a song I’m uncommon fond on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peeh!” said Mr. Craig; “it’s not to be named by side o’ the Scotch tunes. I’ve +never cared about singing myself; I’ve had something better to do. A man that’s +got the names and the natur o’ plants in’s head isna likely to keep a hollow +place t’ hold tunes in. But a second cousin o’ mine, a drovier, was a rare hand +at remembering the Scotch tunes. He’d got nothing else to think on.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Scotch tunes!” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; “I’ve heard enough o’ +the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They’re fit for nothing but to +frighten the birds with—that’s to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds +may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, +and I’ll answer for it the corn ’ll be safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there’s folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know but +little about,” said Mr. Craig. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman,” Bartle went +on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig’s remark. “They go on with the same +thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody ’ud +think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of somebody as deaf as +old Taft, and had never got an answer yet.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position enabled +him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table. Hetty, however, +had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was giving angry attention to +Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on to the bench in antique fashion, +and thereby threatened to make dusty marks on Hetty’s pink-and-white frock. No +sooner were the little fat legs pushed down than up they came again, for +Totty’s eyes were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the plum +pudding was for her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite +out of patience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she +said, “Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you’d speak to Totty; she keeps putting her legs +up so, and messing my frock.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter wi’ the child? She can niver please you,” said the mother. +“Let her come by the side o’ me, then. <i>I</i> can put up wi’ her.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark eyes +seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who +sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that Adam’s eyes were fixed on +her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting on the small +value of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad. Mary was a good girl, not +given to indulge in evil feelings, but she said to herself, that, since Hetty +had a bad temper, it was better Adam should know it. And it was quite true that +if Hetty had been plain, she would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that +moment, and no one’s moral judgment upon her would have been in the least +beguiled. But really there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it +looked so much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe Adam +felt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if +he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a little bird with its feathers +ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but it was impossible to him +to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that +if he could have his way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And presently, +when Totty was gone, she caught his eye, and her face broke into one of its +brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation—she knew +Mary Burge was looking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"></a> +Chapter XXIV<br/> +The Health-Drinking</h2> + +<p> +When the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of +birthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at the +side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had been settled +very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young squire should appear, +and for the last five minutes he had been in a state of abstraction, with his +eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash +and other articles in his breeches pockets. +</p> + +<p> +When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one stood up, +and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his +own importance, and besides that, he cared a great deal for the good-will of +these people: he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, special regard +for him. The pleasure he felt was in his face as he said, “My grandfather and I +hope all our friends here have enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale +good. Mr. Irwine and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall +all like anything the better that the rector shares with us.” +</p> + +<p> +All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy in his +pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock. “Captain, my +neighbours have put it upo’ me to speak for ’em to-day, for where folks think +pretty much alike, one spokesman’s as good as a score. And though we’ve +mayhappen got contrairy ways o’ thinking about a many things—one man lays down +his land one way an’ another another—an’ I’ll not take it upon me to speak to +no man’s farming, but my own—this I’ll say, as we’re all o’ one mind about our +young squire. We’ve pretty nigh all on us known you when you war a little un, +an’ we’ve niver known anything on you but what was good an’ honorable. You +speak fair an’ y’ act fair, an’ we’re joyful when we look forrard to your being +our landlord, for we ’lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an’ ’ull make no +man’s bread bitter to him if you can help it. That’s what I mean, an’ that’s +what we all mean; and when a man’s said what he means, he’d better stop, for +th’ ale ’ull be none the better for stannin’. An’ I’ll not say how we like th’ +ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till we’d drunk your health in it; but +the dinner was good, an’ if there’s anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the +fault of his own inside. An’ as for the rector’s company, it’s well known as +that’s welcome t’ all the parish wherever he may be; an’ I hope, an’ we all +hope, as he’ll live to see us old folks, an’ our children grown to men an’ +women an’ Your Honour a family man. I’ve no more to say as concerns the present +time, an’ so we’ll drink our young squire’s health—three times three.” +</p> + +<p> +Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a +shouting, with plentiful <i>da capo</i>, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest +music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur had +felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser’s speech, but it was too feeble +to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not deserve what was +said of him on the whole? If there was something in his conduct that Poyser +wouldn’t have liked if he had known it, why, no man’s conduct will bear too +close an inspection; and Poyser was not likely to know it; and, after all, what +had he done? Gone a little too far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in +his place would have acted much worse; and no harm would come—no harm +<i>should</i> come, for the next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain +to her that she must not think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was +necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable +thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can be +formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become easy again +before Mr. Poyser’s slow speech was finished, and when it was time for him to +speak he was quite light-hearted. +</p> + +<p> +“I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours,” Arthur said, “for the good +opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser has been +expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be my heartiest +wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, I +shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, it is on the ground of that +expectation that my grandfather has wished me to celebrate this day and to come +among you now; and I look forward to this position, not merely as one of power +and pleasure for myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly +becomes so young a man as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most +of you so much older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested +myself a good deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my +opportunities have allowed; and when the course of events shall place the +estate in my hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the +encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and trying to +bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on +by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and nothing would make me so +happy as to be able to respect every man on the estate, and to be respected by +him in return. It is not my place at present to enter into particulars; I only +meet your good hopes concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond +to them—that what you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr. +Poyser’s opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better stop. +But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would not be +perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has filled the +place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you have joined me in +drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to appear among you as the +future representative of his name and family.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly understood +and approved Arthur’s graceful mode of proposing his grandfather’s health. The +farmers thought the young squire knew well enough that they hated the old +squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, “he’d better not ha’ stirred a kettle o’ sour +broth.” The bucolic mind does not readily apprehend the refinements of good +taste. But the toast could not be rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur +said, “I thank you, both for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one +more thing I wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I +hope and believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not a +respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my friend +Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood that there is no +man whose word can be more depended on than his; that whatever he undertakes to +do, he does well, and is as careful for the interests of those who employ him +as for his own. I’m proud to say that I was very fond of Adam when I was a +little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling for him—I think that shows +that I know a good fellow when I find him. It has long been my wish that he +should have the management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very +valuable, not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he +has the knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy to +tell you that it is my grandfather’s wish too, and it is now settled that Adam +shall manage the woods—a change which I am sure will be very much for the +advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join me in drinking his +health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life that he deserves. But +there is a still older friend of mine than Adam Bede present, and I need not +tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I’m sure you will agree with me that we must +drink no other person’s health until we have drunk his. I know you have all +reason to love him, but no one of his parishioners has so much reason as I. +Come, charge your glasses, and let us drink to our excellent rector—three times +three!” +</p> + +<p> +This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the last, and +it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when Mr. Irwine got +up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned towards him. The +superior refinement of his face was much more striking than that of Arthur’s +when seen in comparison with the people round them. Arthur’s was a much +commoner British face, and the splendour of his new-fashioned clothes was more +akin to the young farmer’s taste in costume than Mr. Irwine’s powder and the +well-brushed but well-worn black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great +occasions; for he had the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking +coat. +</p> + +<p> +“This is not the first time, by a great many,” he said, “that I have had to +thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but neighbourly +kindness is among those things that are the more precious the older they get. +Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good comes of +age and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing, and the relation +between us as clergyman and parishioners came of age two years ago, for it is +three-and-twenty years since I first came among you, and I see some tall +fine-looking young men here, as well as some blooming young women, that were +far from looking as pleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to +see them looking now. But I’m sure you will not wonder when I say that among +all those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my friend +Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your regard. I had the +pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and have naturally had +opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot have occurred to any one +else who is present; and I have some pride as well as pleasure in assuring you +that I share your high hopes concerning him, and your confidence in his +possession of those qualities which will make him an excellent landlord when +the time shall come for him to take that important position among you. We feel +alike on most matters on which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in +common with a young man of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a +feeling which I share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the +opportunity of saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. +People in a high station are of course more thought of and talked about and +have their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in humble +everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that humble everyday +work is, and how important it is to us that it should be done well. And I agree +with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feeling that when a man whose duty +lies in that sort of work shows a character which would make him an example in +any station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those to whom +honour is due, and his friends should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede +well—I know what he is as a workman, and what he has been as a son and +brother—and I am saying the simplest truth when I say that I respect him as +much as I respect any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a +stranger; some of you are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one +here who does not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, “A bumper +to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever as himself!” +</p> + +<p> +No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as Mr. +Poyser. “Tough work” as his first speech had been, he would have started up to +make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity of such a course. As +it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, +and setting down his glass with a swing of his arm and a determined rap. If +Jonathan Burge and a few others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they +tried their best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill +apparently unanimous. +</p> + +<p> +Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He was a +good deal moved by this public tribute—very naturally, for he was in the +presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him honour. But he +felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack of +words; he looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm +upright attitude, with his head thrown a little backward and his hands +perfectly still, in that rough dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, +honest, well-built workmen, who are never wondering what is their business in +the world. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m quite taken by surprise,” he said. “I didn’t expect anything o’ this sort, +for it’s a good deal more than my wages. But I’ve the more reason to be +grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to all my friends here, +who’ve drunk my health and wished me well. It ’ud be nonsense for me to be +saying, I don’t at all deserve th’ opinion you have of me; that ’ud be poor +thanks to you, to say that you’ve known me all these years and yet haven’t +sense enough to find out a great deal o’ the truth about me. You think, if I +undertake to do a bit o’ work, I’ll do it well, be my pay big or little—and +that’s true. I’d be ashamed to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it +seems to me that’s a man’s plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and +it’s pretty clear to me as I’ve never done more than my duty; for let us do +what we will, it’s only making use o’ the sperrit and the powers that ha’ been +given to us. And so this kindness o’ yours, I’m sure, is no debt you owe me, +but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to this new +employment I’ve taken in hand, I’ll only say that I took it at Captain +Donnithorne’s desire, and that I’ll try to fulfil his expectations. I’d wish +for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while I was getting +my own bread I was taking care of his int’rests. For I believe he’s one o’ +those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit +better than he found it, which it’s my belief every man may do, whether he’s +gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o’ work going and finds the money, +or whether he does the work with his own hands. There’s no occasion for me to +say any more about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest +o’ my life in my actions.” +</p> + +<p> +There were various opinions about Adam’s speech: some of the women whispered +that he didn’t show himself thankful enough, and seemed to speak as proud as +could be; but most of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more +straightfor’ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such +observations were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the +old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and whether he was going to have a +steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table where +the wives and children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, +but wine and dessert—sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good +sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty +was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a wine-glass +in search of the nuts floating there. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?” said Arthur. “Weren’t you pleased to hear your +husband make such a good speech to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied—you’re forced partly to guess what +they mean, as you do wi’ the dumb creaturs.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! you think you could have made it better for him?” said Mr. Irwine, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, +thank God. Not as I’m a-finding faut wi’ my husband, for if he’s a man o’ few +words, what he says he’ll stand to.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure I never saw a prettier party than this,” Arthur said, looking round +at the apple-cheeked children. “My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and +see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be +a shame for them not to see you at table.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while Mr. +Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a distance, that no +one’s attention might be disturbed from the young squire, the hero of the day. +Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed +along the opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with +discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when +she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the +most miserable day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and +reality came across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few +hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is +separated from a small outsider in the crowd. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"></a> +Chapter XXV<br/> +The Games</h2> + +<p> +The great dance was not to begin until eight o’clock, but for any lads and +lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was music +always at hand—for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable of playing +excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band +hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-out +cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys and girls. To say +nothing of Joshua Rann’s fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he +had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste +to prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of the +house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles to be climbed +by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women, races to be run in +sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of +challenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking as many yards possible +on one leg—feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being “the +lissom’st, springest fellow i’ the country,” was sure to be pre-eminent. To +crown all, there was to be a donkey-race—that sublimest of all races, conducted +on the grand socialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else’s donkey, +and the sorriest donkey winning. +</p> + +<p> +And soon after four o’clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask satin and +jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the whole family +party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where she was to give out +the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign +that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with this +opportunity of gratifying his godmother’s taste for stateliness. Old Mr. +Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out +Miss Irwine, with his air of punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought +Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. +Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, +besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the +neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were required for +the entertainment of the tenants. +</p> + +<p> +There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from the +park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the victors, and +the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched +on each side of the open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word it’s a pretty sight,” said the old lady, in her deep voice, when +she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with its dark-green +background; “and it’s the last fête-day I’m likely to see, unless you make +haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I +would rather die without seeing her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re so terribly fastidious, Godmother,” said Arthur, “I’m afraid I should +never satisfy you with my choice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I won’t forgive you if she’s not handsome. I can’t be put off with +amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the existence of +plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never do, because you’ll +want managing, and a silly woman can’t manage you. Who is that tall young man, +Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such +care of that tall old woman by the side of him—his mother, of course. I like to +see that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What, don’t you know him, Mother?” said Mr. Irwine. “That is Seth Bede, Adam’s +brother—a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather +down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his father’s dying in that +sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little +Methodist preacher who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here that I +don’t know, for they’re grown up and altered so since I used to go about.” +</p> + +<p> +“What excellent sight you have!” said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was holding a +double glass up to his eyes, “to see the expression of that young man’s face so +far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have +the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can read small print without +spectacles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those +near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles to read +with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at a distance. +I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be blind to everything +that wasn’t out of other people’s sight, like a man who stands in a well and +sees nothing but the stars.” +</p> + +<p> +“See,” said Arthur, “the old women are ready to set out on their race now. +Which do you bet on, Gawaine?” +</p> + +<p> +“The long-legged one, unless they’re going to have several heats, and then the +little wiry one may win.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,” said Miss +Irwine. “Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I will,” said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs. Poyser. +“A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless +me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her knee! But who is that pretty +girl with dark eyes?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is Hetty Sorrel,” said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, “Martin Poyser’s niece—a +very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has taught her fine +needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed—very +respectably.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you must have +seen her,” said Miss Irwine. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve never seen her, child—at least not as she is now,” said Mrs. Irwine, +continuing to look at Hetty. “Well-looking, indeed! She’s a perfect beauty! +I’ve never seen anything so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty +as that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it’s wanted so terribly +among the good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she’ll marry a man who +would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was speaking of +her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with something on the opposite +side. But he saw her plainly enough without looking; saw her in heightened +beauty, because he heard her beauty praised—for other men’s opinion, you know, +was like a native climate to Arthur’s feelings: it was the air on which they +thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She <i>was</i> enough to turn any man’s +head: any man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to give her +up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always +look back upon with pride. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother,” and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; “I can’t agree with +you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you imagine. The +commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the +difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels +a difference in their presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to +explain the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than married +men, because they have time for more general contemplation. Your fine critic of +woman must never shackle his judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an +example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just +now told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never been +treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason +is—though she doesn’t know it—that there’s so much tenderness, refinement, and +purity about her. Such a woman as that brings with her ‘airs from heaven’ that +the coarsest fellow is not insensible to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a prize, I +suppose,” said Mr. Gawaine. “She must be one of the racers in the sacks, who +had set off before we came.” +</p> + +<p> +The “bit of womanhood” was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise Chad’s +Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of +colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her +sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since +Dinah’s departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small finery as she +could muster. Any one who could have looked into poor Bessy’s heart would have +seen a striking resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty’s. +The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy’s side in the matter of +feeling. But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have +been inclined to box Bessy’s ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere hedonish +gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there were to be cloaks +and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached the marquee, fanning +herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling in her round eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the prize for the first sack-race,” said Miss Lydia, taking a large +parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it to Mrs. Irwine +before Bessy came up, “an excellent grogram gown and a piece of flannel.” +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?” said Arthur. +“Couldn’t you find something else for this girl, and save that grim-looking +gown for one of the older women?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial,” said Miss Lydia, +adjusting her own lace; “I should not think of encouraging a love of finery in +young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old +woman who wins.” +</p> + +<p> +This speech of Miss Lydia’s produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs. +Irwine’s face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped a series +of curtsies. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Bessy Cranage, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, kindly, “Chad Cranage’s +daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to be sure,” said Mrs. Irwine. “Well, Bessy, here is your prize—excellent +warm things for winter. I’m sure you have had hard work to win them this warm +day.” +</p> + +<p> +Bessy’s lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown—which felt so hot and +disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to carry. +She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a growing +tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turned away. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor girl,” said Arthur; “I think she’s disappointed. I wish it had been +something more to her taste.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s a bold-looking young person,” observed Miss Lydia. “Not at all one I +should like to encourage.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money before the +day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind; but she, not aware +of the consolation in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she +was visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, +began to cry—very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In this +situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in +coming up, having just given the baby into her husband’s charge. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter wi’ ye?” said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle and +examining it. “Ye’n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool’s race. An’ +here, they’n gi’en you lots o’ good grogram and flannel, as should ha’ been +gi’en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. +Ye might spare me a bit o’ this grogram to make clothes for the lad—ye war +ne’er ill-natured, Bess; I ne’er said that on ye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye may take it all, for what I care,” said Bess the maiden, with a pettish +movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I could do wi’t, if so be ye want to get rid on’t,” said the +disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad’s Bess +should change her mind. +</p> + +<p> +But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits that +secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grand climax of the +donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lost in the delightful +excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys +applied the argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in +adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well considered, +requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey +proved the first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill +just when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant +the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this +superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the midst of its triumph. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made happy +with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimlets enough to make a +man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned from the marquee with +the prize in his hand, when it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to +amuse the company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and +gratuitous performance—namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless +borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and complex +a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben’s pride +in his dancing—an accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly +Wake—had needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to +convince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his performance of +his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, +who observed that it was nothing but right to do something to please the young +squire, in return for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised +at this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had requested +Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite sure that though +there might not be much in the dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam +Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being +discussed, told Ben he had better not make a fool of himself—a remark which at +once fixed Ben’s determination: he was not going to let anything alone because +Adam Bede turned up his nose at it. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s this, what’s this?” said old Mr. Donnithorne. “Is it something you’ve +arranged, Arthur? Here’s the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow +with a nosegay in his button-hole.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Arthur; “I know nothing about it. By Jove, he’s going to dance! It’s +one of the carpenters—I forget his name at this moment.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Ben Cranage—Wiry Ben, they call him,” said Mr. Irwine; “rather a loose +fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too much for you: +you’re getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while Joshua’s +preliminary scrapings burst into the “White Cockade,” from which he intended to +pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear +really taught him to execute with some skill. It would have been an +exasperating fact to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was +too thoroughly absorbed by Ben’s dancing for any one to give much heed to the +music. +</p> + +<p> +Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps you have +only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with +graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements of the head. That is as +much like the real thing as the “Bird Waltz” is like the song of birds. Wiry +Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkey—as serious as if he +had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount +of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human +limbs. +</p> + +<p> +To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur clapped +his hands continually and cried “Bravo!” But Ben had one admirer whose eyes +followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled his own. It was +Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs. +</p> + +<p> +“What dost think o’ that?” he said to his wife. “He goes as pat to the music as +if he was made o’ clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at dancing myself +when I was lighter, but I could niver ha’ hit it just to th’ hair like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking,” re-turned Mrs. Poyser. +“He’s empty enough i’ the upper story, or he’d niver come jigging an’ stamping +i’ that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry to look at him. They’re fit +to die wi’ laughing, I can see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, so much the better, it amuses ’em,” said Mr. Poyser, who did not +easily take an irritable view of things. “But they’re going away now, t’ have +their dinner, I reckon. We’ll move about a bit, shall we, and see what Adam +Bede’s doing. He’s got to look after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna +had much fun.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"></a> +Chapter XXVI<br/> +The Dance</h2> + +<p> +Arthur had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely, for no other +room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantage of the wide doors +opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance into the other rooms. To +be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of +the dancers had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen +quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms +look like closets—with stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty +ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating +with statues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green +boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hothouse plants +on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase were covered with +cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were to stay till half-past +nine with the servant-maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined +to the chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights were +charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and +the farmers’ wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be +more splendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and +queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and +acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on +in the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had not long +set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which we seem to see all +objects more distinctly than in the broad day. +</p> + +<p> +It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their families were +moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along the broad +straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread +on each side, studded here and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand +pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe +of paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, +the young ones being attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam +from the windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their +dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home +quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her—not from filial +attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had +been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been more constantly +present with him than in this scene, where everything was so unlike her. He saw +her all the more vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and +gay-coloured dresses of the young women—just as one feels the beauty and the +greatness of a pictured Madonna the more when it has been for a moment screened +from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind +only helped him to bear the better with his mother’s mood, which had been +becoming more and more querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering +from a strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to +her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the +jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her that +Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was +getting more and more out of her reach; she wished all the old troubles back +again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, it’s fine talkin’ o’ dancin’,” she said, “an’ thy father not a five week +in’s grave. An’ I wish I war there too, i’stid o’ bein’ left to take up merrier +folks’s room above ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, don’t look at it i’ that way, Mother,” said Adam, who was determined to +be gentle to her to-day. “I don’t mean to dance—I shall only look on. And since +the captain wishes me to be there, it ’ud look as if I thought I knew better +than him to say as I’d rather not stay. And thee know’st how he’s behaved to me +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, thee’t do as thee lik’st, for thy old mother’s got no right t’ hinder +thee. She’s nought but th’ old husk, and thee’st slipped away from her, like +the ripe nut.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mother,” said Adam, “I’ll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy +feelings for me to stay, and I’d rather go home upo’ that account: he won’t +take it ill then, I daresay, and I’m willing.” He said this with some effort, +for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, I wonna ha’ thee do that—the young squire ’ull be angered. Go an’ do +what thee’t ordered to do, an’ me and Seth ’ull go whome. I know it’s a grit +honour for thee to be so looked on—an’ who’s to be prouder on it nor thy +mother? Hadna she the cumber o’ rearin’ thee an’ doin’ for thee all these +’ears?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, good-bye, then, Mother—good-bye, lad—remember Gyp when you get home,” +said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he +hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied +throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye +soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to +the house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adam, I’m glad to get sight on y’ again,” said Mr. Poyser, who was +carrying Totty on his arm. “You’re going t’ have a bit o’ fun, I hope, now your +work’s all done. And here’s Hetty has promised no end o’ partners, an’ I’ve +just been askin’ her if she’d agreed to dance wi’ you, an’ she says no.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I didn’t think o’ dancing to-night,” said Adam, already tempted to +change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said Mr. Poyser. “Why, everybody’s goin’ to dance to-night, all but +th’ old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best’s been tellin’ us as Miss Lyddy and +Miss Irwine ’ull dance, an’ the young squire ’ull pick my wife for his first +partner, t’ open the ball: so she’ll be forced to dance, though she’s laid by +ever sin’ the Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand +still, Adam, an’ you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as anybody.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, “it ’ud be unbecomin’. I know the dancin’s +nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it’s nonsense, you wonna go +far i’ this life. When your broth’s ready-made for you, you mun swallow the +thickenin’, or else let the broth alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then if Hetty ’ull dance with me,” said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser’s +argument or to something else, “I’ll dance whichever dance she’s free.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got no partner for the fourth dance,” said Hetty; “I’ll dance that with +you, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Mr. Poyser, “but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it’ll +look partic’ler. There’s plenty o’ nice partners to pick an’ choose from, an’ +it’s hard for the gells when the men stan’ by and don’t ask ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser’s observation: it would not do for him to +dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that Jonathan Burge had some +reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him the +first dance, if she had no other partner. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s the big clock strikin’ eight,” said Mr. Poyser; “we must make haste in +now, else the squire and the ladies ’ull be in afore us, an’ that wouldna look +well.” +</p> + +<p> +When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly’s charge had +been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of the drawing-room were thrown +open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a +carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne +were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the +dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform +to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as +if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection +to gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure. +</p> + +<p> +The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants +and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; but the farmers +had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of +hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. +Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to +strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser +curtsied and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, +she whispered to her husband, “I’ll lay my life he’s brewin’ some nasty turn +against us. Old Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin’.” Mr. Poyser had no +time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, “Mrs. Poyser, I’m come to +request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must +let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner.” +</p> + +<p> +The wife’s pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur +led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had +restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked +along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had +never had a partner in <i>her</i> life who could lift her off the ground as he +would. In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine +danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out +Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey +gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of +the cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had +taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary +Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, +best of all dances, began. +</p> + +<p> +Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes +would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that gracious +nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand—where can we see them +now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the +cares of house and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but +proud of the young maidens by their side—that holiday sprightliness of portly +husbands paying little compliments to their wives, as if their courting days +were come again—those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their +partners, having nothing to say—it would be a pleasant variety to see all that +sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances +exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots smiling with double +meaning. +</p> + +<p> +There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser’s pleasure in this dance: it was +that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He +thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of +hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive +Luke, he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to hilarity, +unchilled by moral judgments. +</p> + +<p> +How Hetty’s heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at her +to-day: now he <i>must</i> take her hand. Would he press it? Would he look at +her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was +there—he had taken her hand—yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she +looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him +away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which +clung to him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the same. Hetty would +look so, when he told her what he had to tell her; and he should never be able +to bear it—he should be a fool and give way again. Hetty’s look did not really +mean so much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the +desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the desire to +others. But Hetty’s face had a language that transcended her feelings. There +are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the +single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows +of foregone generations—eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless has been +and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes—perhaps paired with pale eyes +that can say nothing; just as a national language may be instinct with poetry +unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty’s oppressed Arthur with a +dread which yet had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she +loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he +felt he would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of +abandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser, who was +panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge nor jury should +force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, +where supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it as they chose. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve desired Hetty to remember as she’s got to dance wi’ you, sir,” said the +good innocent woman; “for she’s so thoughtless, she’d be like enough to go an’ +engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to promise too many.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,” said Arthur, not without a twinge. “Now, sit down in +this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what you would like +best.” +</p> + +<p> +He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be paid +to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; and the +country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the waving of +the hands, went on joyously. +</p> + +<p> +At last the time had come for the fourth dance—longed for by the strong, grave +Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of eighteen; for we are all +very much alike when we are in our first love; and Adam had hardly ever touched +Hetty’s hand for more than a transient greeting—had never danced with her but +once before. His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, +and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, +so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all, she smiled less than usual; +there was almost a sweet sadness about her. “God bless her!” he said inwardly; +“I’d make her life a happy ’un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to +love her, could do it.” +</p> + +<p> +And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from work, and +drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly pressed against his, +till he forgot where he was, and the music and the tread of feet might have +been the falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew. +</p> + +<p> +But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and claim her +hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase, whispering with +Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her arms before running to +fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys +away into the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in the +cart with Grandfather and Molly was to follow as fast as possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me hold her,” said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; “the children are so +heavy when they’re asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing, was not +at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had the unfortunate +effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child of her age in peevishness +at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her in Adam’s +arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith +fought out with her left fist at Adam’s arm, and with her right caught at the +string of brown beads round Hetty’s neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, +and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and +locket scattered wide on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“My locket, my locket!” she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam; “never +mind the beads.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his glance as +it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised wooden dais where the +band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass +with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side +upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw +the enamelled gold back. +</p> + +<p> +“It isn’t hurt,” he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to take +it because both her hands were occupied with Totty. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t mind about it,” said Hetty, who had been pale +and was now red. +</p> + +<p> +“Not matter?” said Adam, gravely. “You seemed very frightened about it. I’ll +hold it till you’re ready to take it,” he added, quietly closing his hand over +it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it again. +</p> + +<p> +By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she had taken +Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty’s hand. She took it with an air of +indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexed and angry with Adam +because he had seen it, but determined now that she would show no more signs of +agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“See,” she said, “they’re taking their places to dance; let us go.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. Had Hetty +a lover he didn’t know of? For none of her relations, he was sure, would give +her a locket like that; and none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, +was in the position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must be. +Adam was lost in the utter impossibility of finding any person for his fears to +alight on. He could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something in +Hetty’s life unknown to him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope +that she would come to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure +of the dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an +uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of nothing to say to her; +and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad +when the dance was ended. +</p> + +<p> +Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no one would +notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of doors, he began to walk at +his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowing why, busy with the +painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honour and promise to +him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he +stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, +making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might +have bought the thing herself. It looked too expensive for that—it looked like +the things on white satin in the great jeweller’s shop at Rosseter. But Adam +had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought it could +certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as much as that in +Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might have been childish +enough to spend it in that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn’t +help loving finery! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at first, +and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to care? Oh, that was +because she was ashamed of his seeing that she had such a smart thing—she was +conscious that it was wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that +Adam disapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and +disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he +was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be harsh and severe +towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this +new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might +chill Hetty’s feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter <i>must</i> +be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover, quite unknown to him? +She was never away from her uncle’s house for more than a day; she could have +no acquaintances that did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her +uncle and aunt. It would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her +by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could +form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very +distinctly. It might be a bit of her father’s or mother’s, who had died when +she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own along with it. +</p> + +<p> +And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious web of +probabilities—the surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the +truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream that he was with Hetty +again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so +cold and silent. +</p> + +<p> +And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the dance and +saying to her in low hurried tones, “I shall be in the wood the day after +to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can.” And Hetty’s foolish joys and +hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, now +all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the +first time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours. Arthur +wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never +lies with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he +has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow. +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Poyser’s wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind was +filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrow morning’s +cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had done her duty and +danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the +cart was come back to fetch them, for it was half-past ten o’clock, and +notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad manners for +them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute on the point, “manners or +no manners.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?” said old Mr. Donnithorne, as she came to +curtsy and take leave; “I thought we should not part with any of our guests +till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out +the dance till then.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Your Honour, it’s all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up by +candlelight—they’ve got no cheese on their minds. We’re late enough as it is, +an’ there’s no lettin’ the cows know as they mustn’t want to be milked so early +to-morrow mornin’. So, if you’ll please t’ excuse us, we’ll take our leave.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh!” she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, “I’d sooner ha’ +brewin’ day and washin’ day together than one o’ these pleasurin’ days. There’s +no work so tirin’ as danglin’ about an’ starin’ an’ not rightly knowin’ what +you’re goin’ to do next; and keepin’ your face i’ smilin’ order like a grocer +o’ market-day for fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An’ you’ve +nothing to show for’t when it’s done, if it isn’t a yallow face wi’ eatin’ +things as disagree.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that he had +had a great day, “a bit o’ pleasuring’s good for thee sometimes. An’ thee +danc’st as well as any of ’em, for I’ll back thee against all the wives i’ the +parish for a light foot an’ ankle. An’ it was a great honour for the young +squire to ask thee first—I reckon it was because I sat at th’ head o’ the table +an’ made the speech. An’ Hetty too—<i>she</i> never had such a partner before—a +fine young gentleman in reg’mentals. It’ll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when +you’re an old woman—how you danced wi’ th’ young squire the day he come o’ +age.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"></a> +Book Fourth</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"></a> +Chapter XXVII<br/> +A crisis</h2> + +<p> +It was beyond the middle of August—nearly three weeks after the birthday feast. +The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midland county of Loamshire, +but the harvest was likely still to be retarded by the heavy rains, which were +causing inundations and much damage throughout the country. From this last +trouble the Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in +their brook-watered valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that +they were such exceptional farmers as to love the general good better than +their own, you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the +rapid rise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering in +their own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying winds +flattered this hope. +</p> + +<p> +The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine looked +brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses of cloud were +hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind the Chase seemed +alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a moment, and then +shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed +off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around the farmhouses there was a sound of +clapping doors; the apples fell in the orchards; and the stray horses on the +green sides of the lanes and on the common had their manes blown about their +faces. And yet the wind seemed only part of the general gladness because the +sun was shining. A merry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if +they could top the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in +good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind had fallen. +If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of the husk and scattered +as untimely seed! +</p> + +<p> +And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it be +true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentiment of one +individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindful, unconscious +of another? For there is no hour that has not its births of gladness and +despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation +as well as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and our lots +are so different, what wonder that Nature’s mood is often in harsh contrast +with the great crisis of our lives? We are children of a large family, and must +learn, as such children do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much +of—to be content with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the +more. +</p> + +<p> +It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work, for he +was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until some satisfactory +person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan was slow to find that +person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant +again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him since the birthday, she had +seemed to make an effort to behave all the more kindly to him, that she might +make him understand she had forgiven his silence and coldness during the dance. +He had never mentioned the locket to her again; too happy that she smiled at +him—still happier because he observed in her a more subdued air, something that +he interpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. “Ah!” he +thought, again and again, “she’s only seventeen; she’ll be thoughtful enough +after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at the work. She’ll +make a wife as Mother’ll have no occasion to grumble at, after all.” To be +sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the birthday; for one Sunday, +when he was intending to go from church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the +party of upper servants from the Chase and had gone home with them—almost as if +she were inclined to encourage Mr. Craig. “She’s takin’ too much likin’ to them +folks i’ the housekeeper’s room,” Mrs. Poyser remarked. “For my part, I was +never overfond o’ gentlefolks’s servants—they’re mostly like the fine ladies’ +fat dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher’s meat, but on’y for show.” And +another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things; though, to his +great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at a distance getting over +a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to her, she +was very kind, and asked him to go in again when he had taken her to the yard +gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after coming from +Treddleston because she didn’t want to go in, she said: it was so nice to be +out of doors, and her aunt always made such a fuss about it if she wanted to go +out. “Oh, do come in with me!” she said, as he was going to shake hands with +her at the gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser +was contented with only a slight remark on Hetty’s being later than was +expected; while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, smiled +and talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude. +</p> + +<p> +That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure for going +to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going to the Chase to +sew with the lady’s maid, so he would get as much work done as possible this +evening, that the next might be clear. +</p> + +<p> +One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs at the +Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which +it was now rumoured that the old squire was going to let to a smart man in +top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to +get a tenant could account for the squire’s undertaking repairs, though the +Saturday-evening party at Mr. Casson’s agreed over their pipes that no man in +his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland +laid to it. However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with +all dispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with +his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, he had not been +able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the afternoon, and he then +discovered that some old roofing, which he had calculated on preserving, had +given way. There was clearly no good to be done with this part of the building +without pulling it all down, and Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for +building it up again, so as to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and +calf-pens, with a hovel for implements; and all without any great expense for +materials. So, when the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his +pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching a plan, and making a +specification of the expenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, +and set him on persuading the squire to consent. To “make a good job” of +anything, however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block, +with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and then and +turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile of gratification—of +pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he loved also to think, “I +did it!” And I believe the only people who are free from that weakness are +those who have no work to call their own. It was nearly seven before he had +finished and put on his jacket again; and on giving a last look round, he +observed that Seth, who had been working here to-day, had left his basket of +tools behind him. “Why, th’ lad’s forgot his tools,” thought Adam, “and he’s +got to work up at the shop to-morrow. There never was such a chap for +wool-gathering; he’d leave his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it’s +lucky I’ve seen ’em; I’ll carry ’em home.” +</p> + +<p> +The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase, at about ten +minutes’ walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had come thither on his pony, +intending to ride to the stables and put up his nag on his way home. At the +stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come to look at the captain’s new +horse, on which he was to ride away the day after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig +detained him to tell how all the servants were to collect at the gate of the +courtyard to wish the young squire luck as he rode out; so that by the time +Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along with the basket of tools +over his shoulder, the sun was on the point of setting, and was sending level +crimson rays among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare +patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt +upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze to +stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in the house all +day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite enough in the +open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought himself that he +might do so by striking across the Chase and going through the Grove, where he +had never been for years. He hurried on across the Chase, stalking along the +narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch +the magnificent changes of the light—hardly once thinking of it—yet feeling its +presence in a certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy +working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and +were more timid. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Adam’s thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said about Arthur +Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changes that might take place +before he came back; then they travelled back affectionately over the old +scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt on Arthur’s good qualities, which +Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of the superior who honours +us. A nature like Adam’s, with a great need of love and reverence in it, +depends for so much of its happiness on what it can believe and feel about +others! And he had no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of +men in the past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving +admiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant thoughts +about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his keen rough face: +perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the old green gate leading +into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a kind word to him. +</p> + +<p> +After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path through the +Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree of all things; as the +fisherman’s sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam’s perceptions were more at +home with trees than with other objects. He kept them in his memory, as a +painter does, with all the flecks and knots in their bark, all the curves and +angles of their boughs, and had often calculated the height and contents of a +trunk to a nicety, as he stood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding +his desire to get on, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large +beech which he had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and +convince himself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For +the rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examining the +beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where his youth was +passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. The beech stood at the +last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of boughs that let in the +eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the tree to continue his walk, his +eyes fell on two figures about twenty yards before him. +</p> + +<p> +He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The two +figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped hands about to part; +and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been running among the +brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a sharp bark. They +separated with a start—one hurried through the gate out of the Grove, and the +other, turning round, walked slowly, with a sort of saunter, towards Adam who +still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held +the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure +with eyes in which amazement was fast turning to fierceness. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make unpleasant +feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine than usual at dinner +to-day, and was still enough under its flattering influence to think more +lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adam than he would otherwise have +done. After all, Adam was the best person who could have happened to see him +and Hetty together—he was a sensible fellow, and would not babble about it to +other people. Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the thing off and +explain it away. And so he sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness—his +flushed face, his evening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands +half-thrust into his waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening +light which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now +shedding down between the topmost branches above him. +</p> + +<p> +Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood it all +now—the locket and everything else that had been doubtful to him: a terrible +scorching light showed him the hidden letters that changed the meaning of the +past. If he had moved a muscle, he must inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like +a tiger; and in the conflicting emotions that filled those long moments, he had +told himself that he would not give loose to passion, he would only speak the +right thing. He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his +own strong will. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adam,” said Arthur, “you’ve been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? +They’re not to be come near by the hatchet, though; this is a sacred grove. I +overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my den—the Hermitage, +there. She ought not to come home this way so late. So I took care of her to +the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for this +road is confoundedly damp. Good-night, Adam. I shall see you to-morrow—to say +good-bye, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself to be +thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam’s face. He did not look directly at +Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and then lifted up one foot to +look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no more—he had thrown quite dust +enough into honest Adam’s eyes—and as he spoke the last words, he walked on. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without turning +round. “I’ve got a word to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected by a change of +tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at +once affectionate and vain. He was still more surprised when he saw that Adam +had not moved, but stood with his back to him, as if summoning him to return. +What did he mean? He was going to make a serious business of this affair. +Arthur felt his temper rising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner +side, and in the confusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the +feeling that a man to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a +position to criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels +himself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares for. In +spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation as anger in his voice +when he said, “What do you mean, Adam?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean, sir”—answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without turning +round—“I mean, sir, that you don’t deceive me by your light words. This is not +the first time you’ve met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first +time you’ve kissed her.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from knowledge, +and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty, which prevented him from +contriving a prudent answer, heightened his irritation. He said, in a high +sharp tone, “Well, sir, what then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, then, instead of acting like th’ upright, honourable man we’ve all +believed you to be, you’ve been acting the part of a selfish light-minded +scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it’s to lead to when a gentleman like +you kisses and makes love to a young woman like Hetty, and gives her presents +as she’s frightened for other folks to see. And I say it again, you’re acting +the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th’ heart to +say so, and I’d rather ha’ lost my right hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me tell you, Adam,” said Arthur, bridling his growing anger and trying to +recur to his careless tone, “you’re not only devilishly impertinent, but you’re +talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that +when a gentleman admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must +mean something particular. Every man likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and +every pretty girl likes to be flirted with. The wider the distance between +them, the less harm there is, for then she’s not likely to deceive herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what you mean by flirting,” said Adam, “but if you mean behaving +to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her all the while, I say +that’s not th’ action of an honest man, and what isn’t honest does come t’ +harm. I’m not a fool, and you’re not a fool, and you know better than what +you’re saying. You know it couldn’t be made public as you’ve behaved to Hetty +as y’ have done without her losing her character and bringing shame and trouble +on her and her relations. What if you meant nothing by your kissing and your +presents? Other folks won’t believe as you’ve meant nothing; and don’t tell me +about her not deceiving herself. I tell you as you’ve filled her mind so with +the thought of you as it’ll mayhap poison her life, and she’ll never love +another man as ’ud make her a good husband.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceived that Adam +had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was no irrevocable damage +done by this evening’s unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be deceived. The +candid Arthur had brought himself into a position in which successful lying was +his only hope. The hope allayed his anger a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Adam,” he said, in a tone of friendly concession, “you’re perhaps right. +Perhaps I’ve gone a little too far in taking notice of the pretty little thing +and stealing a kiss now and then. You’re such a grave, steady fellow, you don’t +understand the temptation to such trifling. I’m sure I wouldn’t bring any +trouble or annoyance on her and the good Poysers on any account if I could help +it. But I think you look a little too seriously at it. You know I’m going away +immediately, so I shan’t make any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say +good-night”—Arthur here turned round to walk on—“and talk no more about the +matter. The whole thing will soon be forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, by God!” Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no longer, +throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till he was right in +front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personal injury, which he had +been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of +us, in the first moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellow-man +who has been the medium of inflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our +instinctive rebellion against pain, we are children again, and demand an active +will to wreak our vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had +been robbed of Hetty—robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted—and +he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him, with pale +lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he had hitherto been +constraining himself to express no more than a just indignation giving way to a +deep agitated voice that seemed to shake him as he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it’ll not be soon forgot, as you’ve come in between her and me, when she +might ha’ loved me—it’ll not soon be forgot as you’ve robbed me o’ my +happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and a noble-minded man, as I +was proud to work for. And you’ve been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have +you? And I never kissed her i’ my life—but I’d ha’ worked hard for years for +the right to kiss her. And you make light of it. You think little o’ doing what +may damage other folks, so as you get your bit o’ trifling, as means nothing. I +throw back your favours, for you’re not the man I took you for. I’ll never +count you my friend any more. I’d rather you’d act as my enemy, and fight me +where I stand—it’s all th’ amends you can make me.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began to throw off +his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice the change that had +taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur’s lips were now as pale as +Adam’s; his heart was beating violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty +was a shock which made him for the moment see himself in the light of Adam’s +indignation, and regard Adam’s suffering as not merely a consequence, but an +element of his error. The words of hatred and contempt—the first he had ever +heard in his life—seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable +scars on him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while +others respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to face with +the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was only twenty-one, +and three months ago—nay, much later—he had thought proudly that no man should +ever be able to reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been time +for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of propitiation; but Adam had no +sooner thrown off his coat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was +standing pale and motionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat +pockets. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” he said, “won’t you fight me like a man? You know I won’t strike you +while you stand so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, Adam,” said Arthur, “I don’t want to fight you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Adam, bitterly; “you don’t want to fight me—you think I’m a common +man, as you can injure without answering for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never meant to injure you,” said Arthur, with returning anger. “I didn’t +know you loved her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ve made her love <i>you</i>,” said Adam. “You’re a double-faced +man—I’ll never believe a word you say again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go away, I tell you,” said Arthur, angrily, “or we shall both repent.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Adam, with a convulsed voice, “I swear I won’t go away without +fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you’re a coward and a +scoundrel, and I despise you.” +</p> + +<p> +The colour had all rushed back to Arthur’s face; in a moment his right hand was +clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adam staggering backward. +His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam’s now, and the two men, forgetting the +emotions that had gone before, fought with the instinctive fierceness of +panthers in the deepening twilight darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed +gentleman was a match for the workman in everything but strength, and Arthur’s +skill enabled him to protract the struggle for some long moments. But between +unarmed men the battle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and +Arthur must sink under a well-planted blow of Adam’s as a steel rod is broken +by an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying concealed +in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darkly clad body. +</p> + +<p> +He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise. +</p> + +<p> +The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all the force +of nerve and muscle—and what was the good of it? What had he done by fighting? +Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his own vengeance. He had not +rescued Hetty, nor changed the past—there it was, just as it had been, and he +sickened at the vanity of his own rage. +</p> + +<p> +But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the time seemed +long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adam shuddered at +the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming of this dread he knelt +down by Arthur’s side and lifted his head from among the fern. There was no +sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam +completely mastered him, and forced upon him its own belief. He could feel +nothing but that death was in Arthur’s face, and that he was helpless before +it. He made not a single movement, but knelt like an image of despair gazing at +an image of death. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"></a> +Chapter XXVIII<br/> +A Dilemma</h2> + +<p> +It was only a few minutes measured by the clock—though Adam always thought it +had been a long while—before he perceived a gleam of consciousness in Arthur’s +face and a slight shiver through his frame. The intense joy that flooded his +soul brought back some of the old affection with it. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel any pain, sir?” he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur’s cravat. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way to a slightly +startled motion as if from the shock of returning memory. But he only shivered +again and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel any hurt, sir?” Adam said again, with a trembling in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had unbuttoned +it, he took a longer breath. “Lay my head down,” he said, faintly, “and get me +some water if you can.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the tools out of +the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the edge of the Grove bordering +on the Chase, where a brook ran below the bank. +</p> + +<p> +When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full, Arthur looked at +him with a more thoroughly reawakened consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +“Can you drink a drop out o’ your hand, sir?” said Adam, kneeling down again to +lift up Arthur’s head. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Arthur, “dip my cravat in and souse it on my head.” +</p> + +<p> +The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself a little +higher, resting on Adam’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel any hurt inside sir?” Adam asked again +</p> + +<p> +“No—no hurt,” said Arthur, still faintly, “but rather done up.” +</p> + +<p> +After a while he said, “I suppose I fainted away when you knocked me down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, thank God,” said Adam. “I thought it was worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! You thought you’d done for me, eh? Come help me on my legs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I feel terribly shaky and dizzy,” Arthur said, as he stood leaning on Adam’s +arm; “that blow of yours must have come against me like a battering-ram. I +don’t believe I can walk alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lean on me, sir; I’ll get you along,” said Adam. “Or, will you sit down a bit +longer, on my coat here, and I’ll prop y’ up. You’ll perhaps be better in a +minute or two.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Arthur. “I’ll go to the Hermitage—I think I’ve got some brandy +there. There’s a short road to it a little farther on, near the gate. If you’ll +just help me on.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking again. In both +of them, the concentration in the present which had attended the first moments +of Arthur’s revival had now given way to a vivid recollection of the previous +scene. It was nearly dark in the narrow path among the trees, but within the +circle of fir-trees round the Hermitage there was room for the growing +moonlight to enter in at the windows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick +carpet of fir-needles, and the outward stillness seemed to heighten their +inward consciousness, as Arthur took the key out of his pocket and placed it in +Adam’s hand, for him to open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur +had furnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and it was a +surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room with all the signs +of frequent habitation. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur loosed Adam’s arm and threw himself on the ottoman. “You’ll see my +hunting-bottle somewhere,” he said. “A leather case with a bottle and glass +in.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was not long in finding the case. “There’s very little brandy in it, sir,” +he said, turning it downwards over the glass, as he held it before the window; +“hardly this little glassful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, give me that,” said Arthur, with the peevishness of physical depression. +When he had taken some sips, Adam said, “Hadn’t I better run to th’ house, sir, +and get some more brandy? I can be there and back pretty soon. It’ll be a stiff +walk home for you, if you don’t have something to revive you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—go. But don’t say I’m ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to get it from +Mills, and not to say I’m at the Hermitage. Get some water too.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was relieved to have an active task—both of them were relieved to be apart +from each other for a short time. But Adam’s swift pace could not still the +eager pain of thinking—of living again with concentrated suffering through the +last wretched hour, and looking out from it over all the new sad future. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presently he rose +feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly in the broken moonlight, +seeking something. It was a short bit of wax candle that stood amongst a +confusion of writing and drawing materials. There was more searching for the +means of lighting the candle, and when that was done, he went cautiously round +the room, as if wishing to assure himself of the presence or absence of +something. At last he had found a slight thing, which he put first in his +pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again and thrust deep down into +a waste-paper basket. It was a woman’s little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set +the candle on the table, and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted +with the effort. +</p> + +<p> +When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from a doze. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” Arthur said; “I’m tremendously in want of some brandy-vigour.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m glad to see you’ve got a light, sir,” said Adam. “I’ve been thinking I’d +better have asked for a lanthorn.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no; the candle will last long enough—I shall soon be up to walking home +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t go before I’ve seen you safe home, sir,” said Adam, hesitatingly. +</p> + +<p> +“No: it will be better for you to stay—sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy silence, +while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visibly renovating effect. He +began to lie in a more voluntary position, and looked as if he were less +overpowered by bodily sensations. Adam was keenly alive to these indications, +and as his anxiety about Arthur’s condition began to be allayed, he felt more +of that impatience which every one knows who has had his just indignation +suspended by the physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his +mind to be done before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what +had been unjust in his own words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make this +confession, that his indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs +of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his lips and +went back, checked by the thought that it would be better to leave everything +till to-morrow. As long as they were silent they did not look at each other, +and a foreboding came across Adam that if they began to speak as though they +remembered the past—if they looked at each other with full recognition—they +must take fire again. So they sat in silence till the bit of wax candle +flickered low in the socket, the silence all the while becoming more irksome to +Adam. Arthur had just poured out some more brandy-and-water, and he threw one +arm behind his head and drew up one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which +was an irresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“You begin to feel more yourself again, sir,” he said, as the candle went out +and they were half-hidden from each other in the faint moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes: I don’t feel good for much—very lazy, and not inclined to move; but I’ll +go home when I’ve taken this dose.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a slight pause before Adam said, “My temper got the better of me, and +I said things as wasn’t true. I’d no right to speak as if you’d known you was +doing me an injury: you’d no grounds for knowing it; I’ve always kept what I +felt for her as secret as I could.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused again before he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“And perhaps I judged you too harsh—I’m apt to be harsh—and you may have acted +out o’ thoughtlessness more than I should ha’ believed was possible for a man +with a heart and a conscience. We’re not all put together alike, and we may +misjudge one another. God knows, it’s all the joy I could have now, to think +the best of you.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more—he was too painfully +embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to wish for any further +explanation to-night. And yet it was a relief to him that Adam reopened the +subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the +wretched position of an open, generous man who has committed an error which +makes deception seem a necessity. The native impulse to give truth in return +for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, must be suppressed, and duty +was becoming a question of tactics. His deed was reacting upon him—was already +governing him tyrannously and forcing him into a course that jarred with his +habitual feelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to +deceive Adam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved. +And when he heard the words of honest retractation—when he heard the sad appeal +with which Adam ended—he was obliged to rejoice in the remains of ignorant +confidence it implied. He did not answer immediately, for he had to be +judicious and not truthful. +</p> + +<p> +“Say no more about our anger, Adam,” he said, at last, very languidly, for the +labour of speech was unwelcome to him; “I forgive your momentary injustice—it +was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall +be none the worse friends in future, I hope, because we’ve fought. You had the +best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I’ve been most in the +wrong of the two. Come, let us shake hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like to say ‘No’ to that, sir,” he said, “but I can’t shake hands till +it’s clear what we mean by’t. I was wrong when I spoke as if you’d done me an +injury knowingly, but I wasn’t wrong in what I said before, about your +behaviour t’ Hetty, and I can’t shake hands with you as if I held you my friend +the same as ever till you’ve cleared that up better.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand. He was +silent for some moments, and then said, as indifferently as he could, “I don’t +know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I’ve told you already that you think +too seriously of a little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there +is any danger in it—I’m going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of it. +As for the pain it has given you, I’m heartily sorry for it. I can say no +more.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face towards one +of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of the moonlit fir-trees; but he +was in reality conscious of nothing but the conflict within him. It was of no +use now—his resolution not to speak till to-morrow. He must speak there and +then. But it was several minutes before he turned round and stepped nearer to +Arthur, standing and looking down on him as he lay. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be better for me to speak plain,” he said, with evident effort, “though +it’s hard work. You see, sir, this isn’t a trifle to me, whatever it may be to +you. I’m none o’ them men as can go making love first to one woman and then t’ +another, and don’t think it much odds which of ’em I take. What I feel for +Hetty’s a different sort o’ love, such as I believe nobody can know much about +but them as feel it and God as has given it to ’em. She’s more nor everything +else to me, all but my conscience and my good name. And if it’s true what +you’ve been saying all along—and if it’s only been trifling and flirting as you +call it, as ’ll be put an end to by your going away—why, then, I’d wait, and +hope her heart ’ud turn to me after all. I’m loath to think you’d speak false +to me, and I’ll believe your word, however things may look.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it,” said Arthur, +almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving away. But he threw +himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly, “You seem to forget +that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputations upon her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sir,” Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half-relieved—for he +was too straightforward to make a distinction between a direct falsehood and an +indirect one—“Nay, sir, things don’t lie level between Hetty and you. You’re +acting with your eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what’s +been in her mind? She’s all but a child—as any man with a conscience in him +ought to feel bound to take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you’ve +disturbed her mind. I know she’s been fixing her heart on you, for there’s a +many things clear to me now as I didn’t understand before. But you seem to make +light o’ what <i>she</i> may feel—you don’t think o’ that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good God, Adam, let me alone!” Arthur burst out impetuously; “I feel it enough +without your worrying me.” +</p> + +<p> +He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, if you feel it,” Adam rejoined, eagerly; “if you feel as you may +ha’ put false notions into her mind, and made her believe as you loved her, +when all the while you meant nothing, I’ve this demand to make of you—I’m not +speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t’ undeceive her before you go +away. Y’aren’t going away for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion +in her head o’ your feeling about her the same as she feels about you, she’ll +be hankering after you, and the mischief may get worse. It may be a smart to +her now, but it’ll save her pain i’ th’ end. I ask you to write a letter—you +may trust to my seeing as she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to +yourself for behaving as you’d no right to do to a young woman as isn’t your +equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can’t speak any other way. There’s nobody can +take care o’ Hetty in this thing but me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can do what I think needful in the matter,” said Arthur, more and more +irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, “without giving promises to you. +I shall take what measures I think proper.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, “that won’t do. I must know what +ground I’m treading on. I must be safe as you’ve put an end to what ought never +to ha’ been begun. I don’t forget what’s owing to you as a gentleman, but in +this thing we’re man and man, and I can’t give up.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, “I’ll see you +to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I’m ill.” He rose as he spoke, and reached +his cap, as if intending to go. +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t see her again!” Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurring anger and +suspicion, moving towards the door and placing his back against it. “Either +tell me she can never be my wife—tell me you’ve been lying—or else promise me +what I’ve said.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before Arthur, who +had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind +and body. It seemed long to both of them—that inward struggle of +Arthur’s—before he said, feebly, “I promise; let me go.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached the step, +he stopped again and leaned against the door-post. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re not well enough to walk alone, sir,” said Adam. “Take my arm again.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But, after a +few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, “I believe I must trouble +you. It’s getting late now, and there may be an alarm set up about me at home.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till they came +where the basket and the tools lay. +</p> + +<p> +“I must pick up the tools, sir,” Adam said. “They’re my brother’s. I doubt +they’ll be rusted. If you’ll please to wait a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed between them till +they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get in without being seen by +any one. He said then, “Thank you; I needn’t trouble you any further.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time will it be conven’ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“You may send me word that you’re here at five o’clock,” said Arthur; “not +before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned into the +house. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"></a> +Chapter XXIX<br/> +The Next Morning</h2> + +<p> +Arthur did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleep comes +to the perplexed—if the perplexed are only weary enough. But at seven he rang +his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going to get up, and must have +breakfast brought to him at eight. +</p> + +<p> +“And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my grandfather +when he’s down that I’m better this morning and am gone for a ride.” +</p> + +<p> +He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our +yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it be but to +whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to the +past—sensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories. And if +there were such a thing as taking averages of feeling, it would certainly be +found that in the hunting and shooting seasons regret, self-reproach, and +mortified pride weigh lighter on country gentlemen than in late spring and +summer. Arthur felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. Even the +presence of Pym, waiting on him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to +him after the scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur’s sensitiveness to opinion, +the loss of Adam’s respect was a shock to his self-contentment which suffused +his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes—as a sudden shock +of fear from some real peril makes a nervous woman afraid even to step, because +all her perceptions are suffused with a sense of danger. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as easy to +him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknesses and good +qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn’t like to witness pain, and +he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he +was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down an old gardener’s pitcher of broth, +from no motive but a kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was the old man’s +dinner; but on learning that sad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a +silver-hafted knife out of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had +been the same Arthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in +benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself +against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the time was +come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt +pure distress and self-reproach at discovering that Adam’s happiness was +involved in his relation to Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making +Adam tenfold amends—if deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored +Adam’s contentment and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only +have executed them without hesitation, but would have felt bound all the more +closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of making retribution. But +Adam could receive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect +and affection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He stood +like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure could avail; an embodiment +of what Arthur most shrank from believing in—the irrevocableness of his own +wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery +asserted over him in their last conversation in the Hermitage—above all, the +sense of having been knocked down, to which a man does not very well reconcile +himself, even under the most heroic circumstances—pressed on him with a galling +pain which was stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded +himself that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he +could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge a sword +for herself out of our consciences—out of the suffering we feel in the +suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough there to make an +effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good society and smiles +when others smile, but when some rude person gives rough names to our actions, +she is apt to take part against us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam’s judgment +of him, Adam’s grating words, disturbed his self-soothing arguments. +</p> + +<p> +Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam’s discovery. Struggles and +resolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He was +distressed for Hetty’s sake, and distressed for his own, that he must leave her +behind. He had always, both in making and breaking resolutions, looked beyond +his passion and seen that it must speedily end in separation; but his nature +was too ardent and tender for him not to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty’s +account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she +was living—that she was to be a lady in silks and satins—and when he had first +talked to her about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go +with him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had given +the most exasperating sting to Adam’s reproaches. He had said no word with the +purpose of deceiving her—her vision was all spun by her own childish fancy—but +he was obliged to confess to himself that it was spun half out of his own +actions. And to increase the mischief, on this last evening he had not dared to +hint the truth to Hetty; he had been obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful +words, lest he should throw her into violent distress. He felt the situation +acutely, felt the sorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a +darker anxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. +That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he could +evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret; the Poysers +had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew anything of what +had passed—no one else was likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty +that it would be fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the +least intimacy between them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather +help them to keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, +but there was no use in making it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations +and forebodings of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty +was the worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad +consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But—but Hetty might have had +the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps hereafter he might be +able to do a great deal for her and make up to her for all the tears she would +shed about him. She would owe the advantage of his care for her in future years +to the sorrow she had incurred now. <i>So</i> good comes out of evil. Such is +the beautiful arrangement of things! +</p> + +<p> +Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two months +ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour which shrinks from +wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate any more positive offence +as possible for it?—who thought that his own self-respect was a higher tribunal +than any external opinion? The same, I assure you, only under different +conditions. Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds, and +until we know what has been or will be the peculiar combination of outward with +inward facts, which constitutes a man’s critical actions, it will be better not +to think ourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in +our deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and then +reconcile him to the change, for this reason—that the second wrong presents +itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The action which +before commission has been seen with that blended common sense and fresh +untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the soul, is looked at +afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that +men call beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures very much alike. +Europe adjusts itself to a <i>fait accompli</i>, and so does an individual +character—until the placid adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution. +</p> + +<p> +No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own sentiment +of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because of that very need +of self-respect which, while his conscience was still at ease, was one of his +best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful to him—he could not face it. +He must persuade himself that he had not been very much to blame; he began even +to pity himself for the necessity he was under of deceiving Adam—it was a +course so opposed to the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was the only +right thing to do. +</p> + +<p> +Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in consequence: +miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter that he had promised to +write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross barbarity, at another +perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across all this +reflection would dart every now and then a sudden impulse of passionate +defiance towards all consequences. He would carry Hetty away, and all other +considerations might go to.... +</p> + +<p> +In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable prison to +him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all the crowd of +contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which would fly away +in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must +get clear and calm. Once on Meg’s back, in the fresh air of that fine morning, +he should be more master of the situation. +</p> + +<p> +The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the gravel, +and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, and patted her, +and talked to her even in a more caressing tone than usual. He loved her the +better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But Meg was quite as well +acquainted with her master’s mental state as many others of her sex with the +mental condition of the nice young gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a +state of fluttering expectation. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the foot of a +hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Then he threw the +bridle on Meg’s neck and prepared to make up his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur went +away—there was no possibility of their contriving another without exciting +suspicion—and she was like a frightened child, unable to think of anything, +only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put her face up to have +the tears kissed away. He <i>could</i> do nothing but comfort her, and lull her +into dreaming on. A letter would be a dreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! +Yet there was truth in what Adam said—that it would save her from a lengthened +delusion, which might be worse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only +way of satisfying Adam, who <i>must</i> be satisfied, for more reasons than +one. If he could have seen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a +thorny hedge of hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And +yet, if he <i>could</i> see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him to +suffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it. Away from +him she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control. +</p> + +<p> +A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination—the dread lest +she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon that dread came +another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them off with the force of +youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the future in that dark way? +It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthur told himself he did not deserve +that things should turn out badly. He had never meant beforehand to do anything +his conscience disapproved; he had been led on by circumstances. There was a +sort of implicit confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at +bottom, Providence would not treat him harshly. +</p> + +<p> +At all events, he couldn’t help what would come now: all he could do was to +take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And he persuaded +himself that that course was to make the way open between Adam and Hetty. Her +heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a while; and in that case +there would have been no great harm done, since it was still Adam’s ardent wish +to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam was deceived—deceived in a way that +Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been practised on himself. +That was a reflection that marred the consoling prospect. Arthur’s cheeks even +burned in mingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do +in such a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure +Hetty: his first duty was to guard <i>her</i>. He would never have told or +acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was to have +brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had excuses, he +had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses but by actions!) +</p> + +<p> +Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised a +solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur’s eyes as he thought of +Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him to write it; he was +not doing anything easy to himself; and this last thought helped him to arrive +at a conclusion. He could never deliberately have taken a step which inflicted +pain on another and left himself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the +thought of giving up Hetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a +sacrifice. +</p> + +<p> +When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set off home +again in a canter. The letter should be written the first thing, and the rest +of the day would be filled up with other business: he should have no time to +look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by +twelve o’clock the next day he should have left the Chase miles behind him. +There was some security in this constant occupation against an uncontrollable +impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad +proposition that would undo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive +Meg, at every slight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a +swift gallop. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought they said th’ young mester war took ill last night,” said sour old +John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants’ hall. “He’s been ridin’ fit to +split the mare i’ two this forenoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the facetious coachman. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I wish he war let blood for ’t, that’s all,” said John, grimly. +</p> + +<p> +Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been relieved +from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learning that he was gone out +for a ride. At five o’clock he was punctually there again, and sent up word of +his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down with a letter in his hand and gave +it to Adam, saying that the captain was too busy to see him, and had written +everything he had to say. The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of +doors again before opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to +Hetty. On the inside of the cover Adam read: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it to you +to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hetty or to return it +to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not taking a measure which may +pain her more than mere silence.<br/> + “There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meet with +better feelings some months hence. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“A.D.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps he’s i’ th’ right on ’t not to see me,” thought Adam. “It’s no use +meeting to say more hard words, and it’s no use meeting to shake hands and say +we’re friends again. We’re not friends, an’ it’s better not to pretend it. I +know forgiveness is a man’s duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as +you’re to give up all thoughts o’ taking revenge: it can never mean as you’re +t’ have your old feelings back again, for that’s not possible. He’s not the +same man to me, and I can’t <i>feel</i> the same towards him. God help me! I +don’t know whether I feel the same towards anybody: I seem as if I’d been +measuring my work from a false line, and had got it all to measure over again.” +</p> + +<p> +But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed Adam’s +thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwing the decision +on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to hesitation, hesitated +here. He determined to feel his way—to ascertain as well as he could what was +Hetty’s state of mind before he decided on delivering the letter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"></a> +Chapter XXX<br/> +The Delivery of the Letter</h2> + +<p> +The next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of church, hoping for +an invitation to go home with them. He had the letter in his pocket, and was +anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hetty alone. He could not see her +face at church, for she had changed her seat, and when he came up to her to +shake hands, her manner was doubtful and constrained. He expected this, for it +was the first time she had met him since she had been aware that he had seen +her with Arthur in the Grove. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, you’ll go on with us, Adam,” Mr. Poyser said when they reached the +turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam ventured to offer his arm +to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity of lingering behind a +little, and then Adam said: +</p> + +<p> +“Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you this +evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I’ve something partic’lar to talk to you +about.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty said, “Very well.” She was really as anxious as Adam was that she should +have some private talk with him. She wondered what he thought of her and +Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she had no conception of +the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam. Her first feeling had +been that Adam would be very angry with her, and perhaps would tell her aunt +and uncle, but it never entered her mind that he would dare to say anything to +Captain Donnithorne. It was a relief to her that he behaved so kindly to her +to-day, and wanted to speak to <i>her</i> alone; for she had trembled when she +found he was going home with them lest he should mean “to tell.” But, now he +wanted to talk to her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he +meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not to +do anything she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make him believe +that she didn’t care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thought there was any hope +of her having him, he would do just what she liked, she knew. Besides, she +<i>must</i> go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest her uncle and aunt should be +angry and suspect her of having some secret lover. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty’s little brain was busy with this combination as she hung on Adam’s arm +and said “yes” or “no” to some slight observations of his about the many +hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds this next winter, and the +low-hanging clouds that would hardly hold up till morning. And when they +rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue her thoughts without +interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a young man might like to have +the woman he was courting on his arm, he would nevertheless be glad of a little +reasonable talk about business the while; and, for his own part, he was curious +to hear the most recent news about the Chase Farm. So, through the rest of the +walk, he claimed Adam’s conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small +plots and imagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked +along by the hedgerows on honest Adam’s arm, quite as well as if she had been +an elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country beauty in +clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is astonishing how closely her +mental processes may resemble those of a lady in society and crinoline, who +applies her refined intellect to the problem of committing indiscretions +without compromising herself. Perhaps the resemblance was not much the less +because Hetty felt very unhappy all the while. The parting with Arthur was a +double pain to her—mingling with the tumult of passion and vanity there was a +dim undefined fear that the future might shape itself in some way quite unlike +her dream. She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in +their last meeting—“I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see what +can be done.” She clung to the belief that he was so fond of her, he would +never be happy without her; and she still hugged her secret—that a great +gentleman loved her—with gratified pride, as a superiority over all the girls +she knew. But the uncertainty of the future, the possibilities to which she +could give no shape, began to press upon her like the invisible weight of air; +she was alone on her little island of dreams, and all around her was the dark +unknown water where Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now +by looking forward, but only by looking backward to build confidence on past +words and caresses. But occasionally, since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties +had been almost lost behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray what +he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden proposition to talk with her +alone had set her thoughts to work in a new way. She was eager not to lose this +evening’s opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into the garden +and Totty begged to go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised +Mrs. Poyser, “I’ll go with her, Aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too, and soon he +and Hetty were left alone together on the walk by the filbert-trees, while the +boys were busy elsewhere gathering the large unripe nuts to play at “cob-nut” +with, and Totty was watching them with a puppylike air of contemplation. It was +but a short time—hardly two months—since Adam had had his mind filled with +delicious hopes as he stood by Hetty’s side in this garden. The remembrance of +that scene had often been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight through +the apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty’s sweet blush. It came +importunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, but he +tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more than was +needful for Hetty’s sake. +</p> + +<p> +“After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,” he began, “you won’t think me +making too free in what I’m going to say. If you was being courted by any man +as ’ud make you his wife, and I’d known you was fond of him and meant to have +him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about it; but when I see +you’re being made love to by a gentleman as can never marry you, and doesna +think o’ marrying you, I feel bound t’ interfere for you. I can’t speak about +it to them as are i’ the place o’ your parents, for that might bring worse +trouble than’s needful.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s words relieved one of Hetty’s fears, but they also carried a meaning +which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding. She was pale and trembling, +and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray +her feelings. But she was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re so young, you know, Hetty,” he went on, almost tenderly, “and y’ +haven’t seen much o’ what goes on in the world. It’s right for me to do what I +can to save you from getting into trouble for want o’ your knowing where you’re +being led to. If anybody besides me knew what I know about your meeting a +gentleman and having fine presents from him, they’d speak light on you, and +you’d lose your character. And besides that, you’ll have to suffer in your +feelings, wi’ giving your love to a man as can never marry you, so as he might +take care of you all your life.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from the +filbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand. Her little plans and +preconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill-learnt lesson, under +the terrible agitation produced by Adam’s words. There was a cruel force in +their calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush her flimsy hopes and +fancies. She wanted to resist them—she wanted to throw them off with angry +contradiction—but the determination to conceal what she felt still governed +her. It was nothing more than a blind prompting now, for she was unable to +calculate the effect of her words. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve no right to say as I love him,” she said, faintly, but impetuously, +plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. She was very beautiful in her +paleness and agitation, with her dark childish eyes dilated and her breath +shorter than usual. Adam’s heart yearned over her as he looked at her. Ah, if +he could but comfort her, and soothe her, and save her from this pain; if he +had but some sort of strength that would enable him to rescue her poor troubled +mind, as he would have rescued her body in the face of all danger! +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt it must be so, Hetty,” he said, tenderly; “for I canna believe you’d +let any man kiss you by yourselves, and give you a gold box with his hair, and +go a-walking i’ the Grove to meet him, if you didna love him. I’m not blaming +you, for I know it ’ud begin by little and little, till at last you’d not be +able to throw it off. It’s him I blame for stealing your love i’ that way, when +he knew he could never make you the right amends. He’s been trifling with you, +and making a plaything of you, and caring nothing about you as a man ought to +care.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you,” Hetty burst out. Everything +was forgotten but the pain and anger she felt at Adam’s words. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Hetty,” said Adam, “if he’d cared for you rightly, he’d never ha’ behaved +so. He told me himself he meant nothing by his kissing and presents, and he +wanted to make me believe as you thought light of ’em too. But I know better +nor that. I can’t help thinking as you’ve been trusting to his loving you well +enough to marry you, for all he’s a gentleman. And that’s why I must speak to +you about it, Hetty, for fear you should be deceiving yourself. It’s never +entered his head the thought o’ marrying you.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know? How durst you say so?” said Hetty, pausing in her walk and +trembling. The terrible decision of Adam’s tone shook her with fear. She had no +presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur would have his reasons for +not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and look were enough to determine +Adam: he must give her the letter. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you can’t believe me, Hetty, because you think too well of him—because +you think he loves you better than he does. But I’ve got a letter i’ my pocket, +as he wrote himself for me to give you. I’ve not read the letter, but he says +he’s told you the truth in it. But before I give you the letter, consider, +Hetty, and don’t let it take too much hold on you. It wouldna ha’ been good for +you if he’d wanted to do such a mad thing as marry you: it ’ud ha’ led to no +happiness i’ th’ end.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of a letter which +Adam had not read. There would be something quite different in it from what he +thought. +</p> + +<p> +Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while he said, in a +tone of tender entreaty, “Don’t you bear me ill will, Hetty, because I’m the +means o’ bringing you this pain. God knows I’d ha’ borne a good deal worse for +the sake o’ sparing it you. And think—there’s nobody but me knows about this, +and I’ll take care of you as if I was your brother. You’re the same as ever to +me, for I don’t believe you’ve done any wrong knowingly.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it till he had +done speaking. She took no notice of what he said—she had not listened; but +when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket, without opening it, and +then began to walk more quickly, as if she wanted to go in. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re in the right not to read it just yet,” said Adam. “Read it when you’re +by yourself. But stay out a little bit longer, and let us call the children: +you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice of it.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of rallying her +native powers of concealment, which had half given way under the shock of +Adam’s words. And she had the letter in her pocket: she was sure there was +comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to find Totty, and soon +reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who was making a sour face +because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe apple that she had set her +small teeth in. +</p> + +<p> +“Hegh, Totty,” said Adam, “come and ride on my shoulder—ever so high—you’ll +touch the tops o’ the trees.” +</p> + +<p> +What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense of being +seized strongly and swung upward? I don’t believe Ganymede cried when the eagle +carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove’s shoulder at the end. +Totty smiled down complacently from her secure height, and pleasant was the +sight to the mother’s eyes, as she stood at the house door and saw Adam coming +with his small burden. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless your sweet face, my pet,” she said, the mother’s strong love filling her +keen eyes with mildness, as Totty leaned forward and put out her arms. She had +no eyes for Hetty at that moment, and only said, without looking at her, “You +go and draw some ale, Hetty; the gells are both at the cheese.” +</p> + +<p> +After the ale had been drawn and her uncle’s pipe lighted, there was Totty to +be taken to bed, and brought down again in her night-gown because she would cry +instead of going to sleep. Then there was supper to be got ready, and Hetty +must be continually in the way to give help. Adam stayed till he knew Mrs. +Poyser expected him to go, engaging her and her husband in talk as constantly +as he could, for the sake of leaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because +he wanted to see her safely through that evening, and he was delighted to find +how much self-command she showed. He knew she had not had time to read the +letter, but he did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter +would contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for him to leave +her—hard to think that he should not know for days how she was bearing her +trouble. But he must go at last, and all he could do was to press her hand +gently as he said “Good-bye,” and hope she would take that as a sign that if +his love could ever be a refuge for her, it was there the same as ever. How +busy his thoughts were, as he walked home, in devising pitying excuses for her +folly, in referring all her weakness to the sweet lovingness of her nature, in +blaming Arthur, with less and less inclination to admit that <i>his</i> conduct +might be extenuated too! His exasperation at Hetty’s suffering—and also at the +sense that she was possibly thrust for ever out of his own reach—deafened him +to any plea for the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery. Adam was a +clear-sighted, fair-minded man—a fine fellow, indeed, morally as well as +physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever in love and jealous, he was at +that moment not perfectly magnanimous. And I cannot pretend that Adam, in these +painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignation and loving pity. He was +bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his love made him indulgent in his +judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a vent in his feeling towards Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“Her head was allays likely to be turned,” he thought, “when a gentleman, with +his fine manners, and fine clothes, and his white hands, and that way o’ +talking gentlefolks have, came about her, making up to her in a bold way, as a +man couldn’t do that was only her equal; and it’s much if she’ll ever like a +common man now.” He could not help drawing his own hands out of his pocket and +looking at them—at the hard palms and the broken finger-nails. “I’m a roughish +fellow, altogether; I don’t know, now I come to think on’t, what there is much +for a woman to like about me; and yet I might ha’ got another wife easy enough, +if I hadn’t set my heart on her. But it’s little matter what other women think +about me, if she can’t love me. She might ha’ loved me, perhaps, as likely as +any other man—there’s nobody hereabouts as I’m afraid of, if <i>he</i> hadn’t +come between us; but now I shall belike be hateful to her because I’m so +different to him. And yet there’s no telling—she may turn round the other way, +when she finds he’s made light of her all the while. She may come to feel the +vally of a man as ’ud be thankful to be bound to her all his life. But I must +put up with it whichever way it is—I’ve only to be thankful it’s been no worse. +I am not th’ only man that’s got to do without much happiness i’ this life. +There’s many a good bit o’ work done with a bad heart. It’s God’s will, and +that’s enough for us: we shouldn’t know better how things ought to be than He +does, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i’ puzzling. But it ’ud ha’ gone +near to spoil my work for me, if I’d seen her brought to sorrow and shame, and +through the man as I’ve always been proud to think on. Since I’ve been spared +that, I’ve no right to grumble. When a man’s got his limbs whole, he can bear a +smart cut or two.” +</p> + +<p> +As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections, he perceived +a man walking along the field before him. He knew it was Seth, returning from +an evening preaching, and made haste to overtake him. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought thee’dst be at home before me,” he said, as Seth turned round to +wait for him, “for I’m later than usual to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with John Barnes, who +has lately professed himself in a state of perfection, and I’d a question to +ask him about his experience. It’s one o’ them subjects that lead you further +than y’ expect—they don’t lie along the straight road.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam was not +inclined to enter into the subtleties of religious experience, but he was +inclined to interchange a word or two of brotherly affection and confidence +with Seth. That was a rare impulse in him, much as the brothers loved each +other. They hardly ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more than an +allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by nature reserved in all matters +of feeling, and Seth felt a certain timidity towards his more practical +brother. +</p> + +<p> +“Seth, lad,” Adam said, putting his arm on his brother’s shoulder, “hast heard +anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Seth. “She told me I might write her word after a while, how we +went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to her a +fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment, and how Mother +was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at the post at +Treddles’on, I found a letter from her. I think thee’dst perhaps like to read +it, but I didna say anything about it because thee’st seemed so full of other +things. It’s quite easy t’ read—she writes wonderful for a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, who said, as +he took it, “Aye, lad, I’ve got a tough load to carry just now—thee mustna take +it ill if I’m a bit silenter and crustier nor usual. Trouble doesna make me +care the less for thee. I know we shall stick together to the last.” +</p> + +<p> +“I take nought ill o’ thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means if thee’t a +bit short wi’ me now and then.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s Mother opening the door to look out for us,” said Adam, as they +mounted the slope. “She’s been sitting i’ the dark as usual. Well, Gyp, well, +art glad to see me?” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heard the +welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp’s joyful bark. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, my lads! Th’ hours war ne’er so long sin’ I war born as they’n been this +blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha’ been doin’ till this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, Mother,” said Adam; “that makes the time seem +longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what am I to do wi’ burnin’ candle of a Sunday, when there’s on’y me an’ +it’s sin to do a bit o’ knittin’? The daylight’s long enough for me to stare i’ +the booke as I canna read. It ’ud be a fine way o’ shortenin’ the time, to make +it waste the good candle. But which on you’s for ha’in’ supper? Ye mun ayther +be clemmed or full, I should think, seein’ what time o’ night it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m hungry, Mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the little table, which had +been spread ever since it was light. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve had my supper,” said Adam. “Here, Gyp,” he added, taking some cold potato +from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked up towards him. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee needstna be gi’in’ th’ dog,” said Lisbeth; “I’n fed him well a’ready. I’m +not like to forget him, I reckon, when he’s all o’ thee I can get sight on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I’m very +tired.” +</p> + +<p> +“What ails him, dost know?” Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone upstairs. +“He’s like as if he was struck for death this day or two—he’s so cast down. I +found him i’ the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, a-sittin’ an’ doin’ +nothin’—not so much as a booke afore him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a deal o’ work upon him just now, Mother,” said Seth, “and I think he’s a +bit troubled in his mind. Don’t you take notice of it, because it hurts him +when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don’t say anything to +vex him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what dost talk o’ my vexin’ him? An’ what am I like to be but kind? I’ll +ma’ him a kettle-cake for breakfast i’ the mornin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light of his dip candle. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +D<small>EAR</small> B<small>ROTHER</small> S<small>ETH</small>—Your letter lay +three days beyond my knowing of it at the post, for I had not money enough by +me to pay the carriage, this being a time of great need and sickness here, with +the rains that have fallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and +to lay by money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many in +present need of all things, would be a want of trust like the laying up of the +manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think me slow to answer, +or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldly good that has befallen +your brother Adam. The honour and love you bear him is nothing but meet, for +God has given him great gifts, and he uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, +who, when he was exalted to a place of power and trust, yet yearned with +tenderness towards his parent and his younger brother. +</p> + +<p> +“My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be near her in +the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I often bear her in my +thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim light as I did with her, +and we held one another’s hands, and I spoke the words of comfort that were +given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time, isn’t it, Seth, when the outward light +is fading, and the body is a little wearied with its work and its labour. Then +the inward light shines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on +the Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and +it is as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. For +then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin I have +beheld and been ready to weep over—yea, all the anguish of the children of men, +which sometimes wraps me round like sudden darkness—I can bear with a willing +pain, as if I was sharing the Redeemer’s cross. For I feel it, I feel +it—infinite love is suffering too—yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, +it yearns, it mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking which wants to be freed +from the sorrow wherewith the whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it +is not true blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin +in the world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw it +off. It is not the spirit only that tells me this—I see it in the whole work +and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of +Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one +with the Infinite Love itself—as our love is one with our sorrow? +</p> + +<p> +“These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seen with new +clearness the meaning of those words, ‘If any man love me, let him take up my +cross.’ I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the troubles and +persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. But surely that is a +narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this +world—<i>that</i> was what lay heavy on his heart—and that is the cross we +shall share with him, that is the cup we must drink of with him, if we would +have any part in that Divine Love which is one with his sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. I have +had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands have been turned +off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so that I feel little +weariness after long walking and speaking. What you say about staying in your +own country with your mother and brother shows me that you have a true +guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clear showing, and to seek a greater +blessing elsewhere would be like laying a false offering on the altar and +expecting the fire from heaven to kindle it. My work and my joy are here among +the hills, and I sometimes think I cling too much to my life among the people +here, and should be rebellious if I was called away. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall Farm, for +though I sent them a letter, by my aunt’s desire, after I came back from my +sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. My aunt has not the pen of a +ready writer, and the work of the house is sufficient for the day, for she is +weak in body. My heart cleaves to her and her children as the nearest of all to +me in the flesh—yea, and to all in that house. I am carried away to them +continually in my sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, +the thought of them is borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, +which yet is dark to me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be +taught. You say they are all well. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be, not for +a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are desirous to have me for +a short space among them, when I have a door opened me again to leave +Snowfield. +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, dear brother—and yet not farewell. For those children of God whom it +has been granted to see each other face to face, and to hold communion +together, and to feel the same spirit working in both can never more be +sundered though the hills may lie between. For their souls are enlarged for +evermore by that union, and they bear one another about in their thoughts +continually as it were a new strength.—Your faithful Sister and fellow-worker +in Christ, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“D<small>INAH</small> M<small>ORRIS</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen moves slow. +And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is in my mind. Greet your +mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twice when we parted.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his head +resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Hast read the letter?” said Seth. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam. “I don’t know what I should ha’ thought of her and her letter +if I’d never seen her: I daresay I should ha’ thought a preaching woman +hateful. But she’s one as makes everything seem right she says and does, and I +seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the letter. It’s wonderful +how I remember her looks and her voice. She’d make thee rare and happy, Seth; +she’s just the woman for thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use thinking o’ that,” said Seth, despondingly. “She spoke so firm, +and she’s not the woman to say one thing and mean another.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love by +degrees—the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I’d have thee go and see her +by and by: I’d make it convenient for thee to be away three or four days, and +it ’ud be no walk for thee—only between twenty and thirty mile.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be displeased +with me for going,” said Seth. +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll be none displeased,” said Adam emphatically, getting up and throwing +off his coat. “It might be a great happiness to us all if she’d have thee, for +mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so contented to be with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Seth, rather timidly, “and Dinah’s fond o’ Hetty too; she thinks a +deal about her.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but “good-night” passed between +them. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"></a> +Chapter XXXI<br/> +In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber</h2> + +<p> +It was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even in Mrs. +Poyser’s early household, and Hetty carried one with her as she went up at last +to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted the door behind her. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Now</i> she would read her letter. It must—it must have comfort in it. How +was Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he should say what he did say. +</p> + +<p> +She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent of roses, +which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her. She put it to her lips, and +a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two swept away all fear. But +her heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as she broke the +seal. She read slowly; it was not easy for her to read a gentleman’s +handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains to write plainly. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“D<small>EAREST</small> H<small>ETTY</small>—I have spoken truly when I have +said that I loved you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true +friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If +I say anything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want of +love and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing I would not do for you, +if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear to think of my +little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them away; and if I +followed only my own inclinations, I should be with her at this moment instead +of writing. It is very hard for me to part from her—harder still for me to +write words which may seem unkind, though they spring from the truest kindness. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it would be to me +for you to love me always, I feel that it would have been better for us both if +we had never had that happiness, and that it is my duty to ask you to love me +and care for me as little as you can. The fault has all been mine, for though I +have been unable to resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all the +while that your affection for me might cause you grief. I ought to have +resisted my feelings. I should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than +I am; but now, since the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you from +any evil that I have power to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil for +you if your affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of no +other man who might be able to make you happier by his love than I ever can, +and if you continued to look towards something in the future which cannot +possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what you one day spoke of, +and make you my wife, I should do what you yourself would come to feel was for +your misery instead of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by +marrying a man in your own station; and if I were to marry you now, I should +only be adding to any wrong I have done, besides offending against my duty in +the other relations of life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in +which I must always live, and you would soon begin to dislike me, because there +would be so little in which we should be alike. +</p> + +<p> +“And since I cannot marry you, we must part—we must try not to feel like lovers +any more. I am miserable while I say this, but nothing else can be. Be angry +with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believe that I shall not always +care for you—always be grateful to you—always remember my Hetty; and if any +trouble should come that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do everything +that lies in my power. +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want to write, but +I put it down below lest you should have forgotten. Do not write unless there +is something I can really do for you; for, dear Hetty, we must try to think of +each other as little as we can. Forgive me, and try to forget everything about +me, except that I shall be, as long as I live, your affectionate friend, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“A<small>RTHUR</small> D<small>ONNITHORNE</small>.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it there was the +reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass—a white marble face with +rounded childish forms, but with something sadder than a child’s pain in it. +Hetty did not see the face—she saw nothing—she only felt that she was cold and +sick and trembling. The letter shook and rustled in her hand. She laid it down. +It was a horrible sensation—this cold and trembling. It swept away the very +ideas that produced it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her +clothes-press, wrapped it round her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing +but getting warm. Presently she took up the letter with a firmer hand, and +began to read it through again. The tears came this time—great rushing tears +that blinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur was +cruel—cruel to write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could not marry +her had no existence for her mind; how could she believe in any misery that +could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and +dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make up the notion of that +misery. +</p> + +<p> +As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face in the glass; +it was reddened now, and wet with tears; it was almost like a companion that +she might complain to—that would pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, +and looked into those dark overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth, and +saw how the tears came thicker and thicker, and how the mouth became convulsed +with sobs. +</p> + +<p> +The shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing blow on her new-born +passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving nature with an overpowering pain that +annihilated all impulse to resistance, and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing +till the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, +threw herself on the bed without undressing and went to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little after four +o’clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause of which broke upon her +gradually as she began to discern the objects round her in the dim light. And +then came the frightening thought that she had to conceal her misery as well as +to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming. She could lie no longer. +She got up and went towards the table: there lay the letter. She opened her +treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-rings and the locket—the signs of all her +short happiness—the signs of the lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. +Looking at the little trinkets which she had once eyed and fingered so fondly +as the earnest of her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the moments +when they had been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangely +pretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a bewildering delicious +surprise—they were so much sweeter than she had thought anything could be. And +the Arthur who had spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was present +with her now—whose arm she felt round her, his cheek against hers, his very +breath upon her—was the cruel, cruel Arthur who had written that letter, that +letter which she snatched and crushed and then opened again, that she might +read it once more. The half-benumbed mental condition which was the effect of +the last night’s violent crying made it necessary to her to look again and see +if her wretched thoughts were actually true—if the letter was really so cruel. +She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not have read it by the +faint light. Yes! It was worse—it was more cruel. She crushed it up again in +anger. She hated the writer of that letter—hated him for the very reason that +she hung upon him with all her love—all the girlish passion and vanity that +made up her love. +</p> + +<p> +She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last night, and now +she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, which is worse than the first shock +because it has the future in it as well as the present. Every morning to come, +as far as her imagination could stretch, she would have to get up and feel that +the day would have no joy for her. For there is no despair so absolute as that +which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not +yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to +have recovered hope. As Hetty began languidly to take off the clothes she had +worn all the night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a +sickening sense that her life would go on in this way. She should always be +doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks of work, +seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, and to Treddleston, and +to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying no happy thought with her. For her short +poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all the little joys that had once made +the sweetness of her life—the new frock ready for Treddleston Fair, the party +at Mr. Britton’s at Broxton wake, the beaux that she would say “No” to for a +long while, and the prospect of the wedding that was to come at last when she +would have a silk gown and a great many clothes all at once. These things were +all flat and dreary to her now; everything would be a weariness, and she would +carry about for ever a hopeless thirst and longing. +</p> + +<p> +She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned against the dark +old clothes-press. Her neck and arms were bare, her hair hung down in delicate +rings—and they were just as beautiful as they were that night two months ago, +when she walked up and down this bed-chamber glowing with vanity and hope. She +was not thinking of her neck and arms now; even her own beauty was indifferent +to her. Her eyes wandered sadly over the dull old chamber, and then looked out +vacantly towards the growing dawn. Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her +mind? Of her foreboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah’s +affectionate entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the +impression had been too slight to recur. Any affection or comfort Dinah could +have given her would have been as indifferent to Hetty this morning as +everything else was except her bruised passion. She was only thinking she could +never stay here and go on with the old life—she could better bear something +quite new than sinking back into the old everyday round. She would like to run +away that very morning, and never see any of the old faces again. But Hetty’s +was not a nature to face difficulties—to dare to loose her hold on the familiar +and rush blindly on some unknown condition. Hers was a luxurious and vain +nature—not a passionate one—and if she were ever to take any violent measure, +she must be urged to it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room +for her thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and she +soon fixed on the one thing she would do to get away from her old life: she +would ask her uncle to let her go to be a lady’s maid. Miss Lydia’s maid would +help her to get a situation, if she knew Hetty had her uncle’s leave. +</p> + +<p> +When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began to wash: it +seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try to behave as usual. She +would ask her uncle this very day. On Hetty’s blooming health it would take a +great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep impress; and when +she was dressed as neatly as usual in her working-dress, with her hair tucked +up under her little cap, an indifferent observer would have been more struck +with the young roundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes and +eyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her. But when she took up the +crushed letter and put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, +hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had that fell +last night, forced their way into her eyes. She wiped them away quickly: she +must not cry in the day-time. Nobody should find out how miserable she was, +nobody should know she was disappointed about anything; and the thought that +the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her the self-command +which often accompanies a great dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret +misery towards the possibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the +sick and weary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They would think +her conduct shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty’s +conscience. +</p> + +<p> +So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work. +</p> + +<p> +In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his good-nature was +therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt’s +absence to say, “Uncle, I wish you’d let me go for a lady’s maid.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mild surprise +for some moments. She was sewing, and went on with her work industriously. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s put that into your head, my wench?” he said at last, after he had +given one conservative puff. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like it—I should like it better than farm-work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn’t be +half so good for your health, nor for your luck i’ life. I’d like you to stay +wi’ us till you’ve got a good husband: you’re my own niece, and I wouldn’t have +you go to service, though it was a gentleman’s house, as long as I’ve got a +home for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“I like the needlework,” said Hetty, “and I should get good wages.” +</p> + +<p> +“Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi’ you?” said Mr. Poyser, not noticing Hetty’s +further argument. “You mustna mind that, my wench—she does it for your good. +She wishes you well; an’ there isn’t many aunts as are no kin to you ’ud ha’ +done by you as she has.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it isn’t my aunt,” said Hetty, “but I should like the work better.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit—an’ I gev my consent to +that fast enough, sin’ Mrs. Pomfret was willing to teach you. For if anything +was t’ happen, it’s well to know how to turn your hand to different sorts o’ +things. But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench; my family’s ate their +own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father? You +wouldna like your grand-child to take wage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Na-a-y,” said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant to make it +bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and looked down on the +floor. “But the wench takes arter her mother. I’d hard work t’ hould <i>her</i> +in, an’ she married i’ spite o’ me—a feller wi’ on’y two head o’ stock when +there should ha’ been ten on’s farm—she might well die o’ th’ inflammation +afore she war thirty.” +</p> + +<p> +It was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son’s question had +fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long unextinguished +resentment, which had always made the grandfather more indifferent to Hetty +than to his son’s children. Her mother’s fortune had been spent by that +good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel’s blood in her veins. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing, poor thing!” said Martin the younger, who was sorry to have +provoked this retrospective harshness. “She’d but bad luck. But Hetty’s got as +good a chance o’ getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i’ this country.” +</p> + +<p> +After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his pipe and his +silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did not give some sign of having +renounced her ill-advised wish. But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of +herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at the denial, half out of the +day’s repressed sadness. +</p> + +<p> +“Hegh, hegh!” said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, “don’t let’s +have any crying. Crying’s for them as ha’ got no home, not for them as want to +get rid o’ one. What dost think?” he continued to his wife, who now came back +into the house-place, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that movement were a +necessary function, like the twittering of a crab’s antennæ. +</p> + +<p> +“Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are much older, wi’ +that gell forgetting to lock the pens up o’ nights. What’s the matter now, +Hetty? What are you crying at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she’s been wanting to go for a lady’s maid,” said Mr. Poyser. “I tell her +we can do better for her nor that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought she’d got some maggot in her head, she’s gone about wi’ her mouth +buttoned up so all day. It’s all wi’ going so among them servants at the Chase, +as we war fools for letting her. She thinks it ’ud be a finer life than being +wi’ them as are akin to her and ha’ brought her up sin’ she war no bigger nor +Marty. She thinks there’s nothing belongs to being a lady’s maid but wearing +finer clothes nor she was born to, I’ll be bound. It’s what rag she can get to +stick on her as she’s thinking on from morning till night, as I often ask her +if she wouldn’t like to be the mawkin i’ the field, for then she’d be made o’ +rags inside and out. I’ll never gi’ my consent to her going for a lady’s maid, +while she’s got good friends to take care on her till she’s married to somebody +better nor one o’ them valets, as is neither a common man nor a gentleman, an’ +must live on the fat o’ the land, an’s like enough to stick his hands under his +coat-tails and expect his wife to work for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Mr. Poyser, “we must have a better husband for her nor that, +and there’s better at hand. Come, my wench, give over crying and get to bed. +I’ll do better for you nor letting you go for a lady’s maid. Let’s hear no more +on’t.” +</p> + +<p> +When Hetty was gone upstairs he said, “I canna make it out as she should want +to go away, for I thought she’d got a mind t’ Adam Bede. She’s looked like it +o’ late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, there’s no knowing what she’s got a liking to, for things take no more +hold on her than if she was a dried pea. I believe that gell, Molly—as is +aggravatin’ enough, for the matter o’ that—but I believe she’d care more about +leaving us and the children, for all she’s been here but a year come +Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she’s got this notion o’ being a lady’s maid +wi’ going among them servants—we might ha’ known what it ’ud lead to when we +let her go to learn the fine work. But I’ll put a stop to it pretty quick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee’dst be sorry to part wi’ her, if it wasn’t for her good,” said Mr. +Poyser. “She’s useful to thee i’ the work.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry? Yes, I’m fonder on her nor she deserves—a little hard-hearted hussy, +wanting to leave us i’ that way. I can’t ha’ had her about me these seven year, +I reckon, and done for her, and taught her everything wi’out caring about her. +An’ here I’m having linen spun, an’ thinking all the while it’ll make sheeting +and table-clothing for her when she’s married, an’ she’ll live i’ the parish +wi’ us, and never go out of our sights—like a fool as I am for thinking aught +about her, as is no better nor a cherry wi’ a hard stone inside it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle,” said Mr. Poyser, soothingly. +“She’s fond on us, I’ll be bound; but she’s young, an’ gets things in her head +as she can’t rightly give account on. Them young fillies ’ull run away often +wi’out knowing why.” +</p> + +<p> +Her uncle’s answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty besides that of +disappointing her and making her cry. She knew quite well whom he had in his +mind in his allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solid husband; and when she +was in her bedroom again, the possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself +to her in a new light. In a mind where no strong sympathies are at work, where +there is no supreme sense of right to which the agitated nature can cling and +steady itself to quiet endurance, one of the first results of sorrow is a +desperate vague clutching after any deed that will change the actual condition. +Poor Hetty’s vision of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic +calculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shut out by +reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was ready for one of those +convulsive, motiveless actions by which wretched men and women leap from a +temporary sorrow into a lifelong misery. +</p> + +<p> +Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so that it made +some change in her life. She felt confident that he would still want to marry +her, and any further thought about Adam’s happiness in the matter had never yet +visited her. +</p> + +<p> +“Strange!” perhaps you will say, “this rush of impulse towards a course that +might have seemed the most repugnant to her present state of mind, and in only +the second night of her sadness!” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty’s, struggling amidst the +serious sad destinies of a human being, <i>are</i> strange. So are the motions +of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a stormy sea. How pretty it +looked with its parti-coloured sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay! +</p> + +<p> +“Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings.” +</p> + +<p> +But that will not save the vessel—the pretty thing that might have been a +lasting joy. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"></a> +Chapter XXXII<br/> +Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out”</h2> + +<p> +The next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the Donnithorne +Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that very day—no less than a +second appearance of the smart man in top-boots said by some to be a mere +farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to be the future steward, but by +Mr. Casson himself, the personal witness to the stranger’s visit, pronounced +contemptuously to be nothing better than a bailiff, such as Satchell had been +before him. No one had thought of denying Mr. Casson’s testimony to the fact +that he had seen the stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating +circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +“I see him myself,” he said; “I see him coming along by the Crab-tree Meadow on +a bald-faced hoss. I’d just been t’ hev a pint—it was half after ten i’ the +fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg’lar as the clock—and I says to Knowles, as +druv up with his waggon, ‘You’ll get a bit o’ barley to-day, Knowles,’ I says, +‘if you look about you’; and then I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the +Treddles’on road, and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i’ +top-boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss—I wish I may never stir if I +didn’t. And I stood still till he come up, and I says, ‘Good morning, sir,’ I +says, for I wanted to hear the turn of his tongue, as I might know whether he +was a this-country man; so I says, ‘Good morning, sir: it ’ll ’old hup for the +barley this morning, I think. There’ll be a bit got hin, if we’ve good luck.’ +And he says, ‘Eh, ye may be raight, there’s noo tallin’,’ he says, and I knowed +by that”—here Mr. Casson gave a wink—“as he didn’t come from a hundred mile +off. I daresay he’d think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does +hany one as talks the right language.” +</p> + +<p> +“The right language!” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. “You’re about as near +the right language as a pig’s squeaking is like a tune played on a key-bugle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know,” answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. “I should think +a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is likely to know what’s the +right language pretty nigh as well as a schoolmaster.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, man,” said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, “you talk the +right language for <i>you</i>. When Mike Holdsworth’s goat says ba-a-a, it’s +all right—it ’ud be unnatural for it to make any other noise.” +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson had the laugh strongly +against him, and wisely fell back on the previous question, which, far from +being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed in the churchyard, before +service, the next day, with the fresh interest conferred on all news when there +is a fresh person to hear it; and that fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as +his wife said, “never went boozin’ with that set at Casson’s, a-sittin’ soakin’ +in drink, and looking as wise as a lot o’ cod-fish wi’ red faces.” +</p> + +<p> +It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husband on their +way from church concerning this problematic stranger that Mrs. Poyser’s +thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or two afterwards, as she was +standing at the house-door with her knitting, in that eager leisure which came +to her when the afternoon cleaning was done, she saw the old squire enter the +yard on his black pony, followed by John the groom. She always cited it +afterwards as a case of prevision, which really had something more in it than +her own remarkable penetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she +said to herself, “I shouldna wonder if he’s come about that man as is a-going +to take the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay. But +Poyser’s a fool if he does.” +</p> + +<p> +Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire’s visits to +his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser had during the last twelvemonth +recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more than met the ear, which she +was quite determined to make to him the next time he appeared within the gates +of the Hall Farm, the speeches had always remained imaginary. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,” said the old squire, peering at her with his +short-sighted eyes—a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, +“allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and he was going to dab +his finger-nail on you.” +</p> + +<p> +However, she said, “Your servant, sir,” and curtsied with an air of perfect +deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the woman to misbehave +towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism, without severe +provocation. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir; he’s only i’ the rick-yard. I’ll send for him in a minute, if you’ll +please to get down and step in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little matter; but you +are quite as much concerned in it, if not more. I must have your opinion too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they entered +the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty’s curtsy; while +Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with gooseberry jam, stood hiding her +face against the clock and peeping round furtively. +</p> + +<p> +“What a fine old kitchen this is!” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round +admiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, well-chiselled, polite way, +whether his words were sugary or venomous. “And you keep it so exquisitely +clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any on the +estate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, since you’re fond of ’em, I should be glad if you’d let a bit o’ +repairs be done to ’em, for the boarding’s i’ that state as we’re like to be +eaten up wi’ rats and mice; and the cellar, you may stan’ up to your knees i’ +water in’t, if you like to go down; but perhaps you’d rather believe my words. +Won’t you please to sit down, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and I hear on +all hands about your fine cheese and butter,” said the squire, looking politely +unconscious that there could be any question on which he and Mrs. Poyser might +happen to disagree. “I think I see the door open, there. You must not be +surprised if I cast a covetous eye on your cream and butter. I don’t expect +that Mrs. Satchell’s cream and butter will bear comparison with yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It’s seldom I see other folks’s butter, though +there’s some on it as one’s no need to see—the smell’s enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, now this I like,” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the damp temple +of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. “I’m sure I should like my breakfast +better if I knew the butter and cream came from this dairy. Thank you, that +really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism +makes me afraid of damp: I’ll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, +how do you do? In the midst of business, I see, as usual. I’ve been looking at +your wife’s beautiful dairy—the best manager in the parish, is she not?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with a face a +shade redder than usual, from the exertion of “pitching.” As he stood, red, +rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like +a prize apple by the side of a withered crab. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you please to take this chair, sir?” he said, lifting his father’s +arm-chair forward a little: “you’ll find it easy.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs,” said the old gentleman, seating +himself on a small chair near the door. “Do you know, Mrs. Poyser—sit down, +pray, both of you—I’ve been far from contented, for some time, with Mrs. +Satchell’s dairy management. I think she has not a good method, as you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, I can’t speak to that,” said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice, rolling +and unrolling her knitting and looking icily out of the window, as she +continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if he liked, she +thought; <i>she</i> wasn’t going to sit down, as if she’d give in to any such +smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt the reverse of icy, did +sit down in his three-cornered chair. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the Chase Farm +to a respectable tenant. I’m tired of having a farm on my own hands—nothing is +made the best of in such cases, as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard to +find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter +into a little arrangement in consequence, which will be to our mutual +advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination as to the +nature of the arrangement. +</p> + +<p> +“If I’m called upon to speak, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at her +husband with pity at his softness, “you know better than me; but I don’t see +what the Chase Farm is t’ us—we’ve cumber enough wi’ our own farm. Not but what +I’m glad to hear o’ anybody respectable coming into the parish; there’s some as +ha’ been brought in as hasn’t been looked on i’ that character.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure you—such a +one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the little plan I’m going to +mention, especially as I hope you will find it as much to your own advantage as +his.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, sir, if it’s anything t’ our advantage, it’ll be the first offer o’ +the sort I’ve heared on. It’s them as take advantage that get advantage i’ this +world, <i>I</i> think: folks have to wait long enough afore it’s brought to +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“The fact is, Poyser,” said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser’s theory of +worldly prosperity, “there is too much dairy land, and too little plough land, +on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle’s purpose—indeed, he will only take the farm +on condition of some change in it: his wife, it appears, is not a clever +dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I’m thinking of is to effect a little +exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures, you might increase your +dairy, which must be so profitable under your wife’s management; and I should +request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and butter at +the market prices. On the other hand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the +Lower and Upper Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be a good +riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn land.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head on one +side, and his mouth screwed up—apparently absorbed in making the tips of his +fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy the ribs of a ship. He +was much too acute a man not to see through the whole business, and to foresee +perfectly what would be his wife’s view of the subject; but he disliked giving +unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a point of farming practice, he would +rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered more +to his wife than to him. So, after a few moments’ silence, he looked up at her +and said mildly, “What dost say?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity during his +silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss, looked icily at the +opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her knitting together with the +loose pin, held it firmly between her clasped hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o’ your corn-land +afore your lease is up, which it won’t be for a year come next Michaelmas, but +I’ll not consent to take more dairy work into my hands, either for love or +money; and there’s nayther love nor money here, as I can see, on’y other +folks’s love o’ theirselves, and the money as is to go into other folks’s +pockets. I know there’s them as is born t’ own the land, and them as is born to +sweat on’t”—here Mrs. Poyser paused to gasp a little—“and I know it’s +christened folks’s duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood +’ull bear it; but I’ll not make a martyr o’ myself, and wear myself to skin and +bone, and worret myself as if I was a churn wi’ butter a-coming in’t, for no +landlord in England, not if he was King George himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not,” said the squire, still confident +in his own powers of persuasion, “you must not overwork yourself; but don’t you +think your work will rather be lessened than increased in this way? There is so +much milk required at the Abbey that you will have little increase of cheese +and butter making from the addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the +milk is the most profitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a question +of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this case a purely +abstract question. +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay,” said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way towards her +husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair—“I daresay it’s true for men as sit +i’ th’ chimney-corner and make believe as everything’s cut wi’ ins an’ outs to +fit int’ everything else. If you could make a pudding wi’ thinking o’ the +batter, it ’ud be easy getting dinner. How do I know whether the milk ’ull be +wanted constant? What’s to make me sure as the house won’t be put o’ board wage +afore we’re many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o’ nights wi’ +twenty gallons o’ milk on my mind—and Dingall ’ull take no more butter, let +alone paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we’re obliged to beg the butcher +on our knees to buy ’em, and lose half of ’em wi’ the measles. And there’s the +fetching and carrying, as ’ud be welly half a day’s work for a man an’ +hoss—<i>that’s</i> to be took out o’ the profits, I reckon? But there’s folks +’ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away the water.” +</p> + +<p> +“That difficulty—about the fetching and carrying—you will not have, Mrs. +Poyser,” said the squire, who thought that this entrance into particulars +indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs. Poyser’s part. “Bethell +will do that regularly with the cart and pony.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I’ve never been used t’ having gentlefolks’s +servants coming about my back places, a-making love to both the gells at once +and keeping ’em with their hands on their hips listening to all manner o’ +gossip when they should be down on their knees a-scouring. If we’re to go to +ruin, it shanna be wi’ having our back kitchen turned into a public.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Poyser,” said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if he +thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings and left the +room, “you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily make another +arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall not forget your readiness to +accommodate your landlord as well as a neighbour. I know you will be glad to +have your lease renewed for three years, when the present one expires; +otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to +take both the farms, as they could be worked so well together. But I don’t want +to part with an old tenant like you.” +</p> + +<p> +To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough to +complete Mrs. Poyser’s exasperation, even without the final threat. Her +husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the old place where +he had been bred and born—for he believed the old squire had small spite enough +for anything—was beginning a mild remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience +he should find in having to buy and sell more stock, with, “Well, sir, I think +as it’s rether hard...” when Mrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate +determination to have her say out this once, though it were to rain notices to +quit and the only shelter were the work-house. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, sir, if I may speak—as, for all I’m a woman, and there’s folks as thinks +a woman’s fool enough to stan’ by an’ look on while the men sign her soul away, +I’ve a right to speak, for I make one quarter o’ the rent, and save another +quarter—I say, if Mr. Thurle’s so ready to take farms under you, it’s a pity +but what he should take this, and see if he likes to live in a house wi’ all +the plagues o’ Egypt in’t—wi’ the cellar full o’ water, and frogs and toads +hoppin’ up the steps by dozens—and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice +gnawing every bit o’ cheese, and runnin’ over our heads as we lie i’ bed till +we expect ’em to eat us up alive—as it’s a mercy they hanna eat the children +long ago. I should like to see if there’s another tenant besides Poyser as ’ud +put up wi’ never having a bit o’ repairs done till a place tumbles down—and not +then, on’y wi’ begging and praying and having to pay half—and being strung up +wi’ the rent as it’s much if he gets enough out o’ the land to pay, for all +he’s put his own money into the ground beforehand. See if you’ll get a stranger +to lead such a life here as that: a maggot must be born i’ the rotten cheese to +like it, I reckon. You may run away from my words, sir,” continued Mrs. Poyser, +following the old squire beyond the door—for after the first moments of stunned +surprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had +walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to get away +immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard, and was some +distance from the causeway when his master beckoned. +</p> + +<p> +“You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin’ underhand ways o’ +doing us a mischief, for you’ve got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody +else is, but I tell you for once as we’re not dumb creatures to be abused and +made money on by them as ha’ got the lash i’ their hands, for want o’ knowing +how t’ undo the tackle. An’ if I’m th’ only one as speaks my mind, there’s +plenty o’ the same way o’ thinking i’ this parish and the next to ’t, for your +name’s no better than a brimstone match in everybody’s nose—if it isna +two-three old folks as you think o’ saving your soul by giving ’em a bit o’ +flannel and a drop o’ porridge. An’ you may be right i’ thinking it’ll take but +little to save your soul, for it’ll be the smallest savin’ y’ iver made, wi’ +all your scrapin’.” +</p> + +<p> +There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may be a +formidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black pony, even the +gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being aware that Molly and +Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he suspected that sour +old John was grinning behind him—which was also the fact. Meanwhile the +bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick’s sheep-dog, and the gander hissing +at a safe distance from the pony’s heels carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser’s +solo in an impressive quartet. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she turned +round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove them into the back +kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again with her usual +rapidity as she re-entered the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee’st done it now,” said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, but not +without some triumphant amusement at his wife’s outbreak. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know I’ve done it,” said Mrs. Poyser; “but I’ve had my say out, and I +shall be th’ easier for’t all my life. There’s no pleasure i’ living if you’re +to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a +leaky barrel. I shan’t repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as +th’ old squire; and there’s little likelihood—for it seems as if them as aren’t +wanted here are th’ only folks as aren’t wanted i’ th’ other world.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thee wutna like moving from th’ old place, this Michaelmas twelvemonth,” +said Mr. Poyser, “and going into a strange parish, where thee know’st nobody. +It’ll be hard upon us both, and upo’ Father too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, it’s no use worreting; there’s plenty o’ things may happen between this +and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be master afore then, for what we +know,” said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually hopeful view of an +embarrassment which had been brought about by her own merit and not by other +people’s fault. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I’m</i> none for worreting,” said Mr. Poyser, rising from his +three-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; “but I should be +loath to leave th’ old place, and the parish where I was bred and born, and +Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive +again.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"></a> +Chapter XXXIII<br/> +More Links</h2> + +<p> +The barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went by without +waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. The apples and nuts were gathered +and stored; the scent of whey departed from the farm-houses, and the scent of +brewing came in its stead. The woods behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow +trees, took on a solemn splendour under the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas +was come, with its fragrant basketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple +daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking service and winding along +between the yellow hedges, with their bundles under their arms. But though +Michaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come to the +Chase Farm, and the old squire, after all, had been obliged to put in a new +bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that the squire’s plan had +been frustrated because the Poysers had refused to be “put upon,” and Mrs. +Poyser’s outbreak was discussed in all the farm-houses with a zest which was +only heightened by frequent repetition. The news that “Bony” was come back from +Egypt was comparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy was +nothing to Mrs. Poyser’s repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine had heard a +version of it in every parishioner’s house, with the one exception of the +Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel with +Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old +gentleman’s discomfiture with any one besides his mother, who declared that if +she were rich she should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension for life, and +wanted to invite her to the parsonage that she might hear an account of the +scene from Mrs. Poyser’s own lips. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Mother,” said Mr. Irwine; “it was a little bit of irregular justice on +Mrs. Poyser’s part, but a magistrate like me must not countenance irregular +justice. There must be no report spread that I have taken notice of the +quarrel, else I shall lose the little good influence I have over the old man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I like that woman even better than her cream-cheeses,” said Mrs. Irwine. +“She has the spirit of three men, with that pale face of hers. And she says +such sharp things too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She’s quite original in her +talk too; one of those untaught wits that help to stock a country with +proverbs. I told you that capital thing I heard her say about Craig—that he was +like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now that’s an +Æsop’s fable in a sentence.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out of the farm +next Michaelmas, eh?” said Mrs. Irwine. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorne is +likely to think twice, and digest his spleen rather than turn them out. But if +he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur and I must move heaven and earth +to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are must not go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, there’s no knowing what may happen before Lady day,” said Mrs. Irwine. “It +struck me on Arthur’s birthday that the old man was a little shaken: he’s +eighty-three, you know. It’s really an unconscionable age. It’s only women who +have a right to live as long as that.” +</p> + +<p> +“When they’ve got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without them,” said +Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband’s occasional forebodings of a notice to quit +with “There’s no knowing what may happen before Lady day”—one of those +undeniable general propositions which are usually intended to convey a +particular meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really too hard upon +human nature that it should be held a criminal offence to imagine the death +even of the king when he is turned eighty-three. It is not to be believed that +any but the dullest Britons can be good subjects under that hard condition. +</p> + +<p> +Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the Poyser +household. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a surprising improvement in Hetty. +To be sure, the girl got “closer tempered, and sometimes she seemed as if +there’d be no drawing a word from her with cart-ropes,” but she thought much +less about her dress, and went after the work quite eagerly, without any +telling. And it was wonderful how she never wanted to go out now—indeed, could +hardly be persuaded to go; and she bore her aunt’s putting a stop to her weekly +lesson in fine-work at the Chase without the least grumbling or pouting. It +must be, after all, that she had set her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden +freak of wanting to be a lady’s maid must have been caused by some little pique +or misunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adam came +to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits and to talk more than at +other times, though she was almost sullen when Mr. Craig or any other admirer +happened to pay a visit there. +</p> + +<p> +Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which gave way to +surprise and delicious hope. Five days after delivering Arthur’s letter, he had +ventured to go to the Hall Farm again—not without dread lest the sight of him +might be painful to her. She was not in the house-place when he entered, and he +sat talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser for a few minutes with a heavy fear on his +heart that they might presently tell him Hetty was ill. But by and by there +came a light step that he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, “Come, Hetty, where +have you been?” Adam was obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the +changed look there must be in her face. He almost started when he saw her +smiling as if she were pleased to see him—looking the same as ever at a first +glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never seen her in before +when he came of an evening. Still, when he looked at her again and again as she +moved about or sat at her work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink as +ever, and she smiled as much as she had ever done of late, but there was +something different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her +movements, Adam thought—something harder, older, less child-like. “Poor thing!” +he said to himself, “that’s allays likely. It’s because she’s had her first +heartache. But she’s got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that.” +</p> + +<p> +As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to see him—turning +up her lovely face towards him as if she meant him to understand that she was +glad for him to come—and going about her work in the same equable way, making +no sign of sorrow, he began to believe that her feeling towards Arthur must +have been much slighter than he had imagined in his first indignation and +alarm, and that she had been able to think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was +in love with her and would marry her as a folly of which she was timely cured. +And it perhaps was, as he had sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it +would be—her heart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man +she knew to have a serious love for her. +</p> + +<p> +Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his interpretations, +and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming in a sensible man to behave as +he did—falling in love with a girl who really had nothing more than her beauty +to recommend her, attributing imaginary virtues to her, and even condescending +to cleave to her after she had fallen in love with another man, waiting for her +kind looks as a patient trembling dog waits for his master’s eye to be turned +upon him. But in so complex a thing as human nature, we must consider, it is +hard to find rules without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, +sensible men fall in love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance, +see through all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine +themselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all proper occasions, +and marry the woman most fitted for them in every respect—indeed, so as to +compel the approbation of all the maiden ladies in their neighbourhood. But +even to this rule an exception will occur now and then in the lapse of +centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part, however, I respect him +none the less—nay, I think the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, +blossom-like, dark-eyed Hetty, of whose inward self he was really very +ignorant, came out of the very strength of his nature and not out of any +inconsistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite +music? To feel its wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your +soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and binding +together your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibration, +melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that has been +scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic +courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of self-renouncing sympathy, +blending your present joy with past sorrow and your present sorrow with all +your past joy? If not, then neither is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by +the exquisite curves of a woman’s cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths +of her beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty +of a lovely woman is like music: what can one say more? Beauty has an +expression beyond and far above the one woman’s soul that it clothes, as the +words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them. It is +more than a woman’s love that moves us in a woman’s eyes—it seems to be a +far-off mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for itself there; +the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more than their +prettiness—by their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and +peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this <i>impersonal</i> expression in +beauty (it is needless to say that there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and +undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason, the noblest nature is +often the most blinded to the character of the one woman’s soul that the beauty +clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a +long time to come, in spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best +receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind. +</p> + +<p> +Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling for Hetty: +he could not disguise mystery in this way with the appearance of knowledge; he +called his love frankly a mystery, as you have heard him. He only knew that the +sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching the spring of all love and +tenderness, all faith and courage within him. How could he imagine narrowness, +selfishness, hardness in her? He created the mind he believed in out of his +own, which was large, unselfish, tender. +</p> + +<p> +The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling towards Arthur. +Surely his attentions to Hetty must have been of a slight kind; they were +altogether wrong, and such as no man in Arthur’s position ought to have allowed +himself, but they must have had an air of playfulness about them, which had +probably blinded him to their danger and had prevented them from laying any +strong hold on Hetty’s heart. As the new promise of happiness rose for Adam, +his indignation and jealousy began to die out. Hetty was not made unhappy; he +almost believed that she liked him best; and the thought sometimes crossed his +mind that the friendship which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in +the days to come, and he would not have to say “good-bye” to the grand old +woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur’s. For this new +promise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain had an +intoxicating effect on the sober Adam, who had all his life been used to much +hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy lot after all? +It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, Jonathan Burge, finding it +impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up his mind to offer him a share +in the business, without further condition than that he should continue to give +his energies to it and renounce all thought of having a separate business of +his own. Son-in-law or no son-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary to be +parted with, and his headwork was so much more important to Burge than his +skill in handicraft that his having the management of the woods made little +difference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains about the +squire’s timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adam saw here an +opening into a broadening path of prosperous work such as he had thought of +with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might come to build a +bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always said to himself that +Jonathan Burge’s building business was like an acorn, which might be the mother +of a great tree. So he gave his hand to Burge on that bargain, and went home +with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps +be shocked when I say it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for +seasoning timber at a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening of +bricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for the +strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron girder. What +then? Adam’s enthusiasm lay in these things; and our love is inwrought in our +enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a +subtle presence. +</p> + +<p> +Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for his mother in +the old one; his prospects would justify his marrying very soon, and if Dinah +consented to have Seth, their mother would perhaps be more contented to live +apart from Adam. But he told himself that he would not be hasty—he would not +try Hetty’s feeling for him until it had had time to grow strong and firm. +However, tomorrow, after church, he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the +news. Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it better than a five-pound note, and he +should see if Hetty’s eyes brightened at it. The months would be short with all +he had to fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him of +late must not hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he got home and told +his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while she sat by almost crying +for joy and wanting him to eat twice as much as usual because of this +good-luck, he could not help preparing her gently for the coming change by +talking of the old house being too small for them all to go on living in it +always. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"></a> +Chapter XXXIV<br/> +The Betrothal</h2> + +<p> +It was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of November. There +was no sunshine, but the clouds were high, and the wind was so still that the +yellow leaves which fluttered down from the hedgerow elms must have fallen from +pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, for she had taken a +cold too serious to be neglected; only two winters ago she had been laid up for +weeks with a cold; and since his wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser +considered that on the whole it would be as well for him to stay away too and +“keep her company.” He could perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons +that determined this conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds +that our firmest convictions are often dependent on subtle impressions for +which words are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no one from the +Poyser family went to church that afternoon except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam +was bold enough to join them after church, and say that he would walk home with +them, though all the way through the village he appeared to be chiefly occupied +with Marty and Tommy, telling them about the squirrels in Binton Coppice, and +promising to take them there some day. But when they came to the fields he said +to the boys, “Now, then, which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th’ +home-gate first shall be the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the +donkey. But Tommy must have the start up to the next stile, because he’s the +smallest.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As soon as the +boys had both set off, he looked down at Hetty and said, “Won’t you hang on my +arm, Hetty?” in a pleading tone, as if he had already asked her and she had +refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and put her round arm through his in +a moment. It was nothing to her, putting her arm through Adam’s, but she knew +he cared a great deal about having her arm through his, and she wished him to +care. Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at the half-bare hedgerows and +the ploughed field with the same sense of oppressive dulness as before. But +Adam scarcely felt that he was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was +pressing her arm a little—a very little. Words rushed to his lips that he dared +not utter—that he had made up his mind not to utter yet—and so he was silent +for the length of that field. The calm patience with which he had once waited +for Hetty’s love, content only with her presence and the thought of the future, +had forsaken him since that terrible shock nearly three months ago. The +agitations of jealousy had given a new restlessness to his passion—had made +fear and uncertainty too hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to +Hetty of his love, he would tell her about his new prospects and see if she +would be pleased. So when he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, +“I’m going to tell your uncle some news that’ll surprise him, Hetty; and I +think he’ll be glad to hear it too.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” Hetty said indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I’m going to take +it.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a change in Hetty’s face, certainly not produced by any agreeable +impression from this news. In fact she felt a momentary annoyance and alarm, +for she had so often heard it hinted by her uncle that Adam might have Mary +Burge and a share in the business any day, if he liked, that she associated the +two objects now, and the thought immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had +given her up because of what had happened lately, and had turned towards Mary +Burge. With that thought, and before she had time to remember any reasons why +it could not be true, came a new sense of forsakenness and disappointment. The +one thing—the one person—her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had +slipped away from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She was +looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the tears, and before he had +finished saying, “Hetty, dear Hetty, what are you crying for?” his eager rapid +thought had flown through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at last +alighted on half the true one. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary +Burge—she didn’t like him to marry—perhaps she didn’t like him to marry any one +but herself? All caution was swept away—all reason for it was gone, and Adam +could feel nothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her and took her hand, +as he said: +</p> + +<p> +“I could afford to be married now, Hetty—I could make a wife comfortable; but I +shall never want to be married if you won’t have me.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had done to Arthur +that first evening in the wood, when she had thought he was not coming, and yet +he came. It was a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great +dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more beautiful, +for there was a more luxuriant womanliness about Hetty of late. Adam could +hardly believe in the happiness of that moment. His right hand held her left, +and he pressed her arm close against his heart as he leaned down towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love and take care +of as long as I live?” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty did not speak, but Adam’s face was very close to hers, and she put up her +round cheek against his, like a kitten. She wanted to be caressed—she wanted to +feel as if Arthur were with her again. +</p> + +<p> +Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through the rest of +the walk. He only said, “I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn’t I, Hetty?” and +she said, “Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces that +evening, when Hetty was gone upstairs and Adam took the opportunity of telling +Mr. and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather that he saw his way to maintaining a +wife now, and that Hetty had consented to have him. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you have no objections against me for her husband,” said Adam; “I’m a +poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing as I can work for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Objections?” said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned forward and brought +out his long “Nay, nay.” “What objections can we ha’ to you, lad? Never mind +your being poorish as yet; there’s money in your head-piece as there’s money i’ +the sown field, but it must ha’ time. You’n got enough to begin on, and we can +do a deal tow’rt the bit o’ furniture you’ll want. Thee’st got feathers and +linen to spare—plenty, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was wrapped up in a +warm shawl and was too hoarse to speak with her usual facility. At first she +only nodded emphatically, but she was presently unable to resist the temptation +to be more explicit. +</p> + +<p> +“It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen,” she said, hoarsely, “when +I never sell a fowl but what’s plucked, and the wheel’s a-going every day o’ +the week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, my wench,” said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, “come and kiss us, and +let us wish you luck.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” he said, patting her on the back, “go and kiss your aunt and your +grandfather. I’m as wishful t’ have you settled well as if you was my own +daughter; and so’s your aunt, I’ll be bound, for she’s done by you this seven +’ear, Hetty, as if you’d been her own. Come, come, now,” he went on, becoming +jocose, as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, “Adam wants a +kiss too, I’ll warrant, and he’s a right to one now.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Adam, then, take one,” persisted Mr. Poyser, “else y’ arena half a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden—great strong fellow as he was—and, +putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently kissed her lips. +</p> + +<p> +It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were no candles—why +should there be, when the fire was so bright and was reflected from all the +pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted to work on a Sunday evening. Even +Hetty felt something like contentment in the midst of all this love. Adam’s +attachment to her, Adam’s caress, stirred no passion in her, were no longer +enough to satisfy her vanity, but they were the best her life offered her +now—they promised her some change. +</p> + +<p> +There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about the +possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in. No house +was empty except the one next to Will Maskery’s in the village, and that was +too small for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would be for +Seth and his mother to move and leave Adam in the old home, which might be +enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of space in the woodyard and +garden; but Adam objected to turning his mother out. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Mr. Poyser at last, “we needna fix everything to-night. We +must take time to consider. You canna think o’ getting married afore Easter. +I’m not for long courtships, but there must be a bit o’ time to make things +comfortable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; “Christian folks +can’t be married like cuckoos, I reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a bit daunted, though,” said Mr. Poyser, “when I think as we may have +notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm twenty mile off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh,” said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands up and down, +while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair, “it’s a poor tale if I mun +leave th’ ould spot an be buried in a strange parish. An’ you’ll happen ha’ +double rates to pay,” he added, looking up at his son. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father,” said Martin the younger. “Happen +the captain ’ull come home and make our peace wi’ th’ old squire. I build upo’ +that, for I know the captain ’ll see folks righted if he can.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"></a> +Chapter XXXV<br/> +The Hidden Dread</h2> + +<p> +It was a busy time for Adam—the time between the beginning of November and the +beginning of February, and he could see little of Hetty, except on Sundays. But +a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him nearer and nearer to March, +when they were to be married, and all the little preparations for their new +housekeeping marked the progress towards the longed-for day. Two new rooms had +been “run up” to the old house, for his mother and Seth were to live with them +after all. Lisbeth had cried so piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that +he had gone to Hetty and asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up +with his mother’s ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight, +Hetty said, “Yes; I’d as soon she lived with us as not.” Hetty’s mind was +oppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth’s ways; she +could not care about them. So Adam was consoled for the disappointment he had +felt when Seth had come back from his visit to Snowfield and said “it was no +use—Dinah’s heart wasna turned towards marrying.” For when he told his mother +that Hetty was willing they should all live together and there was no more need +of them to think of parting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had +heard her speak in since it had been settled that he was to be married, “Eh, my +lad, I’ll be as still as th’ ould tabby, an’ ne’er want to do aught but th’ +offal work, as <i>she</i> wonna like t’ do. An’ then we needna part the +platters an’ things, as ha’ stood on the shelf together sin’ afore thee wast +born.” +</p> + +<p> +There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam’s sunshine: Hetty +seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his anxious, tender questions, she replied +with an assurance that she was quite contented and wished nothing different; +and the next time he saw her she was more lively than usual. It might be that +she was a little overdone with work and anxiety now, for soon after Christmas +Mrs. Poyser had taken another cold, which had brought on inflammation, and this +illness had confined her to her room all through January. Hetty had to manage +everything downstairs, and half-supply Molly’s place too, while that good +damsel waited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into +her new functions, working with a grave steadiness which was new in her, that +Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show him what a good housekeeper +he would have; but he “doubted the lass was o’erdoing it—she must have a bit o’ +rest when her aunt could come downstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser’s coming downstairs happened in the early +part of February, when some mild weather thawed the last patch of snow on the +Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt came down, Hetty went +to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things which were wanting, and which +Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for neglecting, observing that she supposed “it was +because they were not for th’ outside, else she’d ha’ bought ’em fast enough.” +</p> + +<p> +It was about ten o’clock when Hetty set off, and the slight hoar-frost that had +whitened the hedges in the early morning had disappeared as the sun mounted the +cloudless sky. Bright February days have a stronger charm of hope about them +than any other days in the year. One likes to pause in the mild rays of the +sun, and look over the gates at the patient plough-horses turning at the end of +the furrow, and think that the beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem +to feel just the same: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no +leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And +the dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is +beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or rides along +the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so when, in foreign +countries, where the fields and woods have looked to me like our English +Loamshire—the rich land tilled with just as much care, the woods rolling down +the gentle slopes to the green meadows—I have come on something by the roadside +which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire: an image of a great agony—the +agony of the Cross. It has stood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or +in the broad sunshine by the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a +clear brook was gurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this +world who knew nothing of the story of man’s life upon it, this image of agony +would seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this joyous nature. He +would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or among the golden corn, +or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there might be a human heart beating +heavily with anguish—perhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn +for refuge from swift-advancing shame, understanding no more of this life of +ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on +the lonely heath, yet tasting the bitterest of life’s bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind the +blossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you came close to +one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your ear with a despairing +human sob. No wonder man’s religion has much sorrow in it: no wonder he needs a +suffering God. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand, is +turning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston road, but not that she +may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and think with hope of the +long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is shining; and for weeks, +now, when she has hoped at all, it has been for something at which she herself +trembles and shudders. She only wants to be out of the high-road, that she may +walk slowly and not care how her face looks, as she dwells on wretched +thoughts; and through this gate she can get into a field-path behind the wide +thick hedgerows. Her great dark eyes wander blankly over the fields like the +eyes of one who is desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a +brave tender man. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept away +in the weary night, before she went to sleep. At the next stile the pathway +branches off: there are two roads before her—one along by the hedgerow, which +will by and by lead her into the road again, the other across the fields, which +will take her much farther out of the way into the Scantlands, low shrouded +pastures where she will see nobody. She chooses this and begins to walk a +little faster, as if she had suddenly thought of an object towards which it was +worth while to hasten. Soon she is in the Scantlands, where the grassy land +slopes gradually downwards, and she leaves the level ground to follow the +slope. Farther on there is a clump of trees on the low ground, and she is +making her way towards it. No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark shrouded +pool, so full with the wintry rains that the under boughs of the elder-bushes +lie low beneath the water. She sits down on the grassy bank, against the +stooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She has thought +of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just gone by, and now at +last she is come to see it. She clasps her hands round her knees, and leans +forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying to guess what sort of bed it +would make for her young round limbs. +</p> + +<p> +No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and if she had, they +might find her—they might find out why she had drowned herself. There is but +one thing left to her: she must go away, go where they can’t find her. +</p> + +<p> +After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after her betrothal to +Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hope that something would +happen to set her free from her terror; but she could wait no longer. All the +force of her nature had been concentrated on the one effort of concealment, and +she had shrunk with irresistible dread from every course that could tend +towards a betrayal of her miserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to +Arthur had occurred to her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her +that would shelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and +neighbours who once more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. +Her imagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing +that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else would +happen—something <i>must</i> happen—to set her free from this dread. In young, +childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind trust in some unshapen +chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe that a great wretchedness +will actually befall them as to believe that they will die. +</p> + +<p> +But now necessity was pressing hard upon her—now the time of her marriage was +close at hand—she could no longer rest in this blind trust. She must run away; +she must hide herself where no familiar eyes could detect her; and then the +terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew nothing, made the +possibility of going to Arthur a thought which brought some comfort with it. +She felt so helpless now, so unable to fashion the future for herself, that the +prospect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than +her pride. As she sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the +hope that he would receive her tenderly—that he would care for her and think +for her—was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the moment +indifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothing but the +scheme by which she should get away. +</p> + +<p> +She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about the coming +marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty had read this letter +aloud to her uncle, he had said, “I wish Dinah ’ud come again now, for she’d be +a comfort to your aunt when you’re gone. What do you think, my wench, o’ going +to see her as soon as you can be spared and persuading her to come back wi’ +you? You might happen persuade her wi’ telling her as her aunt wants her, for +all she writes o’ not being able to come.” Hetty had not liked the thought of +going to Snowfield, and felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, “It’s +so far off, Uncle.” But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a +pretext for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again that +she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. And +then, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would ask for the +coach that would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was at Windsor, and she +would go to him. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from the grassy bank +of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way to Treddleston, for she +must buy the wedding things she had come out for, though she would never want +them. She must be careful not to raise any suspicion that she was going to run +away. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go and see Dinah +and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding. The sooner she went the +better, since the weather was pleasant now; and Adam, when he came in the +evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, he would make time to go with +her to Treddleston and see her safe into the Stoniton coach. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty,” he said, the next +morning, leaning in at the coach door; “but you won’t stay much beyond a +week—the time ’ull seem long.” +</p> + +<p> +He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers in its grasp. Hetty +felt a sense of protection in his presence—she was used to it now: if she could +have had the past undone and known no other love than her quiet liking for +Adam! The tears rose as she gave him the last look. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless her for loving me,” said Adam, as he went on his way to work again, +with Gyp at his heels. +</p> + +<p> +But Hetty’s tears were not for Adam—not for the anguish that would come upon +him when he found she was gone from him for ever. They were for the misery of +her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender man who offered up his +whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helpless suppliant, on the man who +would think it a misfortune that she was obliged to cling to him. +</p> + +<p> +At three o’clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to take her, +they said, to Leicester—part of the long, long way to Windsor—she felt dimly +that she might be travelling all this weary journey towards the beginning of +new misery. +</p> + +<p> +Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If he did not +mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to be good to her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"></a> +Book Fifth</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"></a> +Chapter XXXVI<br/> +The Journey of Hope</h2> + +<p> +A long, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from the familiar to +the strange: that is a hard and dreary thing even to the rich, the strong, the +instructed; a hard thing, even when we are called by duty, not urged by dread. +</p> + +<p> +What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no longer melting +into vague hopes, but pressed upon by the chill of definite fear, repeating +again and again the same small round of memories—shaping again and again the +same childish, doubtful images of what was to come—seeing nothing in this wide +world but the little history of her own pleasures and pains; with so little +money in her pocket, and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could afford +always to go in the coaches—and she felt sure she could not, for the journey to +Stoniton was more expensive than she had expected—it was plain that she must +trust to carriers’ carts or slow waggons; and what a time it would be before +she could get to the end of her journey! The burly old coachman from Oakbourne, +seeing such a pretty young woman among the outside passengers, had invited her +to come and sit beside him; and feeling that it became him as a man and a +coachman to open the dialogue with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they +were off the stones to the elaboration of one suitable in all respects. After +many cuts with his whip and glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye, he +lifted his lips above the edge of his wrapper and said, “He’s pretty nigh six +foot, I’ll be bound, isna he, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” said Hetty, rather startled. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the sweetheart as you’ve left behind, or else him as you’re goin’ +arter—which is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought this coachman +must know something about her. He must know Adam, and might tell him where she +was gone, for it is difficult to country people to believe that those who make +a figure in their own parish are not known everywhere else, and it was equally +difficult to Hetty to understand that chance words could happen to apply +closely to her circumstances. She was too frightened to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Hegh, hegh!” said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not so gratifying as +he had expected, “you munna take it too ser’ous; if he’s behaved ill, get +another. Such a pretty lass as you can get a sweetheart any day.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty’s fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the coachman made no +further allusion to her personal concerns; but it still had the effect of +preventing her from asking him what were the places on the road to Windsor. She +told him she was only going a little way out of Stoniton, and when she got down +at the inn where the coach stopped, she hastened away with her basket to +another part of the town. When she had formed her plan of going to Windsor, she +had not foreseen any difficulties except that of getting away, and after she +had overcome this by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the +meeting with Arthur and the question how he would behave to her—not resting on +any probable incidents of the journey. She was too entirely ignorant of +traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her store of money—her +three guineas—in her pocket, she thought herself amply provided. It was not +until she found how much it cost her to get to Stoniton that she began to be +alarmed about the journey, and then, for the first time, she felt her ignorance +as to the places that must be passed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, +she walked along the grim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby +little inn, where she hoped to get a cheap lodging for the night. Here she +asked the landlord if he could tell her what places she must go to, to get to +Windsor. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it’s where +the king lives,” was the answer. “Anyhow, you’d best go t’ Ashby next—that’s +south’ard. But there’s as many places from here to London as there’s houses in +Stoniton, by what I can make out. I’ve never been no traveller myself. But how +comes a lone young woman like you to be thinking o’ taking such a journey as +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to my brother—he’s a soldier at Windsor,” said Hetty, frightened at +the landlord’s questioning look. “I can’t afford to go by the coach; do you +think there’s a cart goes toward Ashby in the morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; but you +might run over the town before you found out. You’d best set off and walk, and +trust to summat overtaking you.” +</p> + +<p> +Every word sank like lead on Hetty’s spirits; she saw the journey stretch bit +by bit before her now. Even to get to Ashby seemed a hard thing: it might take +the day, for what she knew, and that was nothing to the rest of the journey. +But it must be done—she must get to Arthur. Oh, how she yearned to be again +with somebody who would care for her! She who had never got up in the morning +without the certainty of seeing familiar faces, people on whom she had an +acknowledged claim; whose farthest journey had been to Rosseter on the pillion +with her uncle; whose thoughts had always been taking holiday in dreams of +pleasure, because all the business of her life was managed for her—this +kittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any other grief than +that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girded at by her aunt for +neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way in loneliness, her peaceful +home left behind for ever, and nothing but a tremulous hope of distant refuge +before her. Now for the first time, as she lay down to-night in the strange +hard bed, she felt that her home had been a happy one, that her uncle had been +very good to her, that her quiet lot at Hayslope among the things and people +she knew, with her little pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and nothing to +hide from any one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and find +that all the feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare. She +thought of all she had left behind with yearning regret for her own sake. Her +own misery filled her heart—there was no room in it for other people’s sorrow. +And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been so tender and loving. The +memory of that had still a charm for her, though it was no more than a soothing +draught that just made pain bearable. For Hetty could conceive no other +existence for herself in future than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even with +love, would have had no delights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. +She knew no romances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are the +source of romance, so that well-read ladies may find it difficult to understand +her state of mind. She was too ignorant of everything beyond the simple notions +and habits in which she had been brought up to have any more definite idea of +her probable future than that Arthur would take care of her somehow, and +shelter her from anger and scorn. He would not marry her and make her a lady; +and apart from that she could think of nothing he could give towards which she +looked with longing and ambition. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and bread for her +breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards Ashby, under a leaden-coloured +sky, with a narrowing streak of yellow, like a departing hope, on the edge of +the horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at the length and difficulty of her +journey, she was most of all afraid of spending her money, and becoming so +destitute that she would have to ask people’s charity; for Hetty had the pride +not only of a proud nature but of a proud class—the class that pays the most +poor-rates, and most shudders at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had +not yet occurred to her that she might get money for her locket and earrings +which she carried with her, and she applied all her small arithmetic and +knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many rides were +contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which had a melancholy +look, as if they were the pale ashes of the other bright-flaming coin. +</p> + +<p> +For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely, always fixing +on some tree or gate or projecting bush at the most distant visible point in +the road as a goal, and feeling a faint joy when she had reached it. But when +she came to the fourth milestone, the first she had happened to notice among +the long grass by the roadside, and read that she was still only four miles +beyond Stoniton, her courage sank. She had come only this little way, and yet +felt tired, and almost hungry again in the keen morning air; for though Hetty +was accustomed to much movement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long +walks which produced quite a different sort of fatigue from that of household +activity. As she was looking at the milestone she felt some drops falling on +her face—it was beginning to rain. Here was a new trouble which had not entered +into her sad thoughts before, and quite weighed down by this sudden addition to +her burden, she sat down on the step of a stile and began to sob hysterically. +The beginning of hardship is like the first taste of bitter food—it seems for a +moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take +another bite and find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her burst +of weeping, she rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and she must try +to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter. Presently, as she +walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels behind her; a covered +waggon was coming, creeping slowly along with a slouching driver cracking his +whip beside the horses. She waited for it, thinking that if the waggoner were +not a very sour-looking man, she would ask him to take her up. As the waggon +approached her, the driver had fallen behind, but there was something in the +front of the big vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her +life she would not have noticed it, but now, the new susceptibility that +suffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress her strongly. It +was only a small white-and-liver-coloured spaniel which sat on the front ledge +of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and an incessant trembling in the body, +such as you may have seen in some of these small creatures. Hetty cared little +for animals, as you know, but at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid +creature had some fellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the +reason, she was less doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came +forward—a large ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf or +mantle. +</p> + +<p> +“Could you take me up in your waggon, if you’re going towards Ashby?” said +Hetty. “I’ll pay you for it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aw,” said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which belongs to +heavy faces, “I can take y’ up fawst enough wi’out bein’ paid for’t if you +dooant mind lyin’ a bit closish a-top o’ the wool-packs. Where do you coom +from? And what do you want at Ashby?” +</p> + +<p> +“I come from Stoniton. I’m going a long way—to Windsor.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Arter some service, or what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Going to my brother—he’s a soldier there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m going no furder nor Leicester—and fur enough too—but I’ll take you, +if you dooant mind being a bit long on the road. Th’ hosses wooant feel +<i>your</i> weight no more nor they feel the little doog there, as I puck up on +the road a fortni’t agoo. He war lost, I b’lieve, an’s been all of a tremble +iver sin’. Come, gi’ us your basket an’ come behind and let me put y’ in.” +</p> + +<p> +To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the curtains of the awning +to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty now, and she half-slept away the hours +till the driver came to ask her if she wanted to get down and have “some +victual”; he himself was going to eat his dinner at this “public.” Late at +night they reached Leicester, and so this second day of Hetty’s journey was +past. She had spent no money except what she had paid for her food, but she +felt that this slow journeying would be intolerable for her another day, and in +the morning she found her way to a coach-office to ask about the road to +Windsor, and see if it would cost her too much to go part of the distance by +coach again. Yes! The distance was too great—the coaches were too dear—she must +give them up; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty +anxious face, wrote down for her the names of the chief places she must pass +through. This was the only comfort she got in Leicester, for the men stared at +her as she went along the street, and for the first time in her life Hetty +wished no one would look at her. She set out walking again; but this day she +was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken by a carrier’s cart which carried her +to Hinckley, and by the help of a return chaise, with a drunken postilion—who +frightened her by driving like Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious +remarks at her, twisting himself backwards on his saddle—she was before night +in the heart of woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles from +Windsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard work for +her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to Stratford-on-Avon, finding +Stratford set down in her list of places, and then she was told she had come a +long way out of the right road. It was not till the fifth day that she got to +Stony Stratford. That seems but a slight journey as you look at the map, or +remember your own pleasant travels to and from the meadowy banks of the Avon. +But how wearily long it was to Hetty! It seemed to her as if this country of +flat fields, and hedgerows, and dotted houses, and villages, and +market-towns—all so much alike to her indifferent eyes—must have no end, and +she must go on wandering among them for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for +some cart to come, and then finding the cart went only a little way—a very +little way—to the miller’s a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the +public houses, where she must go to get food and ask questions, because there +were always men lounging there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Her +body was very weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; they had +made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dread she had gone +through at home. When at last she reached Stony Stratford, her impatience and +weariness had become too strong for her economical caution; she determined to +take the coach for the rest of the way, though it should cost her all her +remaining money. She would need nothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she +had paid the fare for the last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got +down at the sign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o’clock in the middle of +the seventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged her to +“remember him.” She put her hand in her pocket and took out the shilling, but +the tears came with the sense of exhaustion and the thought that she was giving +away her last means of getting food, which she really required before she could +go in search of Arthur. As she held out the shilling, she lifted up her dark +tear-filled eyes to the coachman’s face and said, “Can you give me back +sixpence?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” he said, gruffly, “never mind—put the shilling up again.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to witness this scene, and +he was a man whose abundant feeding served to keep his good nature, as well as +his person, in high condition. And that lovely tearful face of Hetty’s would +have found out the sensitive fibre in most men. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, young woman, come in,” he said, “and have a drop o’ something; you’re +pretty well knocked up, I can see that.” +</p> + +<p> +He took her into the bar and said to his wife, “Here, missis, take this young +woman into the parlour; she’s a little overcome”—for Hetty’s tears were falling +fast. They were merely hysterical tears: she thought she had no reason for +weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weak and tired to help it. She was +at Windsor at last, not far from Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat and beer that the +landlady brought her, and for some minutes she forgot everything else in the +delicious sensations of satisfying hunger and recovering from exhaustion. The +landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and looked at her earnestly. No +wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and her curls had fallen down. Her +face was all the more touching in its youth and beauty because of its weary +look, and the good woman’s eyes presently wandered to her figure, which in her +hurried dressing on her journey she had taken no pains to conceal; moreover, +the stranger’s eye detects what the familiar unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you’re not very fit for travelling,” she said, glancing while she spoke +at Hetty’s ringless hand. “Have you come far?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more self-command, and +feeling the better for the food she had taken. “I’ve come a good long way, and +it’s very tiring. But I’m better now. Could you tell me which way to go to this +place?” Here Hetty took from her pocket a bit of paper: it was the end of +Arthur’s letter on which he had written his address. +</p> + +<p> +While she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to look at her +as earnestly as his wife had done. He took up the piece of paper which Hetty +handed across the table, and read the address. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what do you want at this house?” he said. It is in the nature of +innkeepers and all men who have no pressing business of their own to ask as +many questions as possible before giving any information. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to see a gentleman as is there,” said Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s no gentleman there,” returned the landlord. “It’s shut up—been +shut up this fortnight. What gentleman is it you want? Perhaps I can let you +know where to find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Captain Donnithorne,” said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginning to beat +painfully at this disappointment of her hope that she should find Arthur at +once. +</p> + +<p> +“Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit,” said the landlord, slowly. “Was he in the +Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer with a fairish skin and reddish +whiskers—and had a servant by the name o’ Pym?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes,” said Hetty; “you know him—where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fine sight o’ miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia’s gone to Ireland; +it’s been gone this fortnight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look there! She’s fainting,” said the landlady, hastening to support Hetty, +who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked like a beautiful corpse. +They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s a bad business, I suspect,” said the landlord, as he brought in some +water. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it’s plain enough what sort of business it is,” said the wife. “She’s not +a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that. She looks like a respectable +country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judge by her tongue. She +talks something like that ostler we had that come from the north. He was as +honest a fellow as we ever had about the house—they’re all honest folks in the +north.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw a prettier young woman in my life,” said the husband. “She’s like +a pictur in a shop-winder. It goes to one’s ’eart to look at her.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ’ud have been a good deal better for her if she’d been uglier and had more +conduct,” said the landlady, who on any charitable construction must have been +supposed to have more “conduct” than beauty. “But she’s coming to again. Fetch +a drop more water.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"></a> +Chapter XXXVII<br/> +The Journey in Despair</h2> + +<p> +Hetty was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions to be +addressed to her—too ill even to think with any distinctness of the evils that +were to come. She only felt that all her hope was crushed, and that instead of +having found a refuge she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness +where no goal lay before her. The sensations of bodily sickness, in a +comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the good-natured landlady, made a +sort of respite for her; such a respite as there is in the faint weariness +which obliges a man to throw himself on the sand instead of toiling onward +under the scorching sun. +</p> + +<p> +But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength necessary for the +keenness of mental suffering—when she lay the next morning looking at the +growing light which was like a cruel task-master returning to urge from her a +fresh round of hated hopeless labour—she began to think what course she must +take, to remember that all her money was gone, to look at the prospect of +further wandering among strangers with the new clearness shed on it by the +experience of her journey to Windsor. But which way could she turn? It was +impossible for her to enter into any service, even if she could obtain it. +There was nothing but immediate beggary before her. She thought of a young +woman who had been found against the church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly +dead with cold and hunger—a tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued and +taken to the parish. “The parish!” You can perhaps hardly understand the effect +of that word on a mind like Hetty’s, brought up among people who were somewhat +hard in their feelings even towards poverty, who lived among the fields, and +had little pity for want and rags as a cruel inevitable fate such as they +sometimes seem in cities, but held them a mark of idleness and vice—and it was +idleness and vice that brought burdens on the parish. To Hetty the “parish” was +next to the prison in obloquy, and to ask anything of strangers—to beg—lay in +the same far-off hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her +life thought it impossible she could ever come near. But now the remembrance of +that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, on her way from church, being +carried into Joshua Rann’s, came back upon her with the new terrible sense that +there was very little now to divide <i>her</i> from the same lot. And the dread +of bodily hardship mingled with the dread of shame; for Hetty had the luxurious +nature of a round soft-coated pet animal. +</p> + +<p> +How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and cared for as +she had always been! Her aunt’s scolding about trifles would have been music to +her ears now; she longed for it; she used to hear it in a time when she had +only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hetty that used to make up the +butter in the dairy with the Guelder roses peeping in at the window—she, a +runaway whom her friends would not open their doors to again, lying in this +strange bed, with the knowledge that she had no money to pay for what she +received, and must offer those strangers some of the clothes in her basket? It +was then she thought of her locket and ear-rings, and seeing her pocket lie +near, she reached it and spread the contents on the bed before her. There were +the locket and ear-rings in the little velvet-lined boxes, and with them there +was a beautiful silver thimble which Adam had bought her, the words “Remember +me” making the ornament of the border; a steel purse, with her one shilling in +it; and a small red-leather case, fastening with a strap. Those beautiful +little ear-rings, with their delicate pearls and garnet, that she had tried in +her ears with such longing in the bright sunshine on the 30th of July! She had +no longing to put them in her ears now: her head with its dark rings of hair +lay back languidly on the pillow, and the sadness that rested about her brow +and eyes was something too hard for regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up +to her ears: it was because there were some thin gold rings in them, which were +also worth a little money. Yes, she could surely get some money for her +ornaments: those Arthur had given her must have cost a great deal of money. The +landlord and landlady had been good to her; perhaps they would help her to get +the money for these things. +</p> + +<p> +But this money would not keep her long. What should she do when it was gone? +Where should she go? The horrible thought of want and beggary drove her once to +think she would go back to her uncle and aunt and ask them to forgive her and +have pity on her. But she shrank from that idea again, as she might have shrunk +from scorching metal. She could never endure that shame before her uncle and +aunt, before Mary Burge, and the servants at the Chase, and the people at +Broxton, and everybody who knew her. They should never know what had happened +to her. What <i>could</i> she do? She would go away from Windsor—travel again +as she had done the last week, and get among the flat green fields with the +high hedges round them, where nobody could see her or know her; and there, +perhaps, when there was nothing else she could do, she should get courage to +drown herself in some pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would get away +from Windsor as soon as possible: she didn’t like these people at the inn to +know about her, to know that she had come to look for Captain Donnithorne. She +must think of some reason to tell them why she had asked for him. +</p> + +<p> +With this thought she began to put the things back into her pocket, meaning to +get up and dress before the landlady came to her. She had her hand on the +red-leather case, when it occurred to her that there might be something in this +case which she had forgotten—something worth selling; for without knowing what +she should do with her life, she craved the means of living as long as +possible; and when we desire eagerly to find something, we are apt to search +for it in hopeless places. No, there was nothing but common needles and pins, +and dried tulip-petals between the paper leaves where she had written down her +little money-accounts. But on one of these leaves there was a name, which, +often as she had seen it before, now flashed on Hetty’s mind like a newly +discovered message. The name was—<i>Dinah Morris, Snowfield</i>. There was a +text above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah’s own hand with a little +pencil, one evening that they were sitting together and Hetty happened to have +the red case lying open before her. Hetty did not read the text now: she was +only arrested by the name. Now, for the first time, she remembered without +indifference the affectionate kindness Dinah had shown her, and those words of +Dinah in the bed-chamber—that Hetty must think of her as a friend in trouble. +Suppose she were to go to Dinah, and ask her to help her? Dinah did not think +about things as other people did. She was a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew +she was always kind. She couldn’t imagine Dinah’s face turning away from her in +dark reproof or scorn, Dinah’s voice willingly speaking ill of her, or +rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to belong to that +world of Hetty’s, whose glance she dreaded like scorching fire. But even to her +Hetty shrank from beseeching and confession. She could not prevail on herself +to say, “I will go to Dinah”: she only thought of that as a possible +alternative, if she had not courage for death. +</p> + +<p> +The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come downstairs soon after +herself, neatly dressed, and looking resolutely self-possessed. Hetty told her +she was quite well this morning. She had only been very tired and overcome with +her journey, for she had come a long way to ask about her brother, who had run +away, and they thought he was gone for a soldier, and Captain Donnithorne might +know, for he had been very kind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and +the landlady looked doubtfully at Hetty as she told it; but there was a +resolute air of self-reliance about her this morning, so different from the +helpless prostration of yesterday, that the landlady hardly knew how to make a +remark that might seem like prying into other people’s affairs. She only +invited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in the course of it Hetty +brought out her ear-rings and locket, and asked the landlord if he could help +her to get money for them. Her journey, she said, had cost her much more than +she expected, and now she had no money to get back to her friends, which she +wanted to do at once. +</p> + +<p> +It was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for she had +examined the contents of Hetty’s pocket yesterday, and she and her husband had +discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautiful things, with a +stronger conviction than ever that Hetty had been miserably deluded by the fine +young officer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious trifles before +him, “we might take ’em to the jeweller’s shop, for there’s one not far off; +but Lord bless you, they wouldn’t give you a quarter o’ what the things are +worth. And you wouldn’t like to part with ’em?” he added, looking at her +inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Hetty, hastily, “so as I can get money to go back.” +</p> + +<p> +“And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to sell ’em,” he +went on, “for it isn’t usual for a young woman like you to have fine jew’llery +like that.” +</p> + +<p> +The blood rushed to Hetty’s face with anger. “I belong to respectable folks,” +she said; “I’m not a thief.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, that you aren’t, I’ll be bound,” said the landlady; “and you’d no call to +say that,” looking indignantly at her husband. “The things were gev to her: +that’s plain enough to be seen.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t mean as I thought so,” said the husband, apologetically, “but I said +it was what the jeweller might think, and so he wouldn’t be offering much money +for ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said the wife, “suppose you were to advance some money on the things +yourself, and then if she liked to redeem ’em when she got home, she could. But +if we heard nothing from her after two months, we might do as we liked with +’em.” +</p> + +<p> +I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady had no +regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature in the ultimate +possession of the locket and ear-rings: indeed, the effect they would have in +that case on the mind of the grocer’s wife had presented itself with remarkable +vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlord took up the ornaments and +pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. He wished Hetty well, doubtless; +but pray, how many of your well-wishers would decline to make a little gain out +of you? Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, respects you +highly, and will really rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the +same time she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a percentage as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +“How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?” said the +well-wisher, at length. +</p> + +<p> +“Three guineas,” answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, for want +of any other standard, and afraid of asking too much. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve no objections to advance you three guineas,” said the landlord; +“and if you like to send it me back and get the jewellery again, you can, you +know. The Green Man isn’t going to run away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, I’ll be very glad if you’ll give me that,” said Hetty, relieved at the +thought that she would not have to go to the jeweller’s and be stared at and +questioned. +</p> + +<p> +“But if you want the things again, you’ll write before long,” said the +landlady, “because when two months are up, we shall make up our minds as you +don’t want ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty indifferently. +</p> + +<p> +The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. The husband +thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could make a good thing of it +by taking them to London and selling them. The wife thought she would coax the +good man into letting her keep them. And they were accommodating Hetty, poor +thing—a pretty, respectable-looking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They +declined to take anything for her food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at +eleven o’clock Hetty said “Good-bye” to them with the same quiet, resolute air +she had worn all the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty +miles back along the way she had come. +</p> + +<p> +There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that the last hope has +departed. Despair no more leans on others than perfect contentment, and in +despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the sense of dependence. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would make life +hateful to her; and no one, she said to herself, should ever know her misery +and humiliation. No; she would not confess even to Dinah. She would wander out +of sight, and drown herself where her body would never be found, and no one +should know what had become of her. +</p> + +<p> +When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take cheap rides in +carts, and get cheap meals, going on and on without distinct purpose, yet +strangely, by some fascination, taking the way she had come, though she was +determined not to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was because she had +fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire fields, with the bushy tree-studded +hedgerows that made a hiding-place even in this leafless season. She went more +slowly than she came, often getting over the stiles and sitting for hours under +the hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself +at the edge of a hidden pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wondering +if it were very painful to be drowned, and if there would be anything worse +after death than what she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines had taken no +hold on Hetty’s mind. She was one of those numerous people who have had +godfathers and godmothers, learned their catechism, been confirmed, and gone to +church every Sunday, and yet, for any practical result of strength in life, or +trust in death, have never appropriated a single Christian idea or Christian +feeling. You would misunderstand her thoughts during these wretched days, if +you imagined that they were influenced either by religious fears or religious +hopes. +</p> + +<p> +She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had gone before by +mistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her former way towards +it—fields among which she thought she might find just the sort of pool she had +in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she carried her basket; +death seemed still a long way off, and life was so strong in her. She craved +food and rest—she hastened towards them at the very moment she was picturing to +herself the bank from which she would leap towards death. It was already five +days since she had left Windsor, for she had wandered about, always avoiding +speech or questioning looks, and recovering her air of proud self-dependence +whenever she was under observation, choosing her decent lodging at night, and +dressing herself neatly in the morning, and setting off on her way steadily, or +remaining under shelter if it rained, as if she had a happy life to cherish. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was sadly different +from that which had smiled at itself in the old specked glass, or smiled at +others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had come +in the eyes, though their lashes were as long as ever, and they had all their +dark brightness. And the cheek was never dimpled with smiles now. It was the +same rounded, pouting, childish prettiness, but with all love and belief in +love departed from it—the sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous +Medusa-face, with the passionate, passionless lips. +</p> + +<p> +At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a long narrow +pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a pool in that wood! It +would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was not a wood, only a +wild brake, where there had once been gravel-pits, leaving mounds and hollows +studded with brushwood and small trees. She roamed up and down, thinking there +was perhaps a pool in every hollow before she came to it, till her limbs were +weary, and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far advanced, and the leaden +sky was darkening, as if the sun were setting behind it. After a little while +Hetty started up again, feeling that darkness would soon come on; and she must +put off finding the pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter for +the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and might as well go in +one direction as another, for aught she knew. She walked through field after +field, and no village, no house was in sight; but <i>there</i>, at the corner +of this pasture, there was a break in the hedges; the land seemed to dip down a +little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the opening. Hetty’s +heart gave a great beat as she thought there must be a pool there. She walked +towards it heavily over the tufted grass, with pale lips and a sense of +trembling. It was as if the thing were come in spite of herself, instead of +being the object of her search. +</p> + +<p> +There it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, no sound near. She set +down her basket, and then sank down herself on the grass, trembling. The pool +had its wintry depth now: by the time it got shallow, as she remembered the +pools did at Hayslope, in the summer, no one could find out that it was her +body. But then there was her basket—she must hide that too. She must throw it +into the water—make it heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got +up to look about for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid down +beside her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need to hurry—there +was all the night to drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. +She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in her basket—three, which she had +supplied herself with at the place where she ate her dinner. She took them out +now and ate them eagerly, and then sat still again, looking at the pool. The +soothed sensation that came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and +this fixed dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank +down on her knees. She was fast asleep. +</p> + +<p> +When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was frightened at +this darkness—frightened at the long night before her. If she <i>could</i> but +throw herself into the water! No, not yet. She began to walk about that she +might get warm again, as if she would have more resolution then. Oh how long +the time was in that darkness! The bright hearth and the warmth and the voices +of home, the secure uprising and lying down, the familiar fields, the familiar +people, the Sundays and holidays with their simple joys of dress and +feasting—all the sweets of her young life rushed before her now, and she seemed +to be stretching her arms towards them across a great gulf. She set her teeth +when she thought of Arthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her cursing +would do. She wished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life of +shame that he dared not end by death. +</p> + +<p> +The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude—out of all human +reach—became greater every long minute. It was almost as if she were dead +already, and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to life again. But +no: she was alive still; she had not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a +strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation: wretchedness, that she did +not dare to face death; exultation, that she was still in life—that she might +yet know light and warmth again. She walked backwards and forwards to warm +herself, beginning to discern something of the objects around her, as her eyes +became accustomed to the night—the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion +of some living creature—perhaps a field-mouse—rushing across the grass. She no +longer felt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk back +across the field, and get over the stile; and then, in the very next field, she +thought she remembered there was a hovel of furze near a sheepfold. If she +could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. She could pass the night there, +for that was what Alick did at Hayslope in lambing-time. The thought of this +hovel brought the energy of a new hope. She took up her basket and walked +across the field, but it was some time before she got in the right direction +for the stile. The exercise and the occupation of finding the stile were a +stimulus to her, however, and lightened the horror of the darkness and +solitude. There were sheep in the next field, and she startled a group as she +set down her basket and got over the stile; and the sound of their movement +comforted her, for it assured her that her impression was right—this <i>was</i> +the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the field where the sheep +were. Right on along the path, and she would get to it. She reached the +opposite gate, and felt her way along its rails and the rails of the +sheep-fold, till her hand encountered the pricking of the gorsy wall. Delicious +sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped her way, touching the prickly +gorse, to the door, and pushed it open. It was an ill-smelling close place, but +warm, and there was straw on the ground. Hetty sank down on the straw with a +sense of escape. Tears came—she had never shed tears before since she left +Windsor—tears and sobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that +she was still on the familiar earth, with the sheep near her. The very +consciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her: she turned up her sleeves, +and kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soon warmth and weariness +lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fell continually into dozing, +fancying herself at the brink of the pool again—fancying that she had jumped +into the water, and then awaking with a start, and wondering where she was. But +at last deep dreamless sleep came; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a +pillow against the gorsy wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two +equal terrors, found the one relief that was possible to it—the relief of +unconsciousness. +</p> + +<p> +Alas! That relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It seemed to Hetty as +if those dozen dreams had only passed into another dream—that she was in the +hovel, and her aunt was standing over her with a candle in her hand. She +trembled under her aunt’s glance, and opened her eyes. There was no candle, but +there was light in the hovel—the light of early morning through the open door. +And there was a face looking down on her; but it was an unknown face, belonging +to an elderly man in a smock-frock. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what do you do here, young woman?” the man said roughly. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame than she had done in +her momentary dream under her aunt’s glance. She felt that she was like a +beggar already—found sleeping in that place. But in spite of her trembling, she +was so eager to account to the man for her presence here, that she found words +at once. +</p> + +<p> +“I lost my way,” she said. “I’m travelling—north’ard, and I got away from the +road into the fields, and was overtaken by the dark. Will you tell me the way +to the nearest village?” +</p> + +<p> +She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet to adjust it, +and then laid hold of her basket. +</p> + +<p> +The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without giving her any answer, +for some seconds. Then he turned away and walked towards the door of the hovel, +but it was not till he got there that he stood still, and, turning his shoulder +half-round towards her, said, “Aw, I can show you the way to Norton, if you +like. But what do you do gettin’ out o’ the highroad?” he added, with a tone of +gruff reproof. “Y’ull be gettin’ into mischief, if you dooant mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty, “I won’t do it again. I’ll keep in the road, if you’ll be so +good as show me how to get to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why dooant you keep where there’s a finger-poasses an’ folks to ax the way +on?” the man said, still more gruffly. “Anybody ’ud think you was a wild woman, +an’ look at yer.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more at this last +suggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As she followed him out of the +hovel she thought she would give him a sixpence for telling her the way, and +then he would not suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road to +her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the six-pence ready, and when he was +turning away, without saying good-morning, she held it out to him and said, +“Thank you; will you please to take something for your trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, “I want none o’ your money. +You’d better take care on’t, else you’ll get it stool from yer, if you go +trapesin’ about the fields like a mad woman a-thatway.” +</p> + +<p> +The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held on her way. Another day +had risen, and she must wander on. It was no use to think of drowning +herself—she could not do it, at least while she had money left to buy food and +strength to journey on. But the incident on her waking this morning heightened +her dread of that time when her money would be all gone; she would have to sell +her basket and clothes then, and she would really look like a beggar or a wild +woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life she had felt in the +night, after escaping from the brink of the black cold death in the pool, was +gone now. Life now, by the morning light, with the impression of that man’s +hard wondering look at her, was as full of dread as death—it was worse; it was +a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank and shrank as she did +from the black pool, and yet could find no refuge from it. +</p> + +<p> +She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it. She had still +two-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her for many days more, or it would +help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, within reach of Dinah. The thought of +Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since the experience of the night had +driven her shuddering imagination away from the pool. If it had been only going +to Dinah—if nobody besides Dinah would ever know—Hetty could have made up her +mind to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn her. But +afterwards the other people must know, and she could no more rush on that shame +than she could rush on death. +</p> + +<p> +She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair to give her +courage. Perhaps death would come to her, for she was getting less and less +able to bear the day’s weariness. And yet—such is the strange action of our +souls, drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very ends we dread—Hetty, +when she set out again from Norton, asked the straightest road northwards +towards Stonyshire, and kept it all that day. +</p> + +<p> +Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face and the hard, unloving, +despairing soul looking out of it—with the narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no +room in them for any sorrows but her own, and tasting that sorrow with the more +intense bitterness! My heart bleeds for her as I see her toiling along on her +weary feet, or seated in a cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road +before her, never thinking or caring whither it tends, till hunger comes and +makes her desire that a village may be near. +</p> + +<p> +What will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart from all love, +caring for human beings only through her pride, clinging to life only as the +hunted wounded brute clings to it? +</p> + +<p> +God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such misery! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"></a> +Chapter XXXVIII<br/> +The Quest</h2> + +<p> +The first ten days after Hetty’s departure passed as quietly as any other days +with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at his daily work. They had +expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least, perhaps a little +longer if Dinah came back with her, because there might then be something to +detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had passed they began to feel a +little surprise that Hetty did not return; she must surely have found it +pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could have supposed. Adam, for his +part, was getting very impatient to see her, and he resolved that, if she did +not appear the next day (Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch +her. There was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light, +and perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty early +at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day—Dinah too, if she were coming. +It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would afford to lose his Monday for +the sake of bringing her. +</p> + +<p> +His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on Saturday +evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to come back without Hetty, +for she had been quite too long away, considering the things she had to get +ready by the middle of March, and a week was surely enough for any one to go +out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. Poyser had small hope of their +bringing her, unless they could make her believe the folks at Hayslope were +twice as miserable as the folks at Snowfield. “Though,” said Mrs. Poyser, by +way of conclusion, “you might tell her she’s got but one aunt left, and +<i>she’s</i> wasted pretty nigh to a shadder; and we shall p’rhaps all be gone +twenty mile farther off her next Michaelmas, and shall die o’ broken hearts +among strange folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man perfectly +heart-whole, “it isna so bad as that. Thee’t looking rarely now, and getting +flesh every day. But I’d be glad for Dinah t’ come, for she’d help thee wi’ the +little uns: they took t’ her wonderful.” +</p> + +<p> +So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the first mile or +two, for the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Dinah might come +again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both +in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the +last morning in February, with a low grey sky, and a slight hoar-frost on the +green border of the road and on the black hedges. They heard the gurgling of +the full brooklet hurrying down the hill, and the faint twittering of the early +birds. For they walked in silence, though with a pleased sense of +companionship. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, lad,” said Adam, laying his hand on Seth’s shoulder and looking at +him affectionately as they were about to part. “I wish thee wast going all the +way wi’ me, and as happy as I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m content, Addy, I’m content,” said Seth cheerfully. “I’ll be an old +bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi’ thy children.” +</p> + +<p> +They turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward, mentally +repeating one of his favourite hymns—he was very fond of hymns: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Dark and cheerless is the morn<br/> + Unaccompanied by thee:<br/> +Joyless is the day’s return<br/> + Till thy mercy’s beams I see:<br/> +Till thou inward light impart,<br/> +Glad my eyes and warm my heart.<br/> +<br/> +Visit, then, this soul of mine,<br/> + Pierce the gloom of sin and grief—<br/> +Fill me, Radiancy Divine,<br/> + Scatter all my unbelief.<br/> +More and more thyself display,<br/> +Shining to the perfect day.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne road at sunrise +that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tall broad-chested man, +striding along with a carriage as upright and firm as any soldier’s, glancing +with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as they began to show themselves on +his way. Seldom in Adam’s life had his face been so free from any cloud of +anxiety as it was this morning; and this freedom from care, as is usual with +constructive practical minds like his, made him all the more observant of the +objects round him and all the more ready to gather suggestions from them +towards his own favourite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love—the +knowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was +so soon to be his—was to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was to his +sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-being that made activity +delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of more intense feeling towards +her, which chased away other images than Hetty; and along with that would come +a wondering thankfulness that all this happiness was given to him—that this +life of ours had such sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he +was perhaps rather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very close +to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the other. +But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought +would come back with the greater vigour; and this morning it was intent on +schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so imperfect all through +the country, and on picturing all the benefits that might come from the +exertions of a single country gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the +roads made good in his own district. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that pretty town +within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted. After this, the country +grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no more wide-branching trees near +frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting +the meagre pastures, and dismal wide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands +where mines had been and were no longer. “A hungry land,” said Adam to himself. +“I’d rather go south’ard, where they say it’s as flat as a table, than come to +live here; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the most +comfort to folks, she’s i’ the right to live o’ this side; for she must look as +if she’d come straight from heaven, like th’ angels in the desert, to +strengthen them as ha’ got nothing t’ eat.” And when at last he came in sight +of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was “fellow to the +country,” though the stream through the valley where the great mill stood gave +a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and +unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at +present, for Seth had told him where to find Dinah. It was at a thatched +cottage outside the town, a little way from the mill—an old cottage, standing +sideways towards the road, with a little bit of potato-ground before it. Here +Dinah lodged with an elderly couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, +Adam could learn where they were gone, or when they would be at home again. +Dinah might be out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left +Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the +cottage by the roadside before him, there shone out in his face that +involuntary smile which belongs to the expectation of a near joy. +</p> + +<p> +He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door. It was +opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow palsied shake of the head. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Dinah Morris at home?” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?... no,” said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger with a wonder +that made her slower of speech than usual. “Will you please to come in?” she +added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself. “Why, ye’re brother +to the young man as come afore, arena ye?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam, entering. “That was Seth Bede. I’m his brother Adam. He told +me to give his respects to you and your good master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, the same t’ him. He was a gracious young man. An’ ye feature him, on’y +ye’re darker. Sit ye down i’ th’ arm-chair. My man isna come home from +meeting.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman with +questions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in one +corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his voice and +would come down them. +</p> + +<p> +“So you’re come to see Dinah Morris?” said the old woman, standing opposite to +him. “An’ you didn’ know she was away from home, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Adam, “but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing as it’s +Sunday. But the other young woman—is she at home, or gone along with Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone along wi’ her?” she said. “Eh, Dinah’s gone to Leeds, a big town ye may +ha’ heared on, where there’s a many o’ the Lord’s people. She’s been gone sin’ +Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for her journey. You may see +her room here,” she went on, opening a door and not noticing the effect of her +words on Adam. He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance into the +little room with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley on the wall, and the +few books lying on the large Bible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty +might be there. He could not speak in the first moment after seeing that the +room was empty; an undefined fear had seized him—something had happened to +Hetty on the journey. Still the old woman was so slow of speech and +apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity ye didna know,” she said. “Have ye come from your own country o’ +purpose to see her?” +</p> + +<p> +“But Hetty—Hetty Sorrel,” said Adam, abruptly; “Where is <i>she?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nobody by that name,” said the old woman, wonderingly. “Is it anybody +ye’ve heared on at Snowfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did there come no young woman here—very young and pretty—Friday was a +fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay; I’n seen no young woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyes and dark +curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? You couldn’t forget +her if you saw her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay; Friday was a fortnight—it was the day as Dinah went away—there come +nobody. There’s ne’er been nobody asking for her till you come, for the folks +about know as she’s gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam’s face. But he was not +stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly where he could inquire about +Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was a +fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I’m afraid something has happened to her. +I can’t stop. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to the gate, +watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towards the town. He +was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coach stopped. +</p> + +<p> +No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accident happened to +the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there was no coach to take him back to +Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn’t stay here, in wretched +inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great anxiety, and +entering into this new incident with the eagerness of a man who passes a great +deal of time with his hands in his pockets looking into an obstinately +monotonous street, offered to take him back to Oakbourne in his own “taxed +cart” this very evening. It was not five o’clock; there was plenty of time for +Adam to take a meal and yet to get to Oakbourne before ten o’clock. The +innkeeper declared that he really wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well +go to-night; he should have all Monday before him then. Adam, after making an +ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught +of ale, declared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, it +occurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman where Dinah +was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall Farm—he only +half-admitted the foreboding that there would be—the Poysers might like to send +for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any address, and the old woman, whose memory +for names was infirm, could not recall the name of the “blessed woman” who was +Dinah’s chief friend in the Society at Leeds. +</p> + +<p> +During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time for all the +conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope. In the very first shock of +discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had +darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but he tried for some time to ward off +its return by busying himself with modes of accounting for the alarming fact, +quite apart from that intolerable thought. Some accident had happened. Hetty +had, by some strange chance, got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne: she had +been taken ill, and did not want to frighten them by letting them know. But +this frail fence of vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of +distinct agonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking that she +could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; and now, in +her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had run away. And she +was gone to <i>him</i>. The old indignation and jealousy rose again, and +prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing falsely—had written to +Hetty—had tempted her to come to him—being unwilling, after all, that she +should belong to another man besides himself. Perhaps the whole thing had been +contrived by him, and he had given her directions how to follow him to +Ireland—for Adam knew that Arthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having +recently learnt it at the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty’s, since she had been +engaged to Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful +retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thing hadn’t +perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought that she could forget +Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man who offered her a +protecting, faithful love. He couldn’t bear to blame her: she never meant to +cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man who had selfishly +played with her heart—had perhaps even deliberately lured her away. +</p> + +<p> +At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young woman as Adam +described getting out of the Treddleston coach more than a fortnight ago—wasn’t +likely to forget such a pretty lass as that in a hurry—was sure she had not +gone on by the Buxton coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of +her while he went away with the horses and had never set eyes on her again. +Adam then went straight to the house from which the Stoniton coach started: +Stoniton was the most obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might be +her destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief coach-roads. +She had been noticed here too, and was remembered to have sat on the box by the +coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, for another man had been driving +on that road in his stead the last three or four days. He could probably be +seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at the inn where the coach put up. So the +anxious heart-stricken Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till +morning—nay, till eleven o’clock, when the coach started. +</p> + +<p> +At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had driven Hetty +would not be in the town again till night. When he did come he remembered Hetty +well, and remembered his own joke addressed to her, quoting it many times to +Adam, and observing with equal frequency that he thought there was something +more than common, because Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he +declared, as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty +directly she got down. Part of the next morning was consumed in inquiries at +every house in the town from which a coach started—(all in vain, for you know +Hetty did not start from Stoniton by coach, but on foot in the grey +morning)—and then in walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines +of road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No, she +was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adam was to go +home and carry the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As to what he should do +beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions amidst the tumult of +thought and feeling which was going on within him while he went to and fro. He +would not mention what he knew of Arthur Donnithorne’s behaviour to Hetty till +there was a clear necessity for it: it was still possible Hetty might come +back, and the disclosure might be an injury or an offence to her. And as soon +as he had been home and done what was necessary there to prepare for his +further absence, he would start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty +on the road, he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and make himself +certain how far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thought +occurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would be useless +unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seems +strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind about Hetty, should +never have alighted on the probability that she had gone to Windsor, ignorant +that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the reason was that he could not +conceive Hetty’s throwing herself on Arthur uncalled; he imagined no cause that +could have driven her to such a step, after that letter written in August. +There were but two alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her +again and enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching +marriage with himself because she found, after all, she could not love him well +enough, and yet was afraid of her friends’ anger if she retracted. +</p> + +<p> +With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur, the +thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved to be almost +useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would not tell the Poysers +his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or his intention to follow her +thither, he must be able to say to them that he had traced her as far as +possible. +</p> + +<p> +It was after twelve o’clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached Treddleston; +and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and also to encounter their +questions at that hour, he threw himself without undressing on a bed at the +“Waggon Overthrown,” and slept hard from pure weariness. Not more than four +hours, however, for before five o’clock he set out on his way home in the faint +morning twilight. He always kept a key of the workshop door in his pocket, so +that he could let himself in; and he wished to enter without awaking his +mother, for he was anxious to avoid telling her the new trouble himself by +seeing Seth first, and asking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He +walked gently along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but, as he +expected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided when he +saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence, and in his dumb, +tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his body against his master’s +legs. +</p> + +<p> +Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp’s fondling. He threw himself on +the bench and stared dully at the wood and the signs of work around him, +wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in them again, while Gyp, +dimly aware that there was something wrong with his master, laid his rough grey +head on Adam’s knee and wrinkled his brows to look up at him. Hitherto, since +Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constantly among strange people and in strange +places, having no associations with the details of his daily life, and now that +by the light of this new morning he was come back to his home and surrounded by +the familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the +reality—the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon him with a +new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers, which he had +been making in spare moments for Hetty’s use, when his home should be hers. +</p> + +<p> +Seth had not heard Adam’s entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp’s bark, and +Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressing himself. Seth’s first +thoughts were about his brother: he would come home to-day, surely, for the +business would be wanting him sadly by to-morrow, but it was pleasant to think +he had had a longer holiday than he had expected. And would Dinah come too? +Seth felt that that was the greatest happiness he could look forward to for +himself, though he had no hope left that she would ever love him well enough to +marry him; but he had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah’s friend +and brother than any other woman’s husband. If he could but be always near her, +instead of living so far off! +</p> + +<p> +He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitchen into the +workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood still in the doorway, smitten +with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, +unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But +Seth felt in an instant what the marks meant—not drunkenness, but some great +calamity. Adam looked up at him without speaking, and Seth moved forward +towards the bench, himself trembling so that speech did not come readily. +</p> + +<p> +“God have mercy on us, Addy,” he said, in a low voice, sitting down on the +bench beside Adam, “what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress the signs of +sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child’s at this first approach of +sympathy. He fell on Seth’s neck and sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of their +boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?” he asked, in a low tone, when Adam raised his +head and was recovering himself. +</p> + +<p> +“No, lad; but she’s gone—gone away from us. She’s never been to Snowfield. +Dinah’s been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was a fortnight, the very day +Hetty set out. I can’t find out where she went after she got to Stoniton.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could suggest to +him a reason for Hetty’s going away. +</p> + +<p> +“Hast any notion what she’s done it for?” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“She can’t ha’ loved me. She didn’t like our marriage when it came nigh—that +must be it,” said Adam. He had determined to mention no further reason. +</p> + +<p> +“I hear Mother stirring,” said Seth. “Must we tell her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not yet,” said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair from his +face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. “I can’t have her told yet; and I must +set out on another journey directly, after I’ve been to the village and th’ +Hall Farm. I can’t tell thee where I’m going, and thee must say to her I’m gone +on business as nobody is to know anything about. I’ll go and wash myself now.” +Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but after a step or two he turned +round, and, meeting Seth’s eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, “I must take +all the money out o’ the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the +rest ’ll be thine, to take care o’ Mother with.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secret under all +this. “Brother,” he said, faintly—he never called Adam “Brother” except in +solemn moments—“I don’t believe you’ll do anything as you can’t ask God’s +blessing on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, lad,” said Adam, “don’t be afraid. I’m for doing nought but what’s a +man’s duty.” +</p> + +<p> +The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would only +distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half of irrepressible +triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as she had always foreseen, +brought back some of his habitual firmness and self-command. He had felt ill on +his journey home—he told her when she came down—had stayed all night at +Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad headache, that still hung about him +this morning, accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes. +</p> + +<p> +He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to his business +for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged to go on a journey, +which he must beg him not to mention to any one; for he wished to avoid going +to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the children and servants would be +in the house-place, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about his +having returned without Hetty. He waited until the clock struck nine before he +left the work-yard at the village, and set off, through the fields, towards the +Farm. It was an immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see +Mr. Poyser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going to +the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with a sense of +spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master’s eye on the +shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a useful companion by the +way. His surprise was great when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man +given to presentiments of evil. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adam, lad, is’t you? Have ye been all this time away and not brought the +lasses back, after all? Where are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’ve not brought ’em,” said Adam, turning round, to indicate that he +wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, “ye look bad. Is +there anything happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam, heavily. “A sad thing’s happened. I didna find Hetty at +Snowfield.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser’s good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment. “Not find +her? What’s happened to her?” he said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily +accident. +</p> + +<p> +“That I can’t tell, whether anything’s happened to her. She never went to +Snowfield—she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can’t learn nothing of her +after she got down from the Stoniton coach.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you donna mean she’s run away?” said Martin, standing still, so puzzled +and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as a trouble by him. +</p> + +<p> +“She must ha’ done,” said Adam. “She didn’t like our marriage when it came to +the point—that must be it. She’d mistook her feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting up the +grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing. His usual slowness was +always trebled when the subject of speech was painful. At last he looked up, +right in Adam’s face, saying, “Then she didna deserve t’ ha’ ye, my lad. An’ I +feel i’ fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for her +marr’ing ye. There’s no amends I can make ye, lad—the more’s the pity: it’s a +sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for a little +while, went on, “I’ll be bound she’s gone after trying to get a lady’s maid’s +place, for she’d got that in her head half a year ago, and wanted me to gi’ my +consent. But I’d thought better on her”—he added, shaking his head slowly and +sadly—“I’d thought better on her, nor to look for this, after she’d gi’en y’ +her word, an’ everything been got ready.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr. Poyser, +and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. He had no warrant +for the <i>certainty</i> that she was gone to Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“It was better it should be so,” he said, as quietly as he could, “if she felt +she couldn’t like me for a husband. Better run away before than repent after. I +hope you won’t look harshly on her if she comes back, as she may do if she +finds it hard to get on away from home.” +</p> + +<p> +“I canna look on her as I’ve done before,” said Martin decisively. “She’s acted +bad by you, and by all of us. But I’ll not turn my back on her: she’s but a +young un, and it’s the first harm I’ve knowed on her. It’ll be a hard job for +me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back wi’ ye? She’d ha’ helped to +pacify her aunt a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah wasn’t at Snowfield. She’s been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and I +couldn’t learn from th’ old woman any direction where she is at Leeds, else I +should ha’ brought it you.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d a deal better be staying wi’ her own kin,” said Mr. Poyser, indignantly, +“than going preaching among strange folks a-that’n.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser,” said Adam, “for I’ve a deal to see to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, you’d best be after your business, and I must tell the missis when I go +home. It’s a hard job.” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” said Adam, “I beg particular, you’ll keep what’s happened quiet for a +week or two. I’ve not told my mother yet, and there’s no knowing how things may +turn out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We’n no need to say why the match is +broke off, an’ we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands wi’ me, lad: I wish +I could make thee amends.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something in Martin Poyser’s throat at that moment which caused him +to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken fashion. Yet Adam knew what +they meant all the better, and the two honest men grasped each other’s hard +hands in mutual understanding. +</p> + +<p> +There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Seth to go +to the Chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that Adam Bede had been +obliged to start off suddenly on a journey—and to say as much, and no more, to +any one else who made inquiries about him. If the Poysers learned that he was +gone away again, Adam knew they would infer that he was gone in search of +Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now the impulse +which had frequently visited him before—to go to Mr. Irwine, and make a +confidant of him—recurred with the new force which belongs to a last +opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey—a difficult one—by sea—and +no soul would know where he was gone. If anything happened to him? Or, if he +absolutely needed help in any matter concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be +trusted; and the feeling which made Adam shrink from telling anything which was +<i>her</i> secret must give way before the need there was that she should have +some one else besides himself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst +extremity. Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, +Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty’s interest called on +him to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I must do it,” said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread themselves +through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon him in an instant, like a +wave that had been slowly gathering; “it’s the right thing. I can’t stand alone +in this way any longer.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"></a> +Chapter XXXIX<br/> +The Tidings</h2> + +<p> +Adam turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest stride, +looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be gone out—hunting, +perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of strong excitement +before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he saw the deep marks of a +recent hoof on the gravel. +</p> + +<p> +But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though there +was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine’s: it had evidently +had a journey this morning, and must belong to some one who had come on +business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could hardly find breath and +calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speak to the rector. The double +suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had begun to shake the strong man. +The butler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw himself on a bench in the +passage and stared absently at the clock on the opposite wall. The master had +somebody with him, he said, but he heard the study door open—the stranger +seemed to be coming out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master +know at once. +</p> + +<p> +Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along the last five +minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adam watched the +movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some reason for doing so. +In our times of bitter suffering there are almost always these pauses, when our +consciousness is benumbed to everything but some trivial perception or +sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came to give us rest from the memory and the +dread which refuse to leave us in our sleep. +</p> + +<p> +Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He was to go +into the study immediately. “I can’t think what that strange person’s come +about,” the butler added, from mere incontinence of remark, as he preceded Adam +to the door, “he’s gone i’ the dining-room. And master looks unaccountable—as +if he was frightened.” Adam took no notice of the words: he could not care +about other people’s business. But when he entered the study and looked in Mr. +Irwine’s face, he felt in an instant that there was a new expression in it, +strangely different from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him +before. A letter lay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine’s hand was on it, but +the changed glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation +with some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, +as if Adam’s entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You want to speak to me, Adam,” he said, in that low constrainedly quiet tone +which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation. “Sit down here.” +He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard’s distance +from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr. +Irwine’s gave an additional unexpected difficulty to his disclosure. But when +Adam had made up his mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for +any but imperative reasons. +</p> + +<p> +“I come to you, sir,” he said, “as the gentleman I look up to most of anybody. +I’ve something very painful to tell you—something as it’ll pain you to hear as +well as me to tell. But if I speak o’ the wrong other people have done, you’ll +see I didn’t speak till I’d good reason.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, “You was t’ ha’ +married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o’ the fifteenth o’ this month. I +thought she loved me, and I was th’ happiest man i’ the parish. But a dreadful +blow’s come upon me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then, determined +to control himself, walked to the window and looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gone away, sir, and we don’t know where. She said she was going to +Snowfield o’ Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday to fetch her back; +but she’d never been there, and she took the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that +I can’t trace her. But now I’m going a long journey to look for her, and I +can’t trust t’ anybody but you where I’m going.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s plain enough she didn’t want to marry me, sir,” said Adam. “She didn’t +like it when it came so near. But that isn’t all, I doubt. There’s something +else I must tell you, sir. There’s somebody else concerned besides me.” +</p> + +<p> +A gleam of something—it was almost like relief or joy—came across the eager +anxiety of Mr. Irwine’s face at that moment. Adam was looking on the ground, +and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak. But when he went on, he +lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. Irwine. He would do the thing he +had resolved to do, without flinching. +</p> + +<p> +“You know who’s the man I’ve reckoned my greatest friend,” he said, “and used +to be proud to think as I should pass my life i’ working for him, and had felt +so ever since we were lads....” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam’s arm, which +lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain, said, with pale +lips and a low hurried voice, “No, Adam, no—don’t say it, for God’s sake!” +</p> + +<p> +Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine’s feeling, repented of the words +that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The grasp on his arm +gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his chair, saying, “Go +on—I must know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That man played with Hetty’s feelings, and behaved to her as he’d no right to +do to a girl in her station o’ life—made her presents and used to go and meet +her out a-walking. I found it out only two days before he went away—found him +a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove. There’d been nothing said +between me and Hetty then, though I’d loved her for a long while, and she knew +it. But I reproached him with his wrong actions, and words and blows passed +between us; and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense +and no more than a bit o’ flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty +he’d meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn’t +understood at the time, as he’d got hold of her heart, and I thought she’d +belike go on thinking of him and never come to love another man as wanted to +marry her. And I gave her the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a +while better than I’d expected... and she behaved kinder and kinder to me... I +daresay she didn’t know her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back +upon her when it was too late... I don’t want to blame her... I can’t think as +she meant to deceive me. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and—you +know the rest, sir. But it’s on my mind as he’s been false to me, and ’ticed +her away, and she’s gone to him—and I’m going now to see, for I can never go to +work again till I know what’s become of her.” +</p> + +<p> +During Adam’s narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his self-mastery in +spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him. It was a bitter +remembrance to him now—that morning when Arthur breakfasted with him and seemed +as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain enough <i>now</i> what +he had wanted to confess. And if their words had taken another turn... if he +himself had been less fastidious about intruding on another man’s secrets... it +was cruel to think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and +misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which the +present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon him +was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man who sat +before him—already so bruised, going forth with sad blind resignedness to an +unreal sorrow, while a real one was close upon him, too far beyond the range of +common trial for him ever to have feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a +certain awe that comes over us in the presence of a great anguish, for the +anguish he must inflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his +hand on the arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said +solemnly: +</p> + +<p> +“Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You can bear +sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires both tasks at our hands. +And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than any you have yet known. But +you are not guilty—you have not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who +has!” +</p> + +<p> +The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam’s there was trembling +suspense, in Mr. Irwine’s hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on. +</p> + +<p> +“I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to <i>him</i>. She is +in Stonyshire—at Stoniton.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leaped to her +that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm again and said, persuasively, +“Wait, Adam, wait.” So he sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“She is in a very unhappy position—one which will make it worse for you to find +her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and he +whispered, “Tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has been arrested... she is in prison.” +</p> + +<p> +It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance into +Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly and sharply, “For +what?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a great crime—the murder of her child.” +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>can’t be!</i>” Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair and +making a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting his back +against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. “It isn’t possible. +She never had a child. She can’t be guilty. <i>Who</i> says it?” +</p> + +<p> +“God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“But who says she is guilty?” said Adam violently. “Tell me everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and the +constable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confess her name +or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. +The description of her person corresponds, only that she is said to look very +pale and ill. She had a small red-leather pocket-book in her pocket with two +names written in it—one at the beginning, ‘Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,’ and the +other near the end, ‘Dinah Morris, Snowfield.’ She will not say which is her +own name—she denies everything, and will answer no questions, and application +has been made to me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying +her, for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own +name.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what proof have they got against her, if it <i>is</i> Hetty?” said Adam, +still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame. “I’ll not +believe it. It couldn’t ha’ been, and none of us know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime; but we +have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and read that letter, +Adam.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes +steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. When he came +back, Adam’s eyes were still on the first page—he couldn’t read—he could not +put the words together and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last +and clenched his fist. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s <i>his</i> doing,” he said; “if there’s been any crime, it’s at his door, +not at hers. <i>He</i> taught her to deceive—<i>he</i> deceived me first. Let +’em put <i>him</i> 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 <i>he</i> to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her... so +weak and young?” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>can’t</i> bear it... O God, it’s too hard to lay upon me—it’s too hard to +think she’s wicked.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +“No, Adam, no; I’m sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be done for +<i>her</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the actual +scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam’s own sake. +Movement, with some object before him, was the best means of counteracting the +violence of suffering in these first hours. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>will</i> go with me to Stoniton, Adam?” he said again, after a moment’s +pause. “We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said Adam, “I’ll do what you think right. But the folks at th’ Hall +Farm?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shall have +ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now, and I shall return as +soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"></a> +Chapter XL<br/> +The Bitter Waters Spread</h2> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and the first +words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house, were, that Squire +Donnithorne was dead—found dead in his bed at ten o’clock that morning—and that +Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. Irwine came home, +and she begged him not to go to bed without seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Dauphin,” Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, “you’re come at +last. So the old gentleman’s fidgetiness and low spirits, which made him send +for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. I suppose Carroll has +told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this morning. You will +believe my prognostications another time, though I daresay I shan’t live to +prognosticate anything but my own death.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have they done about Arthur?” said Mr. Irwine. “Sent a messenger to await +him at Liverpool?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I shall +live now to see him master at the Chase, and making good times on the estate, +like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He’ll be as happy as a king now.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with anxiety and +exertion, and his mother’s light words were almost intolerable. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are you +thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful Irish Channel at +this time of year?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mother, I’m not thinking of that; but I’m not prepared to rejoice just +now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been worried by this law business that you’ve been to Stoniton about. +What in the world is it, that you can’t tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell you at +present. Good-night: you’ll sleep now you have no longer anything to listen +for.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur, since it +would not now hasten his return: the news of his grandfather’s death would +bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go to bed now and get +some needful rest, before the time came for the morning’s heavy duty of +carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and to Adam’s home. +</p> + +<p> +Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank from seeing +Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no use, sir,” he said to the rector, “it’s no use for me to go back. I +can’t go to work again while she’s here, and I couldn’t bear the sight o’ the +things and folks round home. I’ll take a bit of a room here, where I can see +the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing <i>her</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the crime she +was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the belief in her guilt would be +a crushing addition to Adam’s load, had kept from him the facts which left no +hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for thrusting the whole burden +on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, at parting, only said, “If the evidence should +tell too strongly against her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth +and other circumstances will be a plea for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, and it’s right people should know how she was tempted into the wrong way,” +said Adam, with bitter earnestness. “It’s right they should know it was a fine +gentleman made love to her, and turned her head wi’ notions. You’ll remember, +sir, you’ve promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the people at the farm, +who it was as led her wrong, else they’ll think harder of her than she +deserves. You’ll be doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the +guiltiest before God, let her ha’ done what she may. If you spare him, I’ll +expose him!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think your demand is just, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine, “but when you are calmer, +you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only that his +punishment is in other hands than ours.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur’s sad +part in the story of sin and sorrow—he who cared for Arthur with fatherly +affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that +the secret must be known before long, even apart from Adam’s determination, +since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would persist to the end in her +obstinate silence. He made up his mind to withhold nothing from the Poysers, +but to tell them the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the tidings of +their suddenness. Hetty’s trial must come on at the Lent assizes, and they were +to be held at Stoniton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin +Poyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was better he +should know everything as long beforehand as possible. +</p> + +<p> +Before ten o’clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm was a house of +mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. The sense of family +dishonour was too keen even in the kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger to +leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and his father were +simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished character, proud that they +came of a family which had held up its head and paid its way as far back as its +name was in the parish register; and Hetty had brought disgrace on them +all—disgrace that could never be wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling +in the mind both of father and son—the scorching sense of disgrace, which +neutralised all other sensibility—and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to +observe that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often +startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason +is, that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditional +impressions. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her off,” +said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while the old grandfather was +crying in the opposite chair, “but I’ll not go nigh her, nor ever see her +again, by my own will. She’s made our bread bitter to us for all our lives to +come, an’ we shall ne’er hold up our heads i’ this parish nor i’ any other. The +parson talks o’ folks pitying us: it’s poor amends pity ’ull make us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pity?” said the grandfather, sharply. “I ne’er wanted folks’s pity i’ +<i>my</i> life afore... an’ I mun begin to be looked down on now, an’ me turned +seventy-two last St. Thomas’s, an’ all th’ underbearers and pall-bearers as I’n +picked for my funeral are i’ this parish and the next to ’t.... It’s o’ no use +now... I mun be ta’en to the grave by strangers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t fret so, father,” said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little, being +almost overawed by her husband’s unusual hardness and decision. “You’ll have +your children wi’ you; an’ there’s the lads and the little un ’ull grow up in a +new parish as well as i’ th’ old un.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, there’s no staying i’ this country for us now,” said Mr. Poyser, and the +hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. “We thought it ’ud be bad +luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but I must gi’ notice +myself now, an’ see if there can anybody be got to come an’ take to the crops +as I’n put i’ the ground; for I wonna stay upo’ that man’s land a day longer +nor I’m forced to’t. An’ me, as thought him such a good upright young man, as I +should be glad when he come to be our landlord. I’ll ne’er lift my hat to him +again, nor sit i’ the same church wi’ him... a man as has brought shame on +respectable folks... an’ pretended to be such a friend t’ everybody.... Poor +Adam there... a fine friend he’s been t’ Adam, making speeches an’ talking so +fine, an’ all the while poisoning the lad’s life, as it’s much if he can stay +i’ this country any more nor we can.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ you t’ ha’ to go into court, and own you’re akin t’ her,” said the old +man. “Why, they’ll cast it up to the little un, as isn’t four ’ear old, some +day—they’ll cast it up t’ her as she’d a cousin tried at the ’sizes for +murder.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be their own wickedness, then,” said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in her +voice. “But there’s One above ’ull take care o’ the innicent child, else it’s +but little truth they tell us at church. It’ll be harder nor ever to die an’ +leave the little uns, an’ nobody to be a mother to ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’d better ha’ sent for Dinah, if we’d known where she is,” said Mr. Poyser; +“but Adam said she’d left no direction where she’d be at Leeds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she’d be wi’ that woman as was a friend t’ her Aunt Judith,” said Mrs. +Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husband. “I’ve often heard +Dinah talk of her, but I can’t remember what name she called her by. But +there’s Seth Bede; he’s like enough to know, for she’s a preaching woman as the +Methodists think a deal on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll send to Seth,” said Mr. Poyser. “I’ll send Alick to tell him to come, or +else to send up word o’ the woman’s name, an’ thee canst write a letter ready +to send off to Treddles’on as soon as we can make out a direction.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i’ trouble,” +said Mrs. Poyser. “Happen it’ll be ever so long on the road, an’ never reach +her at last.” +</p> + +<p> +Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth’s thoughts too had already flown +to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, “Eh, there’s no comfort for us i’ this +world any more, wi’out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did +when my old man died. I’d like her to come in an’ take me by th’ hand again, +an’ talk to me. She’d tell me the rights on’t, belike—she’d happen know some +good i’ all this trouble an’ heart-break comin’ upo’ that poor lad, as ne’er +done a bit o’ wrong in’s life, but war better nor anybody else’s son, pick the +country round. Eh, my lad... Adam, my poor lad!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?” said Seth, as +his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +“Fetch her?” said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like a crying +child who hears some promise of consolation. “Why, what place is’t she’s at, do +they say?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a good way off, mother—Leeds, a big town. But I could be back in three +days, if thee couldst spare me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an’ see thy brother, an’ bring me +word what he’s a-doin’. Mester Irwine said he’d come an’ tell me, but I canna +make out so well what it means when he tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin’ Adam +wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah canstna? Thee’t fond enough o’ +writin’ when nobody wants thee.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not sure where she’d be i’ that big town,” said Seth. “If I’d gone myself, +I could ha’ found out by asking the members o’ the Society. But perhaps if I +put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o’ th’ outside, it might get +to her; for most like she’d be wi’ Sarah Williamson.” +</p> + +<p> +Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was writing +to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself; but he went to the Hall +Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address of the letter, and +warn them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his not knowing +an exact direction. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also a claim +to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away from business for some +time; and before six o’clock that evening there were few people in Broxton and +Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had not mentioned Arthur’s +name to Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the +dark shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was presently as well +known as that his grandfather was dead, and that he was come into the estate. +For Martin Poyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two +neighbours who ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the +first day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that +passed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and +found early opportunities of communicating it. +</p> + +<p> +One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the hand +without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, +and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about half-past seven in +the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling +him at that hour, but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into +the study, where Mr. Irwine soon joined him. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Bartle?” said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his usual +way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with +us very much alike. “Sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know what I’m come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay,” said Bartle. +</p> + +<p> +“You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you... about +Hetty Sorrel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at +Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what’s the state of the poor +lad’s mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o’ pink-and-white +they’ve taken the trouble to put in jail, I don’t value her a rotten nut—not a +rotten nut—only for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest +man—a lad I’ve set such store by—trusted to, that he’d make my bit o’ knowledge +go a good way in the world.... Why, sir, he’s the only scholar I’ve had in this +stupid country that ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he +hadn’t had so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the +higher branches, and then this might never have happened—might never have +happened.” +</p> + +<p> +Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, +and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of venting his +feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and probably his moist +eyes also. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when this pause had given him time to +reflect, “for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that foolish +dog of mine howling in a storm, when there’s nobody wants to listen to me. I +came to hear you speak, not to talk myself—if you’ll take the trouble to tell +me what the poor lad’s doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t put yourself under any restraint, Bartle,” said Mr. Irwine. “The fact +is, I’m very much in the same condition as you just now; I’ve a great deal +that’s painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my +own feelings and only attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though +he is not the only one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends +to remain at Stoniton till after the trial: it will come on probably a week +to-morrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I +think it better he should be away from his own home at present; and, poor +fellow, he still believes Hetty is innocent—he wants to summon up courage to +see her if he can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think the creatur’s guilty, then?” said Bartle. “Do you think they’ll +hang her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad +symptom is that she denies everything—denies that she has had a child in the +face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately +silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was +never so shocked in my life as at the change in her. But I trust that, in the +worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the sake of the innocent who are +involved.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stuff and nonsense!” said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was +speaking. “I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it’s stuff and nonsense for the +innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner +such women are put out o’ the world the better; and the men that help ’em to do +mischief had better go along with ’em for that matter. What good will you do by +keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that ’ud feed rational beings? +But if Adam’s fool enough to care about it, I don’t want him to suffer more +than’s needful.... Is he very much cut up, poor fellow?” Bartle added, taking +out his spectacles and putting them on, as if they would assist his +imagination. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m afraid the grief cuts very deep,” said Mr. Irwine. “He looks terribly +shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and then yesterday, which +made me wish I could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton again +to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of Adam’s principle to +trust that he will be able to endure the worst without being driven to anything +rash.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather than +addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind the possibility +that the spirit of vengeance towards Arthur, which was the form Adam’s anguish +was continually taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to end +more fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety +with which he looked forward to Arthur’s arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine +was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"></a> +Chapter XLI<br/> +The Eve of the Trial</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There he is,” said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the door. It +was Mr. Irwine. +</p> + +<p> +Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine approached him +and took his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was no chair +remaining, sat on the bed in the background. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen her, sir?” said Adam tremulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ask her, sir... did you say anything about me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, “I spoke of you. I said you +wished to see her before the trial, if she consented.” +</p> + +<p> +As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only you—some fatal +influence seems to have shut up her heart against her fellow-creatures. She has +scarcely said anything more than ‘No’ either to me or the chaplain. Three or +four days ago, before you were mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was +any one of her family whom she would like to see—to whom she could open her +mind—she said, with a violent shudder, ‘Tell them not to come near me—I won’t +see any of them.’” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was silence for +a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, “I don’t like to advise you against +your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you strongly to go and see her +to-morrow morning, even without her consent. It is just possible, +notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, that the interview might affect +her favourably. But I grieve to say I have scarcely any hope of that. She +didn’t seem agitated when I mentioned your name; she only said ‘No,’ in the +same cold, obstinate way as usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on +her, it would be pure, useless suffering to you—severe suffering, I fear. She +is very much changed...” +</p> + +<p> +Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on the table. But +he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had a question to ask +which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key +in the door, and put it in his pocket. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he come back?” said Adam at last. +</p> + +<p> +“No, he is not,” said Mr. Irwine, quietly. “Lay down your hat, Adam, unless you +like to walk out with me for a little fresh air. I fear you have not been out +again to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t deceive me, sir,” said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine and +speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. “You needn’t be afraid of me. I only +want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It’s his work... she was a +child as it ’ud ha’ gone t’ anybody’s heart to look at... I don’t care what +she’s done... it was him brought her to it. And he shall know it... he shall +feel it... if there’s a just God, he shall feel what it is t’ ha’ brought a +child like her to sin and misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not deceiving you, Adam,” said Mr. Irwine. “Arthur Donnithorne is not come +back—was not come back when I left. I have left a letter for him: he will know +all as soon as he arrives.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you don’t mind about it,” said Adam indignantly. “You think it doesn’t +matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knows nothing about it—he +suffers nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam, he <i>will</i> know—he <i>will</i> suffer, long and bitterly. He has a +heart and a conscience: I can’t be entirely deceived in his character. I am +convinced—I am sure he didn’t fall under temptation without a struggle. He may +be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this +will be a shock of which he will feel the effects all his life. Why do you +crave vengeance in this way? No amount of torture that you could inflict on +<i>him</i> could benefit <i>her</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—O God, no,” Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; “but then, that’s +the deepest curse of all... that’s what makes the blackness of it... <i>it can +never be undone</i>. My poor Hetty... she can never be my sweet Hetty again... +the prettiest thing God had made—smiling up at me... I thought she loved me... +and was good...” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if he were +only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking at Mr. Irwine, “But +she isn’t as guilty as they say? You don’t think she is, sir? She can’t ha’ +done it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam,” Mr. Irwine answered +gently. “In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on what seems to us +strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some small fact, our judgment is +wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right to say that the guilt of her +crime lies with him, and that he ought to bear the punishment. It is not for us +men to apportion the shares of moral guilt and retribution. We find it +impossible to avoid mistakes even in determining who has committed a single +criminal act, and the problem how far a man is to be held responsible for the +unforeseen consequences of his own deed is one that might well make us tremble +to look into it. The evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of +selfish indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken some +feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mind that +can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don’t suppose I can’t enter +into the anguish that drives you into this state of revengeful hatred. But +think of this: if you were to obey your passion—for it <i>is</i> passion, and +you deceive yourself in calling it justice—it might be with you precisely as it +has been with Arthur; nay, worse; your passion might lead you yourself into a +horrible crime.” +</p> + +<p> +“No—not worse,” said Adam, bitterly; “I don’t believe it’s worse—I’d sooner do +it—I’d sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself than ha’ brought +<i>her</i> to do wickedness and then stand by and see ’em punish her while they +let me alone; and all for a bit o’ pleasure, as, if he’d had a man’s heart in +him, he’d ha’ cut his hand off sooner than he’d ha’ taken it. What if he didn’t +foresee what’s happened? He foresaw enough; he’d no right to expect anything +but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to smooth it off wi’ lies. +No—there’s plenty o’ things folks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. +Let a man do what he will, if he knows he’s to bear the punishment himself, he +isn’t half so bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t’ himself and +knows all the while the punishment ’ll fall on somebody else.” +</p> + +<p> +“There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of wrong deed +of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can’t isolate yourself and +say that the evil which is in you shall not spread. Men’s lives are as +thoroughly blended with each other as the air they breathe: evil spreads as +necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the terrible extent of suffering this +sin of Arthur’s has caused to others; but so does every sin cause suffering to +others besides those who commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against +Arthur would simply be another evil added to those we are suffering under: you +could not bear the punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on +every one who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that +would leave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils to +them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance, but the +feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and as long as you +indulge it, as long as you do not see that to fix your mind on Arthur’s +punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in danger of being led on to +the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you told me about your +feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in the Grove.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the past, and +Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to Bartle Massey about old +Mr. Donnithorne’s funeral and other matters of an indifferent kind. But at +length Adam turned round and said, in a more subdued tone, “I’ve not asked +about ’em at th’ Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise him to see you, +Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is best he should not +see you till you are calmer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Dinah Morris come to ’em, sir? Seth said they’d sent for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They’re afraid the +letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, “I wonder if Dinah ’ud ha’ +gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha’ been sorely against it, +since they won’t come nigh her themselves. But I think she would, for the +Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons; and Seth said he thought +she would. She’d a very tender way with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could +ha’ done any good. You never saw her, sir, did you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her—she pleased me a good deal. And now +you mention it, I wish she would come, for it is possible that a gentle mild +woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather +harsh in his manner.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s o’ no use if she doesn’t come,” said Adam sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“If I’d thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures for finding her +out,” said Mr. Irwine, “but it’s too late now, I fear... Well, Adam, I must go +now. Try to get some rest to-night. God bless you. I’ll see you early to-morrow +morning.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"></a> +Chapter XLII<br/> +The Morning of the Trial</h2> + +<p> +At one o’clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper room; his watch +lay before him on the table, as if he were counting the long minutes. He had no +knowledge of what was likely to be said by the witnesses on the trial, for he +had shrunk from all the particulars connected with Hetty’s arrest and +accusation. This brave active man, who would have hastened towards any danger +or toil to rescue Hetty from an apprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself +powerless to contemplate irremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility +which would have been an impelling force where there was any possibility of +action became helpless anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else +sought an active outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. +Energetic natures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a +hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the overmastering sense +of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable instinct, as they +would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to think of seeing +Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because he thought the meeting might +possibly be a good to her—might help to melt away this terrible hardness they +told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will for what she had done to him, +she might open her heart to him. But this resolution had been an immense +effort—he trembled at the thought of seeing her changed face, as a timid woman +trembles at the thought of the surgeon’s knife, and he chose now to bear the +long hours of suspense rather than encounter what seemed to him the more +intolerable agony of witnessing her trial. +</p> + +<p> +Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the +initiation into a new state. The yearning memories, the bitter regret, the +agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the Invisible Right—all the +intense emotions which had filled the days and nights of the past week, and +were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd into the hours of this +single morning, made Adam look back on all the previous years as if they had +been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only now awaked to full consciousness. +It seemed to him as if he had always before thought it a light thing that men +should suffer, as if all that he had himself endured and called sorrow before +was only a moment’s stroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great +anguish may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire +with a soul full of new awe and new pity. +</p> + +<p> +“O God,” Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked blankly at the face +of the watch, “and men have suffered like this before... and poor helpless +young things have suffered like her.... Such a little while ago looking so +happy and so pretty... kissing ’em all, her grandfather and all of ’em, and +they wishing her luck.... O my poor, poor Hetty... dost think on it now?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun to whimper, and +there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle +Massey come back. Could it be all over? +</p> + +<p> +Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand and said, “I’m +just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are gone out of court for a +bit.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam’s heart beat so violently he was unable to speak—he could only return the +pressure of his friend’s hand—and Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and +sat in front of him, taking off his hat and his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a thing never happened to me before,” he observed, “to go out o’ the +door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take ’em off.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respond at all +to Adam’s agitation: he would gather, in an indirect way, that there was +nothing decisive to communicate at present. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” he said, rising again, “I must see to your having a bit of the loaf, +and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent this morning. He’ll be angry with me if +you don’t have it. Come, now,” he went on, bringing forward the bottle and the +loaf and pouring some wine into a cup, “I must have a bit and a sup myself. +Drink a drop with me, my lad—drink with me.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, “Tell me about it, Mr. +Massey—tell me all about it. Was she there? Have they begun?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my boy, yes—it’s taken all the time since I first went; but they’re slow, +they’re slow; and there’s the counsel they’ve got for her puts a spoke in the +wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do with cross-examining the +witnesses and quarrelling with the other lawyers. That’s all he can do for the +money they give him; and it’s a big sum—it’s a big sum. But he’s a ’cute +fellow, with an eye that ’ud pick the needles out of the hay in no time. If a +man had got no feelings, it ’ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to what +goes on in court; but a tender heart makes one stupid. I’d have given up +figures for ever only to have had some good news to bring to you, my poor lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“But does it seem to be going against her?” said Adam. “Tell me what they’ve +said. I must know it now—I must know what they have to bring against her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but Martin Poyser—poor +Martin. Everybody in court felt for him—it was like one sob, the sound they +made when he came down again. The worst was when they told him to look at the +prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor fellow—it was hard work. Adam, my +boy, the blow falls heavily on him as well as you; you must help poor Martin; +you must show courage. Drink some wine now, and show me you mean to bear it +like a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet obedience, +took up the cup and drank a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me how <i>she</i> looked,” he said presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it was the first +sight of the crowd and the judge, poor creatur. And there’s a lot o’ foolish +women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all up their arms and feathers on their +heads, sitting near the judge: they’ve dressed themselves out in that way, one +’ud think, to be scarecrows and warnings against any man ever meddling with a +woman again. They put up their glasses, and stared and whispered. But after +that she stood like a white image, staring down at her hands and seeming +neither to hear nor see anything. And she’s as white as a sheet. She didn’t +speak when they asked her if she’d plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty,’ and they +pleaded ‘not guilty’ for her. But when she heard her uncle’s name, there seemed +to go a shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at her, she +hung her head down, and cowered, and hid her face in her hands. He’d much ado +to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. And the counsellors—who look as hard +as nails mostly—I saw, spared him as much as they could. Mr. Irwine put himself +near him and went with him out o’ court. Ah, it’s a great thing in a man’s life +to be able to stand by a neighbour and uphold him in such trouble as that.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, in a low voice, laying his +hand on Bartle’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the other evidence... does it go hard against her!” said Adam. “What do +you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the court?” said +Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"></a> +Chapter XLIII<br/> +The Verdict</h2> + +<p> +The place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old hall, now +destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the close pavement of human +heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the +mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armour hung in high relief in +front of the dark oaken gallery at the farther end, and under the broad arch of +the great mullioned window opposite was spread a curtain of old tapestry, +covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the +past. It was a place that through the rest of the year was haunted with the +shadowy memories of old kings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but +to-day all those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the +presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts. +</p> + +<p> +But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt hitherto, now when +Adam Bede’s tall figure was suddenly seen being ushered to the side of the +prisoner’s dock. In the broad sunlight of the great hall, among the sleek +shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face were startling +even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the dim light of his small room; +and the neighbours from Hayslope who were present, and who told Hetty Sorrel’s +story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot to say how it moved +them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head than most of the people +round him, came into court and took his place by her side. +</p> + +<p> +But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position Bartle Massey +had described, her hands crossed over each other and her eyes fixed on them. +Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the +attention of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face +towards her with a resolution not to shrink. +</p> + +<p> +Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the +<i>likeness</i> we see—it is the likeness, which makes itself felt the more +keenly because something else <i>was</i> and <i>is not</i>. There they were—the +sweet face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the +rounded cheek and the pouting lips—pale and thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only +Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast a blighting glance +upon her, withered up the woman’s soul in her, and left only a hard despairing +obstinacy. But the mother’s yearning, that completest type of the life in +another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the presence of the +cherished child even in the debased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, +hard-looking culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under +the apple-tree boughs—she was that Hetty’s corpse, which he had trembled to +look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his eyes from. +</p> + +<p> +But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and made the +sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the witness-box, a middle-aged +woman, who spoke in a firm distinct voice. She said, “My name is Sarah Stone. I +am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in +Church Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman who +came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging +at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th of February. She had taken the house +for a public, because there was a figure against the door. And when I said I +didn’t take in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired +to go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And her +prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about her clothes and +looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me as I couldn’t find in my +heart to send her away at once. I asked her to sit down, and gave her some tea, +and asked her where she was going, and where her friends were. She said she was +going home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, and she’d +had a long journey that had cost her more money than she expected, so as she’d +hardly any money left in her pocket, and was afraid of going where it would +cost her much. She had been obliged to sell most of the things out of her +basket, but she’d thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I +shouldn’t take the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, but there +were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I thought she’d +been led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to her friends, it +would be a good work to keep her out of further harm.” +</p> + +<p> +The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and she identified +the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in which she had herself dressed +the child. +</p> + +<p> +“Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by me ever since +my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble both for the child and the +mother. I couldn’t help taking to the little thing and being anxious about it. +I didn’t send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the +day-time she must tell me the name of her friends, and where they lived, and +let me write to them. She said, by and by she would write herself, but not +to-day. She would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of +everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was +wonderful what spirit she showed. But I wasn’t quite easy what I should do +about her, and towards evening I made up my mind I’d go, after Meeting was +over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house about half-past +eight o’clock. I didn’t go out at the shop door, but at the back door, which +opens into a narrow alley. I’ve only got the ground-floor of the house, and the +kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by +the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn’t cried or seemed +low at all, as she did the night before. I thought she had a strange look with +her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards evening. I was afraid of the fever, +and I thought I’d call and ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, +to come back with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn’t fasten +the door behind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with a bolt inside, and +when there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop door. But I +thought there was no danger in leaving it unfastened that little while. I was +longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman that came back with +me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went in, the +candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby +were both gone. She’d taken her cloak and bonnet, but she’d left the basket and +the things in it.... I was dreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I +didn’t go to give information, because I’d no thought she meant to do any harm, +and I knew she had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn’t +like to set the constable after her, for she’d a right to go from me if she +liked.” +</p> + +<p> +The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him new force. +Hetty could not be guilty of the crime—her heart must have clung to her +baby—else why should she have taken it with her? She might have left it behind. +The little creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were +so liable to death—and there might be the strongest suspicions without any +proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied with imaginary arguments against such +suspicions, that he could not listen to the cross-examination by Hetty’s +counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had +shown some movements of maternal affection towards the child. The whole time +this witness was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no +word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next witness’s voice +touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave a start and a frightened +look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and looked down at her +hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said: +</p> + +<p> +“My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd’s Hole, two miles +out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one o’clock in the afternoon, I +was going towards Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a mile from the +coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack +not far off the stile. She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she’d be +walking on the other way. It was a regular road through the fields, and nothing +very uncommon to see a young woman there, but I took notice of her because she +looked white and scared. I should have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for +her good clothes. I thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of +mine. I stood and looked back after her, but she went right on while she was in +sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice to look after some stakes. +There’s a road right through it, and bits of openings here and there, where the +trees have been cut down, and some of ’em not carried away. I didn’t go +straight along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a shorter +way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn’t got far out of the road into +one of the open places before I heard a strange cry. I thought it didn’t come +from any animal I knew, but I wasn’t for stopping to look about just then. But +it went on, and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn’t help stopping +to look. I began to think I might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. +But I had hard work to tell which way it came from, and for a good while I kept +looking up at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; and there +was a lot of timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a +trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find nothing, and at +last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went on about my +business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an hour after, I +couldn’t help laying down my stakes to have another look. And just as I was +stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd and round and whitish +lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the side of me. And I stooped down on +hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw it was a little baby’s hand.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly trembling; +now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to what a witness said. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the ground went +hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out from among them. But there +was a hole left in one place and I could see down it and see the child’s head; +and I made haste and did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the +child. It had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought +it must be dead. I made haste back with it out of the wood, and took it home to +my wife. She said it was dead, and I’d better take it to the parish and tell +the constable. And I said, ‘I’ll lay my life it’s that young woman’s child as I +met going to the coppice.’ But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I +took the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on to +Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young woman till dark at +night, and we went and gave information at Stoniton, as they might stop her. +And the next morning, another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot +where I found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner +a-sitting against the bush where I found the child; and she cried out when she +saw us, but she never offered to move. She’d got a big piece of bread on her +lap.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking. He had +hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the boarding in front of him. It +was the supreme moment of his suffering: Hetty was guilty; and he was silently +calling to God for help. He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious +when the case for the prosecution had closed—unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in +the witness-box, telling of Hetty’s unblemished character in her own parish and +of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could +have no influence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for +mercy which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for +her—a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times. +</p> + +<p> +At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement round him. +The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. The decisive moment +was not far off. Adam felt a shuddering horror that would not let him look at +Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference. All eyes +were strained to look at her, but she stood like a statue of dull despair. +</p> + +<p> +There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout the court +during this interval. The desire to listen was suspended, and every one had +some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adam sat looking blankly +before him, but he did not see the objects that were right in front of his +eyes—the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool business, and Mr. +Irwine in low earnest conversation with the judge—did not see Mr. Irwine sit +down again in agitation and shake his head mournfully when somebody whispered +to him. The inward action was too intense for Adam to take in outward objects +until some strong sensation roused him. +</p> + +<p> +It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before the knock +which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a signal for +silence on every ear. It is sublime—that sudden pause of a great multitude +which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the silence +seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the jurymen’s names were +called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her hand, and the jury were +asked for their verdict. +</p> + +<p> +“Guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of disappointment +from some hearts that it was followed by no recommendation to mercy. Still the +sympathy of the court was not with the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime +stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate +silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but +those who were near saw her trembling. +</p> + +<p> +The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and the +chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepened again, +before the crier had had time to command silence. If any sound were heard, it +must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge spoke, “Hester +Sorrel....” +</p> + +<p> +The blood rushed to Hetty’s face, and then fled back again as she looked up at +the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. +Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a deep horror, like a great +gulf, between them. But at the words “and then to be hanged by the neck till +you be dead,” a piercing shriek rang through the hall. It was Hetty’s shriek. +Adam started to his feet and stretched out his arms towards her. But the arms +could not reach her: she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out +of court. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"></a> +Chapter XLIV<br/> +Arthur’s Return</h2> + +<p> +When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from his Aunt +Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father’s death, his first feeling was, +“Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be with him when he died. +He might have felt or wished something at the last that I shall never know now. +It was a lonely death.” +</p> + +<p> +It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity and softened +memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busy thoughts about the +future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along towards the home where he was +now to be master, there was a continually recurring effort to remember anything +by which he could show a regard for his grandfather’s wishes, without +counteracting his own cherished aims for the good of the tenants and the +estate. But it is not in human nature—only in human pretence—for a young man +like Arthur, with a fine constitution and fine spirits, thinking well of +himself, believing that others think well of him, and having a very ardent +intention to give them more and more reason for that good opinion—it is not +possible for such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the +death of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything very +different from exultant joy. <i>Now</i> his real life was beginning; now he +would have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. He would +show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; he would not +exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felt himself riding over +the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking after favourite plans of drainage +and enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings as the best rider on the best +horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by +and by making speeches at election dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge +of agriculture; the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of +negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like—happy +faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouring families +on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him every week, and +have their own carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur +would devise, the lay-impropriator of the Hayslope tithes would insist on +paying a couple of hundreds more to the vicar; and his aunt should be as +comfortable as possible, and go on living at the Chase, if she liked, in spite +of her old-maidish ways—at least until he was married, and that event lay in +the indistinct background, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play +the lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +These were Arthur’s chief thoughts, so far as a man’s thoughts through hours of +travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which are only like the list +of names telling you what are the scenes in a long long panorama full of +colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were +not pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, long familiar to him: Martin +Poyser was there—the whole Poyser family. +</p> + +<p> +What—Hetty? +</p> + +<p> +Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty—not quite at ease about the past, for a +certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thought of the scenes with +Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been a +regular correspondent, telling him all the news about the old places and +people, had sent him word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to +marry Mary Burge, as he had thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and +Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it—that Adam had been deeply in +love with Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to be +married in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector +had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if it had not been +too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to describe to Arthur the +blushing looks and the simple strong words with which the fine honest fellow +told his secret. He knew Arthur would like to hear that Adam had this sort of +happiness in prospect. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfy his +renovated life, when he had read that passage in the letter. He threw up the +windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, and greeted every one +who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh +Nelson victory. For the first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he +was in true boyish spirits. The load that had been pressing upon him was gone, +the haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitterness +towards Adam now—could offer him his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in +spite of that painful memory which would still make his ears burn. He had been +knocked down, and he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do +what we will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur wished +to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his business and his future, +as he had always desired before the accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would +do a great deal more for Adam than he should otherwise have done, when he came +into the estate; Hetty’s husband had a special claim on him—Hetty herself +should feel that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the past was +compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could not have felt much, +since she had so soon made up her mind to marry Adam. +</p> + +<p> +You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the panorama +of Arthur’s thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March now; they were soon +to be married: perhaps they were already married. And <i>now</i> it was +actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet—sweet little Hetty! +The little puss hadn’t cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he +was a great fool about her still—was almost afraid of seeing her—indeed, had +not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from her. That little +figure coming towards him in the Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the +lovely lips put up to kiss him—that picture had got no fainter with the lapse +of months. And she would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he +could meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort of +influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. He had been +earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam, and there was +nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these moments than the +thought of their marriage. It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that +made his heart still beat a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he +saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam’s wife, at work quite +prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his +past feelings. Thank heaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of +affairs and interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the +fool again. +</p> + +<p> +Pleasant the crack of the post-boy’s whip! Pleasant the sense of being hurried +along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those round his own home, +only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town—very much like +Treddleston—where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor were borne on +the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a +market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till the land began +to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more frequent, and at length a white +or red mansion looked down from a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware +of its parapet and chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and +elms—masses reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: +the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among the faded +half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles round them; +nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes at the swift +post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. +What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And it should not be neglected like +this place: vigorous repairs should go on everywhere among farm-buildings and +cottages, and travellers in post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, +should do nothing but admire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all +the repairs, for he had a share in Burge’s business now, and, if he liked, +Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in another +year or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur’s life, that affair last summer, +but the future should make amends. Many men would have retained a feeling of +vindictiveness towards Adam, but <i>he</i> would not—he would resolutely +overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much in +the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, and had thrust on him a +painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and had real provocation. No, +Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind towards any human being: he was +happy, and would make every one else happy that came within his reach. +</p> + +<p> +And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a quiet old +place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and opposite to it the great +shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish blackness of the hanging +woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks +of the Chase, as if anxious for the heir’s return. “Poor Grandfather! And he +lies dead there. <i>He</i> was a young fellow once, coming into the estate and +making his plans. So the world goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, +poor thing; but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido.” +</p> + +<p> +The wheels of Arthur’s chaise had been anxiously listened for at the Chase, for +to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred two days. Before +it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the servants in the house were +assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of +death. A month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have +maintained a suitable sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take +possession; but the hearts of the head-servants were heavy that day for another +cause than the death of the old squire, and more than one of them was longing +to be twenty miles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty +Sorrel—pretty Hetty Sorrel—whom they used to see every week. They had the +partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were not inclined +to go the full length of the severe indignation felt against him by the farming +tenants, but rather to make excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, +who had been on terms of neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many +years, could not help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire’s +coming into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness. +</p> + +<p> +To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and sad: he +himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, and feeling that he was +in a new relation to them. It was that sort of pathetic emotion which has more +pleasure than pain in it—which is perhaps one of the most delicious of all +states to a good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good +nature. His heart swelled agreeably as he said, “Well, Mills, how is my aunt?” +</p> + +<p> +But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever since the death, +came forward to give deferential greetings and answer all questions, and Arthur +walked with him towards the library, where his Aunt Lydia was expecting him. +Aunt Lydia was the only person in the house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her +sorrow as a maiden daughter was unmixed with any other thoughts than those of +anxiety about funeral arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the +manner of women, she mourned for the father who had made her life important, +all the more because she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for +him in other hearts. +</p> + +<p> +But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done in his +life before. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Aunt,” he said affectionately, as he held her hand, “<i>your</i> loss is +the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up to you all +the rest of your life.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur,” poor Miss Lydia began, pouring out +her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with impatient patience. When +a pause came, he said: +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Aunt, I’ll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my own room, +and then I shall come and give full attention to everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?” he said to the butler, who +seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the +writing-table in your dressing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, but which +Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast his eyes on the +writing-table, and saw that there were several letters and packets lying there; +but he was in the uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had a long +hurried journey, and he must really refresh himself by attending to his +toilette a little, before he read his letters. Pym was there, making everything +ready for him, and soon, with a delightful freshness about him, as if he were +prepared to begin a new day, he went back into his dressing-room to open his +letters. The level rays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the +window, and as Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant +warmth upon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps you +and I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth and health, +life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows of activity have +stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was no need for hurrying to +look at, because it was all our own. +</p> + +<p> +The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr. Irwine’s +handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address was written, “To be +delivered as soon as he arrives.” Nothing could have been less surprising to +him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that moment: of course, there was +something he wished Arthur to know earlier than it was possible for them to see +each other. At such a time as that it was quite natural that Irwine should have +something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation +of soon seeing the writer. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>“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.<br/> + “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.<br/> + “Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime of +child-murder.”...</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"></a> +Chapter XLV<br/> +In the Prison</h2> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments without +answering. +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen you before,” he said at last. “Do you remember preaching on the +village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on horseback?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you know this +criminal, Hetty Sorrel?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come from +Leeds?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his home now, +and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leave for me to be +with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is very sullen, +and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don’t let us delay.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then,” said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission, “I +know you have a key to unlock hearts.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were within +the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing them off when she preached +or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they entered the jailer’s room, she +laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There was no agitation visible in her, +but a deep concentrated calmness, as if, even when she was speaking, her soul +was in prayer reposing on an unseen support. +</p> + +<p> +After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and said, “The +turnkey will take you to the prisoner’s cell and leave you there for the night, +if you desire it, but you can’t have a light during the night—it is contrary to +rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, ask the +jailer for my address and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty +Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at +Hayslope the same evening I heard you preach, and recognized him in court +to-day, ill as he looked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me where he lodges? +For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with trouble to remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges over a +tinman’s shop, in the street on the right hand as you entered the prison. There +is an old school-master with him. Now, good-bye: I wish you success.” +</p> + +<p> +“Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.” +</p> + +<p> +As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn evening light +seemed to make the walls higher than they were by day, and the sweet pale face +in the cap was more than ever like a white flower on this background of gloom. +The turnkey looked askance at her all the while, but never spoke. He somehow +felt that the sound of his own rude voice would be grating just then. He struck +a light as they entered the dark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and +then said in his most civil tone, “It’ll be pretty nigh dark in the cell +a’ready, but I can stop with my light a bit, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, friend, thank you,” said Dinah. “I wish to go in alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like,” said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and opening +the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from his lantern fell on +the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet +with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the +grating of the lock would have been likely to waken her. +</p> + +<p> +The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the evening +sky, through the small high grating—enough to discern human faces by. Dinah +stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because Hetty might be asleep, +and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart. Then she said, +softly, “Hetty!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty’s frame—a start such as might +have been produced by a feeble electrical shock—but she did not look up. Dinah +spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressible emotion, “Hetty... it’s +Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty’s frame, and without +uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as if listening. +</p> + +<p> +“Hetty... Dinah is come to you.” +</p> + +<p> +After a moment’s pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from her knees +and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking at each other: one with a +wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad yearning love. Dinah +unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them out. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you know me, Hetty? Don’t you remember Dinah? Did you think I wouldn’t +come to you in trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face—at first like an animal that gazes, +and gazes, and keeps aloof. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m come to be with you, Hetty—not to leave you—to stay with you—to be your +sister to the last.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and was +clasped in Dinah’s arms. +</p> + +<p> +They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to move apart +again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it, hung on this something that +was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking helpless in a dark gulf; and +Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her love was welcomed by the +wretched lost one. The light got fainter as they stood, and when at last they +sat down on the straw pallet together, their faces had become indistinct. +</p> + +<p> +Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from Hetty, +but she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the hand that held hers +and leaning her cheek against Dinah’s. It was the human contact she clung to, +but she was not the less sinking into the dark gulf. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat beside +her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven the poor sinner out of +her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwards said, that she must +not hurry God’s work: we are overhasty to speak—as if God did not manifest +himself by our silent feeling, and make his love felt through ours. She did not +know how long they sat in that way, but it got darker and darker, till there +was only a pale patch of light on the opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. +But she felt the Divine presence more and more—nay, as if she herself were a +part of it, and it was the Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was +willing the rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak and +find out how far Hetty was conscious of the present. +</p> + +<p> +“Hetty,” she said gently, “do you know who it is that sits by your side?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Hetty answered slowly, “it’s Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm together, and that +night when I told you to be sure and think of me as a friend in trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, “But you can do nothing for +me. You can’t make ’em do anything. They’ll hang me o’ Monday—it’s Friday now.” +</p> + +<p> +As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Hetty, I can’t save you from that death. But isn’t the suffering less hard +when you have somebody with you, that feels for you—that you can speak to, and +say what’s in your heart?... Yes, Hetty: you lean on me: you are glad to have +me with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You won’t leave me, Dinah? You’ll keep close to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Hetty, I won’t leave you. I’ll stay with you to the last.... But, Hetty, +there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one close to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, “Who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and trouble—who +has known every thought you have had—has seen where you went, where you lay +down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have tried to hide in darkness. +And on Monday, when I can’t follow you—when my arms can’t reach you—when death +has parted us—He who is with us now, and knows all, will be with you then. It +makes no difference—whether we live or die, we are in the presence of God.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Dinah, won’t nobody do anything for me? <i>Will</i> they hang me for +certain?... I wouldn’t mind if they’d let me live.” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it’s dreadful. But if you +had a friend to take care of you after death—in that other world—some one whose +love is greater than mine—who can do everything?... If God our Father was your +friend, and was willing to save you from sin and suffering, so as you should +neither know wicked feelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you +and would help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn’t be +so hard to die on Monday, would it?” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can’t know anything about it,” Hetty said, with sullen sadness. +</p> + +<p> +“Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by trying to hide +the truth. God’s love and mercy can overcome all things—our ignorance, and +weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness—all things but our wilful +sin, sin that we cling to, and will not give up. You believe in my love and +pity for you, Hetty, but if you had not let me come near you, if you wouldn’t +have looked at me or spoken to me, you’d have shut me out from helping you. I +couldn’t have made you feel my love; I couldn’t have told you what I felt for +you. Don’t shut God’s love out in that way, by clinging to sin.... He can’t +bless you while you have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can’t +reach you until you open your heart to him, and say, ‘I have done this great +wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.’ While you cling to one sin +and will not part with it, it must drag you down to misery after death, as it +has dragged you to misery here in this world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin +that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there is light and blessedness +for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our souls then, and teaches us, +and brings us strength and peace. Cast it off now, Hetty—now: confess the +wickedness you have done—the sin you have been guilty of against your Heavenly +Father. Let us kneel down together, for we are in the presence of God.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty obeyed Dinah’s movement, and sank on her knees. They still held each +other’s hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah said, “Hetty, we are +before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching— +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah... help me... I can’t feel anything like you...my heart is hard.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice: +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow: thou +hast entered that black darkness where God is not, and hast uttered the cry of +the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy travail and thy +pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty to save to the uttermost, +and rescue this lost one. She is clothed round with thick darkness. The fetters +of her sin are upon her, and she cannot stir to come to thee. She can only feel +her heart is hard, and she is helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature.... +Saviour! It is a blind cry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her +with thy face of love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied thee, +and melt her hard heart. +</p> + +<p> +“See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and helpless, and thou +didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and carry her before thee. Fear and +trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles only at the pain and death +of the body. Breathe upon her thy life-giving Spirit, and put a new fear within +her—the fear of her sin. Make her dread to keep the accursed thing within her +soul. Make her feel the presence of the living God, who beholds all the past, +to whom the darkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, +for her to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercy—now, before the +night of death comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday +that returneth not. +</p> + +<p> +“Saviour! It is yet time—time to snatch this poor soul from everlasting +darkness. I believe—I believe in thy infinite love. What is <i>my</i> love or +<i>my</i> pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my weak +arms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou—thou wilt breathe on the dead soul, +and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death. +</p> + +<p> +“Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness, coming, like the morning, +with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony are upon thee—I see, I see +thou art able and willing to save—thou wilt not let her perish for ever. Come, +mighty Saviour! Let the dead hear thy voice. Let the eyes of the blind be +opened. Let her see that God encompasses her. Let her tremble at nothing but at +the sin that cuts her off from him. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed +lips: make her cry with her whole soul, ‘Father, I have sinned.’...” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Dinah,” Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah’s neck, “I will +speak... I will tell... I won’t hide it any more.” +</p> + +<p> +But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently from her knees +and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by her side. It was a long +time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and even then they sat some time in +stillness and darkness, holding each other’s hands. At last Hetty whispered, “I +did do it, Dinah... I buried it in the wood... the little baby... and it +cried... I heard it cry... ever such a way off... all night... and I went back +because it cried.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone. +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought perhaps it wouldn’t die—there might somebody find it. I didn’t +kill it—I didn’t kill it myself. I put it down there and covered it up, and +when I came back it was gone.... It was because I was so very miserable, +Dinah... I didn’t know where to go... and I tried to kill myself before, and I +couldn’t. Oh, I tried so to drown myself in the pool, and I couldn’t. I went to +Windsor—I ran away—did you know? I went to find him, as he might take care of +me; and he was gone; and then I didn’t know what to do. I daredn’t go back home +again—I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t have bore to look at anybody, for they’d +have scorned me. I thought o’ you sometimes, and thought I’d come to you, for I +didn’t think you’d be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I thought I could +tell you. But then the other folks ’ud come to know it at last, and I couldn’t +bear that. It was partly thinking o’ you made me come toward Stoniton; and, +besides, I was so frightened at going wandering about till I was a +beggar-woman, and had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to +the farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah... I was so +miserable... I wished I’d never been born into this world. I should never like +to go into the green fields again—I hated ’em so in my misery.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon her for +words. +</p> + +<p> +“And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that night, because +I was so near home. And then the little baby was born, when I didn’t expect it; +and the thought came into my mind that I might get rid of it and go home again. +The thought came all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got +stronger and stronger... I longed so to go back again... I couldn’t bear being +so lonely and coming to beg for want. And it gave me strength and resolution to +get up and dress myself. I felt I must do it... I didn’t know how... I thought +I’d find a pool, if I could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in +the dark. And when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do +anything... I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go back home, and +never let ’em know why I ran away. I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out +into the dark street, with the baby under my cloak; and I walked fast till I +got into a street a good way off, and there was a public, and I got some warm +stuff to drink and some bread. And I walked on and on, and I hardly felt the +ground I trod on; and it got lighter, for there came the moon—oh, Dinah, it +frightened me when it first looked at me out o’ the clouds—it never looked so +before; and I turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid o’ +meeting anybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I +thought I could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut +into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable, and the baby was +warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a good while, for when I +woke it was morning, but not very light, and the baby was crying. And I saw a +wood a little way off... I thought there’d perhaps be a ditch or a pond +there... and it was so early I thought I could hide the child there, and get a +long way off before folks was up. And then I thought I’d go home—I’d get rides +in carts and go home and tell ’em I’d been to try and see for a place, and +couldn’t get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I +don’t know how I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it—it was like a heavy +weight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I +daredn’t look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, and I +walked about, but there was no water....” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began again, it +was in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +“I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I sat down on +the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole +under the nut-tree, like a little grave. And it darted into me like +lightning—I’d lay the baby there and cover it with the grass and the chips. I +couldn’t kill it any other way. And I’d done it in a minute; and, oh, it cried +so, Dinah—I <i>couldn’t</i> cover it quite up—I thought perhaps somebody ’ud +come and take care of it, and then it wouldn’t die. And I made haste out of the +wood, but I could hear it crying all the while; and when I got out into the +fields, it was as if I was held fast—I couldn’t go away, for all I wanted so to +go. And I sat against the haystack to watch if anybody ’ud come. I was very +hungry, and I’d only a bit of bread left, but I couldn’t go away. And after +ever such a while—hours and hours—the man came—him in a smock-frock, and he +looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste and went on. I thought he +was going to the wood and would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, +till I came to a village, a long way off from the wood, and I was very sick, +and faint, and hungry. I got something to eat there, and bought a loaf. But I +was frightened to stay. I heard the baby crying, and thought the other folks +heard it too—and I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting towards +dark. And at last, by the roadside there was a barn—ever such a way off any +house—like the barn in Abbot’s Close, and I thought I could go in there and +hide myself among the hay and straw, and nobody ’ud be likely to come. I went +in, and it was half full o’ trusses of straw, and there was some hay too. And I +made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where nobody could find me; and I was so +tired and weak, I went to sleep.... But oh, the baby’s crying kept waking me, +and I thought that man as looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I +must have slept a long while at last, though I didn’t know, for when I got up +and went out of the barn, I didn’t know whether it was night or morning. But it +was morning, for it kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I’d come. I +couldn’t help it, Dinah; it was the baby’s crying made me go—and yet I was +frightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock ’ud see me and know +I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that. I’d left off thinking about +going home—it had gone out o’ my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood +where I’d buried the baby... I see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long before she +went on. +</p> + +<p> +“I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood.... I knew the +way to the place... the place against the nut-tree; and I could hear it crying +at every step.... I thought it was alive.... I don’t know whether I was +frightened or glad... I don’t know what I felt. I only know I was in the wood +and heard the cry. I don’t know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And +when I’d put it there, I thought I should like somebody to find it and save it +from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I +never thought o’ stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn’t run away, and +everybody as saw me ’ud know about the baby. My heart went like a stone. I +couldn’t wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for +ever, and nothing ’ud ever change. But they came and took me away.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still something +behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tears must come before +words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob, “Dinah, do you think God will take +away that crying and the place in the wood, now I’ve told everything?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to the God +of all mercy.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"></a> +Chapter XLVI<br/> +The Hours of Suspense</h2> + +<p> +On Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for morning +service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam’s room, after a short absence, and said, +“Adam, here’s a visitor wants to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he started up and turned +round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His face was even +thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was washed and shaven +this Sunday morning. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it any news?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep yourself quiet, my lad,” said Bartle; “keep quiet. It’s not what you’re +thinking of. It’s the young Methodist woman come from the prison. She’s at the +bottom o’ the stairs, and wants to know if you think well to see her, for she +has something to say to you about that poor castaway; but she wouldn’t come in +without your leave, she said. She thought you’d perhaps like to go out and +speak to her. These preaching women are not so back’ard commonly,” Bartle +muttered to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Ask her to come in,” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered, lifting +up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the great change that had +come since the day when she had looked up at the tall man in the cottage. There +was a trembling in her clear voice as she put her hand into his and said, “Be +comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not forsaken her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless you for coming to her,” Adam said. “Mr. Massey brought me word yesterday +as you was come.” +</p> + +<p> +They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each other +in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles, seemed +transfixed, examining Dinah’s face. But he recovered himself first, and said, +“Sit down, young woman, sit down,” placing the chair for her and retiring to +his old seat on the bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, friend; I won’t sit down,” said Dinah, “for I must hasten back. She +entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, Adam Bede, was to pray you +to go and see the poor sinner and bid her farewell. She desires to ask your +forgiveness, and it is meet you should see her to-day, rather than in the early +morning, when the time will be short.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again. +</p> + +<p> +“It won’t be,” he said, “it’ll be put off—there’ll perhaps come a pardon. Mr. +Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn’t quite give it up.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a blessed thought to me,” said Dinah, her eyes filling with tears. +“It’s a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast.” +</p> + +<p> +“But let what will be,” she added presently. “You will surely come, and let her +speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul is very dark and +discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is no longer hard. She is +contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given way, +and she leans on me for help and desires to be taught. This fills me with +trust, for I cannot but think that the brethren sometimes err in measuring the +Divine love by the sinner’s knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the +friends at the Hall Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told +her you were here, she said, ‘I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him +to forgive me.’ You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t,” Adam said. “I can’t say good-bye while there’s any hope. I’m +listening, and listening—I can’t think o’ nothing but that. It can’t be as +she’ll die that shameful death—I can’t bring my mind to it.” +</p> + +<p> +He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while Dinah +stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turned round and said, +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>will</i> come, Dinah... to-morrow morning... if it must be. I may have +more strength to bear it, if I know it <i>must</i> be. Tell her, I forgive her; +tell her I will come—at the very last.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart,” said Dinah. “I must +hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, and was not willing +to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any return to my affection +before, but now tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly +Father comfort you and strengthen you to bear all things.” Dinah put out her +hand, and Adam pressed it in silence. +</p> + +<p> +Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for her, but +before he could reach it, she had said gently, “Farewell, friend,” and was +gone, with her light step down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his +pocket, “if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it’s but fair +there should be women to be comforters under it; and she’s one—she’s one. It’s +a pity she’s a Methodist; but there’s no getting a woman without some +foolishness or other.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense, heightening with +every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment, was too great, and in +spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises that he would be perfectly +quiet, the schoolmaster watched too. +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter to me, lad?” Bartle said: “a night’s sleep more or less? I +shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keep thee company in +trouble while I can.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would sometimes get +up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space from wall to wall; +then he would sit down and hide his face, and no sound would be heard but the +ticking of the watch on the table, or the falling of a cinder from the fire +which the schoolmaster carefully tended. Sometimes he would burst out into +vehement speech, +</p> + +<p> +“If I could ha’ done anything to save her—if my bearing anything would ha’ done +any good... but t’ have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing... it’s hard +for a man to bear... and to think o’ what might ha’ been now, if it hadn’t been +for <i>him</i>.... O God, it’s the very day we should ha’ been married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, my lad,” said Bartle tenderly, “it’s heavy—it’s heavy. But you must +remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you’d a notion she’d got +another sort of a nature inside her. You didn’t think she could have got +hardened in that little while to do what she’s done.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know—I know that,” said Adam. “I thought she was loving and tender-hearted, +and wouldn’t tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could I think any other way? And +if he’d never come near her, and I’d married her, and been loving to her, and +took care of her, she might never ha’ done anything bad. What would it ha’ +signified—my having a bit o’ trouble with her? It ’ud ha’ been nothing to +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no knowing, my lad—there’s no knowing what might have come. The +smart’s bad for you to bear now: you must have time—you must have time. But +I’ve that opinion of you, that you’ll rise above it all and be a man again, and +there may good come out of this that we don’t see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good come out of it!” said Adam passionately. “That doesn’t alter th’ evil: +<i>her</i> ruin can’t be undone. I hate that talk o’ people, as if there was a +way o’ making amends for everything. They’d more need be brought to see as the +wrong they do can never be altered. When a man’s spoiled his fellow-creatur’s +life, he’s no right to comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it. +Somebody else’s good doesn’t alter her shame and misery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, lad, well,” said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast with +his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, “it’s likely enough I +talk foolishness. I’m an old fellow, and it’s a good many years since I was in +trouble myself. It’s easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Massey,” said Adam penitently, “I’m very hot and hasty. I owe you +something different; but you mustn’t take it ill of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, lad—not I.” +</p> + +<p> +So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing light +brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair. There would +soon be no more suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, when he saw the hand of +his watch at six. “If there’s any news come, we shall hear about it.” +</p> + +<p> +The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, through the +streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as they hurried past +him in that short space between his lodging and the prison gates. He was +thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing those eager people. +</p> + +<p> +No; there was no news come—no pardon—no reprieve. +</p> + +<p> +Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself to send +word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: he could not shut +out the words. +</p> + +<p> +“The cart is to set off at half-past seven.” +</p> + +<p> +It must be said—the last good-bye: there was no help. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah had sent +him word that she could not come to him; she could not leave Hetty one moment; +but Hetty was prepared for the meeting. +</p> + +<p> +He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses, and +the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after the door closed +behind him, trembling and stupefied. +</p> + +<p> +But he began to see through the dimness—to see the dark eyes lifted up to him +once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked! The last time +they had met his was when he parted from her with his heart full of joyous +hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled, +childish face. The face was marble now; the sweet lips were pallid and +half-open and quivering; the dimples were all gone—all but one, that never +went; and the eyes—O, the worst of all was the likeness they had to Hetty’s. +They were Hetty’s eyes looking at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had +come back to him from the dead to tell him of her misery. +</p> + +<p> +She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah’s. It seemed as if +her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, and the pitying love that +shone out from Dinah’s face looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible +Mercy. +</p> + +<p> +When the sad eyes met—when Hetty and Adam looked at each other—she felt the +change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh fear. It was the +first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to reflect the change in +herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and the dreadful present. +She trembled more as she looked at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak to him, Hetty,” Dinah said; “tell him what is in your heart.” +</p> + +<p> +Hetty obeyed her, like a little child. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam... I’m very sorry... I behaved very wrong to you... will you forgive +me... before I die?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam answered with a half-sob, “Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave thee long +ago.” +</p> + +<p> +It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of meeting +Hetty’s eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voice uttering these +penitent words touched a chord which had been less strained. There was a sense +of relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears came—they had +never come before, since he had hung on Seth’s neck in the beginning of his +sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love that she had +once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kept hold of Dinah’s +hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, “Will you kiss me again, Adam, +for all I’ve been so wicked?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave each other +the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting. +</p> + +<p> +“And tell him,” Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, “tell him... for +there’s nobody else to tell him... as I went after him and couldn’t find him... +and I hated him and cursed him once... but Dinah says I should forgive him... +and I try... for else God won’t forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a noise at the door of the cell now—the key was being turned in the +lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there were several +faces there. He was too agitated to see more—even to see that Mr. Irwine’s face +was one of them. He felt that the last preparations were beginning, and he +could stay no longer. Room was silently made for him to depart, and he went to +his chamber in loneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"></a> +Chapter XLVII<br/> +The Last Moment</h2> + +<p> +It was a sight that some people remembered better even than their own +sorrows—the sight in that grey clear morning, when the fatal cart with the two +young women in it was descried by the waiting watching multitude, cleaving its +way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately inflicted sudden death. +</p> + +<p> +All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman who had +brought the obstinate criminal to confess, and there was as much eagerness to +see her as to see the wretched Hetty. +</p> + +<p> +But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty had caught sight of +the vast crowd in the distance, she had clutched Dinah convulsively. +</p> + +<p> +“Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said, “and let us pray without ceasing to God.” +</p> + +<p> +And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the midst of the +gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with the wrestling intensity of a last +pleading, for the trembling creature that clung to her and clutched her as the +only visible sign of love and pity. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a sort of +awe—she did not even know how near they were to the fatal spot, when the cart +stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud shout hideous to her ear, like a +vast yell of demons. Hetty’s shriek mingled with the sound, and they clasped +each other in mutual horror. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not a shout of execration—not a yell of exultant cruelty. +</p> + +<p> +It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a horseman cleaving +the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and distressed, but answers to the +desperate spurring; the rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by madness, and +he saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has something in his +hand—he is holding it up as if it were a signal. +</p> + +<p> +The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a +hard-won release from death. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"></a> +Chapter XLVIII<br/> +Another Meeting in the Wood</h2> + +<p> +The next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite points towards the +same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene was the Grove by +Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were. +</p> + +<p> +The old squire’s funeral had taken place that morning, the will had been read, +and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a +lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new future before him and +confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best in the +Grove. +</p> + +<p> +Adam too had come from Stoniton on Monday evening, and to-day he had not left +home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tell them everything that +Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with the Poysers that he would follow +them to their new neighbourhood, wherever that might be, for he meant to give +up the management of the woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he would +wind up his business with Jonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in +a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +“Seth and me are sure to find work,” he said. “A man that’s got our trade at +his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a new start. My mother +won’t stand in the way, for she’s told me, since I came home, she’d made up her +mind to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I’d be more +comfortable elsewhere. It’s wonderful how quiet she’s been ever since I came +back. It seems as if the very greatness o’ the trouble had quieted and calmed +her. We shall all be better in a new country, though there’s some I shall be +loath to leave behind. But I won’t part from you and yours, if I can help it, +Mr. Poyser. Trouble’s made us kin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, lad,” said Martin. “We’ll go out o’ hearing o’ that man’s name. But I +doubt we shall ne’er go far enough for folks not to find out as we’ve got them +belonging to us as are transported o’er the seas, and were like to be hanged. +We shall have that flyin’ up in our faces, and our children’s after us.” +</p> + +<p> +That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam’s +energies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his old +occupations till the morrow. “But to-morrow,” he said to himself, “I’ll go to +work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; and it’s right +whether I like it or not.” +</p> + +<p> +This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow: suspense was +gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur +Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him. He had no message to +deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur. And Adam distrusted +himself—he had learned to dread the violence of his own feeling. That word of +Mr. Irwine’s—that he must remember what he had felt after giving the last blow +to Arthur in the Grove—had remained with him. +</p> + +<p> +These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged with strong +feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called up the image of the +Grove—of that spot under the overarching boughs where he had caught sight of +the two bending figures, and had been possessed by sudden rage. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go and see it again to-night for the last time,” he said; “it’ll do me +good; it’ll make me feel over again what I felt when I’d knocked him down. I +felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I’d done it, <i>before</i> I began +to think he might be dead.” +</p> + +<p> +In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the same spot +at the same time. +</p> + +<p> +Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off the other with +a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had had the basket of +tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, with his pale wasted face, +for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the Grove on that August evening +eight months ago. But he had no basket of tools, and he was not walking with +the old erectness, looking keenly round him; his hands were thrust in his side +pockets, and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the +Grove, and now he paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the +boundary mark of his youth—the sign, to him, of the time when some of his +earliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never +return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection at the +remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed in before he had +come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affection for the dead: +<i>that</i> Arthur existed no longer. +</p> + +<p> +He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beech stood at +a turning in the road, and he could not see who was coming until the tall slim +figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him at only two yards’ distance. +They both started, and looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last +fortnight, Adam had imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing him +with words that should be as harrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon +him a just share in the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told +himself that such a meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he +had always seen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid, +careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him with the signs +of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was—he could not lay a cruel finger on a +bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just +than reproach. Arthur was the first to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam,” he said, quietly, “it may be a good thing that we have met here, for I +wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +He paused, but Adam said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it is painful to you to meet me,” Arthur went on, “but it is not likely +to happen again for years to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said Adam, coldly, “that was what I meant to write to you to-morrow, +as it would be better all dealings should be at an end between us, and somebody +else put in my place.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he spoke +again. +</p> + +<p> +“It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don’t want to lessen +your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything for my sake. I only wish +to ask you if you will help me to lessen the evil consequences of the past, +which is unchangeable. I don’t mean consequences to myself, but to others. It +is but little I can do, I know. I know the worst consequences will remain; but +something may be done, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said Adam, after some hesitation; “I’ll hear what it is. If I can +help to mend anything, I will. Anger ’ull mend nothing, I know. We’ve had +enough o’ that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was going to the Hermitage,” said Arthur. “Will you go there with me and sit +down? We can talk better there.” +</p> + +<p> +The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for Arthur +had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened the door, there was +the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the chair in the same place where +Adam remembered sitting; there was the waste-paper basket full of scraps, and +deep down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, there was the little pink silk +handkerchief. It would have been painful to enter this place if their previous +thoughts had been less painful. +</p> + +<p> +They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said, “I’m +going away, Adam; I’m going into the army.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this announcement—ought to +have a movement of sympathy towards him. But Adam’s lips remained firmly +closed, and the expression of his face unchanged. +</p> + +<p> +“What I want to say to you,” Arthur continued, “is this: one of my reasons for +going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope—may leave their home on my +account. I would do anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to +prevent any further injury to others through my—through what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had anticipated. +Adam thought he perceived in them that notion of compensation for irretrievable +wrong, that self-soothing attempt to make evil bear the same fruits as good, +which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look +painful facts right in the face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. +Moreover, he had the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of +a rich man. He felt his old severity returning as he said, “The time’s past for +that, sir. A man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong; +sacrifices won’t undo it when it’s done. When people’s feelings have got a +deadly wound, they can’t be cured with favours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Favours!” said Arthur, passionately; “no; how can you suppose I meant that? +But the Poysers—Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave the place where +they have lived so many years—for generations. Don’t you see, as Mr. Irwine +does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them +away, it would be much better for them in the end to remain on the old spot, +among the friends and neighbours who know them?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s true,” said Adam coldly. “But then, sir, folks’s feelings are not so +easily overcome. It’ll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to a strange place, +among strange faces, when he’s been bred up on the Hall Farm, and his father +before him; but then it ’ud be harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I +don’t see how the thing’s to be made any other than hard. There’s a sort o’ +damage, sir, that can’t be made up for.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in him this +evening, his pride winced under Adam’s mode of treating him. Wasn’t he himself +suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes? It was +now as it had been eight months ago—Adam was forcing Arthur to feel more +intensely the irrevocableness of his own wrong-doing. He was presenting the +sort of resistance that was the most irritating to Arthur’s eager ardent +nature. But his anger was subdued by the same influence that had subdued Adam’s +when they first confronted each other—by the marks of suffering in a long +familiar face. The momentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a +great deal from Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; but +there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said, “But +people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct—by giving way to anger +and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinking what will be the effect +in the future. +</p> + +<p> +“If I were going to stay here and act as landlord,” he added presently, with +still more eagerness—“if I were careless about what I’ve done—what I’ve been +the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging +others to go. You would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil +worse. But when I tell you I’m going away for years—when you know what that +means for me, how it cuts off every plan of happiness I’ve ever formed—it is +impossible for a sensible man like you to believe that there is any real ground +for the Poysers refusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace—Mr. +Irwine has told me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out +of this idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours, and that +they can’t remain on my estate, if you would join him in his efforts—if you +would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, “You know that’s a good work +to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. And you don’t know but +that they may have a better owner soon, whom you will like to work for. If I +die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate and take my name. He is a good +fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feel that +this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been +proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be thrust away. He was +silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced him to go on, with +growing earnestness. +</p> + +<p> +“And then, if you would talk to the Poysers—if you would talk the matter over +with Mr. Irwine—he means to see you to-morrow—and then if you would join your +arguments to his to prevail on them not to go.... I know, of course, that they +would not accept any favour from me—I mean nothing of that kind—but I’m sure +they would suffer less in the end. Irwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to +have the chief authority on the estate—he has consented to undertake that. They +will really be under no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the +same with you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain +that could incline you to go.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some agitation +in his voice, “I wouldn’t act so towards you, I know. If you were in my place +and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the best.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthur went +on, “Perhaps you’ve never done anything you’ve had bitterly to repent of in +your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous. You would know then +that it’s worse for me than for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the windows, +looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t <i>I</i> loved her too? Didn’t I see her yesterday? Shan’t I carry the +thought of her about with me as much as you will? And don’t you think you would +suffer more if you’d been in fault?” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam’s mind was not +easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have little permanence, can +hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame before he rose from +his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, and turning +round, met the sad but softened look with which Adam said, +</p> + +<p> +“It’s true what you say, sir. I’m hard—it’s in my nature. I was too hard with +my father, for doing wrong. I’ve been a bit hard t’ everybody but <i>her</i>. I +felt as if nobody pitied her enough—her suffering cut into me so; and when I +thought the folks at the farm were too hard with her, I said I’d never be hard +to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me +unfair to you. I’ve known what it is in my life to repent and feel it’s too +late. I felt I’d been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me—I feel it +now, when I think of him. I’ve no right to be hard towards them as have done +wrong and repent.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is resolved to +leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on with more +hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +“I wouldn’t shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me—but if you’re +willing to do it now, for all I refused then...” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s white hand was in Adam’s large grasp in an instant, and with that +action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyish affection. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam,” Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, “it would never have +happened if I’d known you loved her. That would have helped to save me from it. +And I <i>did</i> struggle: I never meant to injure her. I deceived you +afterwards—and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I +thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter I told her to let +me know if she were in any trouble: don’t think I would not have done +everything I could. But I was all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong +has come of it. God knows, I’d give my life if I could undo it.” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, “How did +she seem when you left her, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ask me, Adam,” Arthur said; “I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with +thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that I couldn’t get a +full pardon—that I couldn’t save her from that wretched fate of being +transported—that I can do nothing for her all those years; and she may die +under it, and never know comfort any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, sir,” said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in +sympathy for Arthur, “you and me’ll often be thinking o’ the same thing, when +we’re a long way off one another. I’ll pray God to help you, as I pray him to +help me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s that sweet woman—that Dinah Morris,” Arthur said, pursuing his own +thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam’s words, “she says she +shall stay with her to the very last moment—till she goes; and the poor thing +clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; +I don’t know what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will see her +when she comes back. I could say nothing to her yesterday—nothing of what I +felt towards her. Tell her,” Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide +the emotion with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, “tell +her I asked you to give her this in remembrance of me—of the man to whom she is +the one source of comfort, when he thinks of... I know she doesn’t care about +such things—or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she will use +the watch—I shall like to think of her using it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give it to her, sir,” Adam said, “and tell her your words. She told me +she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you <i>will</i> persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?” said Arthur, reminded +of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchange of +revived friendship. “You <i>will</i> stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to +carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one thing, sir, that perhaps you don’t take account of,” said Adam, +with hesitating gentleness, “and that was what made me hang back longer. You +see, it’s the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it’s for our own +worldly interest, and it looks as if we’d put up with anything for the sake o’ +that. I know that’s what they’ll feel, and I can’t help feeling a little of it +myself. When folks have got an honourable independent spirit, they don’t like +to do anything that might make ’em seem base-minded.” +</p> + +<p> +“But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason strong +enough against a course that is really more generous, more unselfish than the +other. And it will be known—it shall be made known, that both you and the +Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don’t try to make things worse for me; I’m +punished enough without that.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, no,” Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection. “God +forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could do it, in my +passion—but that was when I thought you didn’t feel enough. I’ll stay, sir, +I’ll do the best I can. It’s all I’ve got to think of now—to do my work well +and make the world a bit better place for them as can enjoy it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and consult with +him about everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as possible—after I’ve made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, +Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.” +</p> + +<p> +The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling that +sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the waste-paper +basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"></a> +Book Sixth</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"></a> +Chapter XLIX<br/> +At the Hall Farm</h2> + +<p> +The first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801—more than eighteen months after +that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage—was on the yard at the Hall +Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excited moments, for it was that +hour of the day when the cows were being driven into the yard for their +afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beasts ran confusedly into the wrong +places, for the alarming din of the bull-dog was mingled with more distant +sounds which the timid feminine creatures, with pardonable superstition, +imagined also to have some relation to their own movements—with the tremendous +crack of the waggoner’s whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of +the waggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load. +</p> + +<p> +The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this hour on mild +days she was usually standing at the house door, with her knitting in her +hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a keener interest when the +vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was +about to undergo the preventive punishment of having her hinder-legs strapped. +</p> + +<p> +To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the arrival of the +cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who was stitching Mr. +Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to have her thread broken three +times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that she should look +at “Baby,” that is, at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose +bald head Totty, seated in her small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and +pressing to her fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two +years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under +her pinafore. Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the +family likeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little +outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant +house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was saying, “when you’ve once +took anything into your head: there’s no more moving you than the rooted tree. +You may say what you like, but I don’t believe <i>that’s</i> religion; for +what’s the Sermon on the Mount about, as you’re so fond o’ reading to the boys, +but doing what other folks ’ud have you do? But if it was anything unreasonable +they wanted you to do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to ’em, or +letting ’em slap you i’ the face, I daresay you’d be ready enough. It’s only +when one ’ud have you do what’s plain common sense and good for yourself, as +you’re obstinate th’ other way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, dear Aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her work, +“I’m sure your wish ’ud be a reason for me to do anything that I didn’t feel it +was wrong to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like to know, +i’ staying along wi’ your own friends, as are th’ happier for having you with +’em an’ are willing to provide for you, even if your work didn’t more nor pay +’em for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat and the bit o’ rag you put on? An’ +who is it, I should like to know, as you’re bound t’ help and comfort i’ the +world more nor your own flesh and blood—an’ me th’ only aunt you’ve got +above-ground, an’ am brought to the brink o’ the grave welly every winter as +comes, an’ there’s the child as sits beside you ’ull break her little heart +when you go, an’ the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle +’ull miss you so as never was—a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ now I +can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble o’ teaching you, and +there’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I must have a strange gell out o’ +Treddles’on to do it—an’ all because you must go back to that bare heap o’ +stones as the very crows fly over an’ won’t stop at.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear Aunt Rachel,” said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser’s face, “it’s your +kindness makes you say I’m useful to you. You don’t really want me now, for +Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you’re in good health now, by the +blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance again, and you have +neighbours and friends not a few—some of them come to sit with my uncle almost +daily. Indeed, you will not miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and +sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts you have around you. I +feel that I am called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel +drawn again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word +of life to the sinful and desolate.” +</p> + +<p> +“You feel! Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance at the +cows, “that’s allays the reason I’m to sit down wi’, when you’ve a mind to do +anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for more than you’re +preaching now? Don’t you go off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday a-preaching +and praying? An’ haven’t you got Methodists enow at Treddles’on to go and look +at, if church-folks’s faces are too handsome to please you? An’ isn’t there +them i’ this parish as you’ve got under hand, and they’re like enough to make +friends wi’ Old Harry again as soon as your back’s turned? There’s that Bessy +Cranage—she’ll be flaunting i’ new finery three weeks after you’re gone, I’ll +be bound. She’ll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog ’ull +stand on its hind-legs when there’s nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna +matter so much about folks’s souls i’ this country, else you’d be for staying +with your own aunt, for she’s none so good but what you might help her to be +better.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser’s voice just then, which she did +not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look at the clock, and +said: “See there! It’s tea-time; an’ if Martin’s i’ the rick-yard, he’ll like a +cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and then you go +out into the rick-yard and see if Father’s there, and tell him he mustn’t go +away again without coming t’ have a cup o’ tea; and tell your brothers to come +in too.” +</p> + +<p> +Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the bright +oak table and reached down the tea-cups. +</p> + +<p> +“You talk o’ them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i’ their work,” she began +again; “it’s fine talking. They’re all the same, clever or stupid—one can’t +trust ’em out o’ one’s sight a minute. They want somebody’s eye on ’em constant +if they’re to be kept to their work. An’ suppose I’m ill again this winter, as +I was the winter before last? Who’s to look after ’em then, if you’re gone? An’ +there’s that blessed child—something’s sure t’ happen to her—they’ll let her +tumble into the fire, or get at the kettle wi’ the boiling lard in’t, or some +mischief as ’ull lame her for life; an’ it’ll be all your fault, Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aunt,” said Dinah, “I promise to come back to you in the winter if you’re ill. +Don’t think I will ever stay away from you if you’re in real want of me. But, +indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should go away from this life of +ease and luxury in which I have all things too richly to enjoy—at least that I +should go away for a short space. No one can know but myself what are my inward +needs, and the besetments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is +not a call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own +desires; it is a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature +should become like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light.” +</p> + +<p> +“It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury,” said Mrs. +Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. “It’s true there’s good victual enough +about you, as nobody shall ever say I don’t provide enough and to spare, but if +there’s ever a bit o’ odds an’ ends as nobody else ’ud eat, you’re sure to pick +it out... but look there! There’s Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I +wonder how it is he’s come so early.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at her darling in +a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof on her tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o’ five year old should be ashamed to be +carried. Why, Adam, she’ll break your arm, such a big gell as that; set her +down—for shame!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Adam, “I can lift her with my hand—I’ve no need to take my arm +to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy, was set +down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her reproof with a shower of +kisses. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re surprised to see me at this hour o’ the day,” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; “there’s no bad news, +I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nothing bad,” Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his hand +to her. She had laid down her work and stood up, instinctively, as he +approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as she put her hand +in his and looked up at him timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s an errand to you brought me, Dinah,” said Adam, apparently unconscious +that he was holding her hand all the while; “mother’s a bit ailing, and she’s +set her heart on your coming to stay the night with her, if you’ll be so kind. +I told her I’d call and ask you as I came from the village. She overworks +herself, and I can’t persuade her to have a little girl t’ help her. I don’t +know what’s to be done.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam released Dinah’s hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting an answer, +but before she had opened her lips Mrs. Poyser said, “Look there now! I told +you there was folks enow t’ help i’ this parish, wi’out going further off. +There’s Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas’alty as can be, and she won’t let +anybody but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield have learnt by +this time to do better wi’out you nor she can.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don’t want anything done +first, Aunt,” said Dinah, folding up her work. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do want something done. I want you t’ have your tea, child; it’s all +ready—and you’ll have a cup, Adam, if y’ arena in too big a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’ll have a cup, please; and then I’ll walk with Dinah. I’m going +straight home, for I’ve got a lot o’ timber valuations to write out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adam, lad, are you here?” said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and coatless, +with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking as much like him as two +small elephants are like a large one. “How is it we’ve got sight o’ you so long +before foddering-time?” +</p> + +<p> +“I came on an errand for Mother,” said Adam. “She’s got a touch of her old +complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her a bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we’ll spare her for your mother a little while,” said Mr. Poyser. “But +we wonna spare her for anybody else, on’y her husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Husband!” said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period of the +boyish mind. “Why, Dinah hasn’t got a husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spare her?” said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and then +seating herself to pour out the tea. “But we must spare her, it seems, and not +for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to +your little sister’s doll? Making the child naughty, when she’d be good if +you’d let her. You shanna have a morsel o’ cake if you behave so.” +</p> + +<p> +Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turning Dolly’s +skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her truncated body to the general +scorn—an indignity which cut Totty to the heart. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think Dinah’s been a-telling me since dinner-time?” Mrs. Poyser +continued, looking at her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh! I’m a poor un at guessing,” said Mr. Poyser. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i’ the mill, and starve +herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has got no friends.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant astonishment; +he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now seated herself beside Totty, +as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and was busying herself with the +children’s tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, it would +have occurred to him that there was certainly a change come over Dinah, for she +never used to change colour; but, as it was, he merely observed that her face +was flushed at that moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: +it was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came +because her uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is no knowing, for +just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, “Why, I hoped Dinah was settled +among us for life. I thought she’d given up the notion o’ going back to her old +country.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thought! Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “and so would anybody else ha’ thought, as +had got their right end up’ards. But I suppose you must <i>be</i> a Methodist +to know what a Methodist ’ull do. It’s ill guessing what the bats are flying +after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what have we done to you, Dinah, as you must go away from us?” said Mr. +Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. “It’s like breaking your word, welly, +for your aunt never had no thought but you’d make this your home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Uncle,” said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. “When I first came, I said +it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, an’ who said you’d ever left off being a comfort to me?” said Mrs. +Poyser. “If you didna mean to stay wi’ me, you’d better never ha’ come. Them as +ha’ never had a cushion don’t miss it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay,” said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views. “Thee mustna +say so; we should ha’ been ill off wi’out her, Lady day was a twelvemont’. We +mun be thankful for that, whether she stays or no. But I canna think what she +mun leave a good home for, to go back int’ a country where the land, most on’t, +isna worth ten shillings an acre, rent and profits.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that’s just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she can give a reason,” +said Mrs. Poyser. “She says this country’s too comfortable, an’ there’s too +much t’ eat, an’ folks arena miserable enough. And she’s going next week. I +canna turn her, say what I will. It’s allays the way wi’ them meek-faced +people; you may’s well pelt a bag o’ feathers as talk to ’em. But I say it isna +religion, to be so obstinate—is it now, Adam?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her by any matter +relating to herself, and, anxious to relieve her, if possible, he said, looking +at her affectionately, “Nay, I can’t find fault with anything Dinah does. I +believe her thoughts are better than our guesses, let ’em be what they may. I +should ha’ been thankful for her to stay among us, but if she thinks well to +go, I wouldn’t cross her, or make it hard to her by objecting. We owe her +something different to that.” +</p> + +<p> +As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just too much for +Dinah’s susceptible feelings at this moment. The tears came into the grey eyes +too fast to be hidden and she got up hurriedly, meaning it to be understood +that she was going to put on her bonnet. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, what’s Dinah crying for?” said Totty. “She isn’t a naughty dell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee’st gone a bit too fur,” said Mr. Poyser. “We’ve no right t’ interfere +with her doing as she likes. An’ thee’dst be as angry as could be wi’ me, if I +said a word against anything she did.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you’d very like be finding fault wi’out reason,” said Mrs. Poyser. +“But there’s reason i’ what I say, else I shouldna say it. It’s easy talking +for them as can’t love her so well as her own aunt does. An’ me got so used to +her! I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she’s gone from me. An’ +to think of her leaving a parish where she’s so looked on. There’s Mr. Irwine +makes as much of her as if she was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an’ +wi’ that maggot o’ preaching in her head—God forgi’e me if I’m i’ the wrong to +call it so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; “but thee dostna tell Adam what he said +to thee about it one day. The missis was saying, Adam, as the preaching was the +only fault to be found wi’ Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says, ‘But you mustn’t find +fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget she’s got no husband to preach +to. I’ll answer for it, you give Poyser many a good sermon.’ The parson had +thee there,” Mr. Poyser added, laughing unctuously. “I told Bartle Massey on +it, an’ he laughed too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it’s a small joke sets men laughing when they sit a-staring at one +another with a pipe i’ their mouths,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Give Bartle Massey his +way and he’d have all the sharpness to himself. If the chaff-cutter had the +making of us, we should all be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go upstairs +to cousin Dinah, and see what she’s doing, and give her a pretty kiss.” +</p> + +<p> +This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certain threatening +symptoms about the corners of the mouth; for Tommy, no longer expectant of +cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his forefingers and turning his eyeballs +towards Totty in a way that she felt to be disagreeably personal. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re rare and busy now—eh, Adam?” said Mr. Poyser. “Burge’s getting so bad +wi’ his asthmy, it’s well if he’ll ever do much riding about again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we’ve got a pretty bit o’ building on hand now,” said Adam, “what with +the repairs on th’ estate, and the new houses at Treddles’on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit o’ land is +for him and Mary to go to,” said Mr. Poyser. “He’ll be for laying by business +soon, I’ll warrant, and be wanting you to take to it all and pay him so much by +th’ ’ear. We shall see you living on th’ hill before another twelvemont’s +over.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Adam, “I should like t’ have the business in my own hands. It +isn’t as I mind much about getting any more money. We’ve enough and to spare +now, with only our two selves and mother; but I should like t’ have my own way +about things—I could try plans then, as I can’t do now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You get on pretty well wi’ the new steward, I reckon?” said Mr. Poyser. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes; he’s a sensible man enough; understands farming—he’s carrying on the +draining, and all that, capital. You must go some day towards the Stonyshire +side and see what alterations they’re making. But he’s got no notion about +buildings. You can so seldom get hold of a man as can turn his brains to more +nor one thing; it’s just as if they wore blinkers like th’ horses and could see +nothing o’ one side of ’em. Now, there’s Mr. Irwine has got notions o’ building +more nor most architects; for as for th’ architects, they set up to be fine +fellows, but the most of ’em don’t know where to set a chimney so as it shan’t +be quarrelling with a door. My notion is, a practical builder that’s got a bit +o’ taste makes the best architect for common things; and I’ve ten times the +pleasure i’ seeing after the work when I’ve made the plan myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam’s discourse on building, +but perhaps it suggested to him that the building of his corn-rick had been +proceeding a little too long without the control of the master’s eye, for when +Adam had done speaking, he got up and said, “Well, lad, I’ll bid you good-bye +now, for I’m off to the rick-yard again.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a little +basket in her hand, preceded by Totty. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re ready, I see, Dinah,” Adam said; “so we’ll set off, for the sooner I’m +at home the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” said Totty, with her treble pipe, “Dinah was saying her prayers and +crying ever so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, hush,” said the mother, “little gells mustn’t chatter.” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on the white deal +table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. and Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, had no +correct principles of education. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn’t want you, Dinah,” said Mrs. Poyser: +“but you can stay, you know, if she’s ill.” +</p> + +<p> +So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm +together. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"></a> +Chapter L<br/> +In the Cottage</h2> + +<p> +Adam did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane. He had +never yet done so, often as they had walked together, for he had observed that +she never walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that kind of +support was not agreeable to her. So they walked apart, though side by side, +and the close poke of her little black bonnet hid her face from him. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?” Adam said, +with the quiet interest of a brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the +matter. “It’s a pity, seeing they’re so fond of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for them and care +for their welfare goes, but they are in no present need. Their sorrows are +healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, in which I found a +blessing that I have missed of late in the midst of too abundant worldly good. +I know it is a vain thought to flee from the work that God appoints us, for the +sake of finding a greater blessing to our own souls, as if we could choose for +ourselves where we shall find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of +seeking it where alone it is to be found, in loving obedience. But now, I +believe, I have a clear showing that my work lies elsewhere—at least for a +time. In the years to come, if my aunt’s health should fail, or she should +otherwise need me, I shall return.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know best, Dinah,” said Adam. “I don’t believe you’d go against the wishes +of them that love you, and are akin to you, without a good and sufficient +reason in your own conscience. I’ve no right to say anything about my being +sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put you above every other +friend I’ve got; and if it had been ordered so that you could ha’ been my +sister, and lived with us all our lives, I should ha’ counted it the greatest +blessing as could happen to us now. But Seth tells me there’s no hope o’ that: +your feelings are different, and perhaps I’m taking too much upon me to speak +about it.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards, till they +came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had passed through first and turned +round to give her his hand while she mounted the unusually high step, she could +not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck him with surprise, for the grey +eyes, usually so mild and grave, had the bright uneasy glance which accompanies +suppressed agitation, and the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had +come downstairs, was heightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she +were only sister to Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for +some moments, and then he said, “I hope I’ve not hurt or displeased you by what +I’ve said, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I’ve no wish different from +what you see to be best, and I’m satisfied for you to live thirty mile off, if +you think it right. I shall think of you just as much as I do now, for you’re +bound up with what I can no more help remembering than I can help my heart +beating.” +</p> + +<p> +Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presently said, +“Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since we last spoke of him?” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as she had +seen him in the prison. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Adam. “Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him yesterday. It’s +pretty certain, they say, that there’ll be a peace soon, though nobody believes +it’ll last long; but he says he doesn’t mean to come home. He’s no heart for it +yet, and it’s better for others that he should keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks +he’s in the right not to come. It’s a sorrowful letter. He asks about you and +the Poysers, as he always does. There’s one thing in the letter cut me a good +deal: ‘You can’t think what an old fellow I feel,’ he says; ‘I make no schemes +now. I’m the best when I’ve a good day’s march or fighting before me.’” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have always felt +great pity,” said Dinah. “That meeting between the brothers, where Esau is so +loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his +sense of the Divine favour, has always touched me greatly. Truly, I have been +tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of a mean spirit. But that is our +trial: we must learn to see the good in the midst of much that is unlovely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Adam, “I like to read about Moses best, in th’ Old Testament. He +carried a hard business well through, and died when other folks were going to +reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at his life so, and think +what’ll come of it after he’s dead and gone. A good solid bit o’ work lasts: if +it’s only laying a floor down, somebody’s the better for it being done well, +besides the man as does it.” +</p> + +<p> +They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, and in this way +they went on till they passed the bridge across the Willow Brook, when Adam +turned round and said, “Ah, here’s Seth. I thought he’d be home soon. Does he +know of you’re going, Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I told him last Sabbath.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on Sunday evening, a +circumstance which had been very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he +had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have outweighed the pain of +knowing she would never marry him. This evening he had his habitual air of +dreamy benignant contentment, until he came quite close to Dinah and saw the +traces of tears on her delicate eyelids and eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance +at his brother, but Adam was evidently quite outside the current of emotion +that had shaken Dinah: he wore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth +tried not to let Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said, “I’m +thankful you’re come, Dinah, for Mother’s been hungering after the sight of you +all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm-chair, too tired +with setting out the evening meal, a task she always performed a long time +beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when she heard the +approaching footsteps. +</p> + +<p> +“Coom, child, thee’t coom at last,” she said, when Dinah went towards her. +“What dost mane by lavin’ me a week an’ ne’er coomin’ a-nigh me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, “you’re not well. If I’d known it +sooner, I’d have come.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ how’s thee t’ know if thee dostna coom? Th’ lads on’y know what I tell +’em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men think ye’re hearty. But I’m +none so bad, on’y a bit of a cold sets me achin’. An’ th’ lads tease me so t’ +ha’ somebody wi’ me t’ do the work—they make me ache worse wi’ talkin’. If +thee’dst come and stay wi’ me, they’d let me alone. The Poysers canna want thee +so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet off, an’ let me look at thee.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was taking off her +bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a newly gathered snowdrop, to +renew the old impressions of purity and gentleness. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonishment; “thee’st been +a-cryin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s only a grief that’ll pass away,” said Dinah, who did not wish just now to +call forth Lisbeth’s remonstrances by disclosing her intention to leave +Hayslope. “You shall know about it shortly—we’ll talk of it to-night. I shall +stay with you to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole evening to talk +with Dinah alone; for there was a new room in the cottage, you remember, built +nearly two years ago, in the expectation of a new inmate; and here Adam always +sat when he had writing to do or plans to make. Seth sat there too this +evening, for he knew his mother would like to have Dinah all to herself. +</p> + +<p> +There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the cottage. On +one side there was the broad-shouldered, large-featured, hardy old woman, in +her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned +continually on the lily face and the slight form in the black dress that were +either moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated close by the old +woman’s arm-chair, holding her withered hand, with eyes lifted up towards her +to speak a language which Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the +hymn-book. She would scarcely listen to reading at all to-night. “Nay, nay, +shut the book,” she said. “We mun talk. I want t’ know what thee was cryin’ +about. Hast got troubles o’ thy own, like other folks?” +</p> + +<p> +On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like each other in +the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark +vigorous colour, absorbed in his “figuring”; Seth, with large rugged features, +the close copy of his brother’s, but with thin, wavy, brown hair and blue +dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely out of the window instead of at +his book, although it was a newly bought book—Wesley’s abridgment of Madame +Guyon’s life, which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth had said to +Adam, “Can I help thee with anything in here to-night? I don’t want to make a +noise in the shop.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, lad,” Adam answered, “there’s nothing but what I must do myself. Thee’st +got thy new book to read.” +</p> + +<p> +And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused after drawing a +line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a kind smile dawning in his +eyes. He knew “th’ lad liked to sit full o’ thoughts he could give no account +of; they’d never come t’ anything, but they made him happy,” and in the last +year or so, Adam had been getting more and more indulgent to Seth. It was part +of that growing tenderness which came from the sorrow at work within him. +</p> + +<p> +For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and +delighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had not outlived +his sorrow—had not felt it slip from him as a temporary burden, and leave him +the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It would be a poor result of all +our anguish and our wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end +of it—if we could return to the same blind loves, the same self-confident +blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip +over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which +we have sent forth irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be +thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing +its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy—the one poor word +which includes all our best insight and our best love. Not that this +transformation of pain into sympathy had completely taken place in Adam yet. +There was still a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist as long +as <i>her</i> pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which he must think +of as renewed with the light of every new morning. But we get accustomed to +mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to +it. It becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of +perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission, and we +are contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in silence +and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periods that the sense +of our lives having visible and invisible relations, beyond any of which either +our present or prospective self is the centre, grows like a muscle that we are +obliged to lean on and exert. +</p> + +<p> +That was Adam’s state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow. His work, as +you know, had always been part of his religion, and from very early days he saw +clearly that good carpentry was God’s will—was that form of God’s will that +most immediately concerned him. But now there was no margin of dreams for him +beyond this daylight reality, no holiday-time in the working-day world, no +moment in the distance when duty would take off her iron glove and breast-plate +and clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no picture of the future but one +made up of hard-working days such as he lived through, with growing contentment +and intensity of interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could never be +anything to him but a living memory—a limb lopped off, but not gone from +consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving was all the while +gaining new force within him; that the new sensibilities bought by a deep +experience were so many new fibres by which it was possible, nay, necessary to +him, that his nature should intertwine with another. Yet he was aware that +common affection and friendship were more precious to him than they used to +be—that he clung more to his mother and Seth, and had an unspeakable +satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any small addition to their +happiness. The Poysers, too—hardly three or four days passed but he felt the +need of seeing them and interchanging words and looks of friendliness with +them. He would have felt this, probably, even if Dinah had not been with them, +but he had only said the simplest truth in telling Dinah that he put her above +all other friends in the world. Could anything be more natural? For in the +darkest moments of memory the thought of her always came as the first ray of +returning comfort. The early days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually +turned into soft moonlight by her presence; and in the cottage, too, for she +had come at every spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been +stricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousness at the sight of her +darling Adam’s grief-worn face. He had become used to watching her light quiet +movements, her pretty loving ways to the children, when he went to the Hall +Farm; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent music; to think everything she +said and did was just right, and could not have been better. In spite of his +wisdom, he could not find fault with her for her overindulgence of the +children, who had managed to convert Dinah the preacher, before whom a circle +of rough men had often trembled a little, into a convenient household +slave—though Dinah herself was rather ashamed of this weakness, and had some +inward conflict as to her departure from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there +was one thing that might have been better; she might have loved Seth and +consented to marry him. He felt a little vexed, for his brother’s sake, and he +could not help thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Seth’s wife, would have made +their home as happy as it could be for them all—how she was the one being that +would have soothed their mother’s last days into peacefulness and rest. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s wonderful she doesn’t love th’ lad,” Adam had said sometimes to himself, +“for anybody ’ud think he was just cut out for her. But her heart’s so taken up +with other things. She’s one o’ those women that feel no drawing towards having +a husband and children o’ their own. She thinks she should be filled up with +her own life then, and she’s been used so to living in other folks’s cares, she +can’t bear the thought of her heart being shut up from ’em. I see how it is, +well enough. She’s cut out o’ different stuff from most women: I saw that long +ago. She’s never easy but when she’s helping somebody, and marriage ’ud +interfere with her ways—that’s true. I’ve no right to be contriving and +thinking it ’ud be better if she’d have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is—or +than God either, for He made her what she is, and that’s one o’ the greatest +blessings I’ve ever had from His hands, and others besides me.” +</p> + +<p> +This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam’s mind when he gathered from +Dinah’s face that he had wounded her by referring to his wish that she had +accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into the strongest words his +confidence in her decision as right—his resignation even to her going away from +them and ceasing to make part of their life otherwise than by living in their +thoughts, if that separation were chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew +quite well enough how much he cared to see her continually—to talk to her with +the silent consciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she +should hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in his assurance +that he was contented for her to go away; and yet there remained an uneasy +feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the right thing—that, somehow, +Dinah had not understood him. +</p> + +<p> +Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for she was +downstairs about five o’clock. So was Seth, for, through Lisbeth’s obstinate +refusal to have any woman-helper in the house, he had learned to make himself, +as Adam said, “very handy in the housework,” that he might save his mother from +too great weariness; on which ground I hope you will not think him unmanly, any +more than you can have thought the gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made +the gruel for his invalid sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his writing, was +still asleep, and was not likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. +Often as Dinah had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had +never slept in the cottage since that night after Thias’s death, when, you +remember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a modified approval +to her porridge. But in that long interval Dinah had made great advances in +household cleverness, and this morning, since Seth was there to help, she was +bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that would have +satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far from that standard at present, +for Lisbeth’s rheumatism had forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante +scouring and polishing. When the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the +new room, where Adam had been writing the night before, to see what sweeping +and dusting were needed there. She opened the window and let in the fresh +morning air, and the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays +of the early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale auburn hair +as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a very low +tone—like a sweet summer murmur that you have to listen for very closely—one of +Charles Wesley’s hymns: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Eternal Beam of Light Divine,<br/> + Fountain of unexhausted love,<br/> +In whom the Father’s glories shine,<br/> + Through earth beneath and heaven above;<br/> +<br/> +Jesus! the weary wanderer’s rest,<br/> + Give me thy easy yoke to bear;<br/> +With steadfast patience arm my breast,<br/> + With spotless love and holy fear.<br/> +<br/> +Speak to my warring passions, “Peace!”<br/> + Say to my trembling heart, “Be still!”<br/> +Thy power my strength and fortress is,<br/> + For all things serve thy sovereign will. +</p> + +<p> +She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever lived in Mrs. +Poyser’s household, you would know how the duster behaved in Dinah’s hand—how +it went into every small corner, and on every ledge in and out of sight—how it +went again and again round every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under +and over everything that lay on the table, till it came to Adam’s papers and +rulers and the open desk near them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these +and then hesitated, looking at them with a longing but timid eye. It was +painful to see how much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this +way, she heard Seth’s step just outside the open door, towards which her back +was turned, and said, raising her clear treble, “Seth, is your brother wrathful +when his papers are stirred?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” said a deep strong +voice, not Seth’s. +</p> + +<p> +It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord. She was +shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant felt nothing else; then she +knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round, but stood still, +distressed because she could not say good-morning in a friendly way. Adam, +finding that she did not look round so as to see the smile on his face, was +afraid she had thought him serious about his wrathfulness, and went up to her, +so that she was obliged to look at him. +</p> + +<p> +“What! You think I’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah?” he said, smilingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, “not so. But you might be put +about by finding things meddled with; and even the man Moses, the meekest of +men, was wrathful sometimes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, then,” said Adam, looking at her affectionately, “I’ll help you move the +things, and put ’em back again, and then they can’t get wrong. You’re getting +to be your aunt’s own niece, I see, for particularness.” +</p> + +<p> +They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered herself +sufficiently to think of any remark, and Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he +thought, had seemed to disapprove him somehow lately; she had not been so kind +and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at him, and be as +pleased as he was himself with doing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did +not look at him—it was easy for her to avoid looking at the tall man—and when +at last there was no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him to +linger near her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleading +tone, “Dinah, you’re not displeased with me for anything, are you? I’ve not +said or done anything to make you think ill of me?” +</p> + +<p> +The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course to her +feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly, almost with the tears +coming, and said, “Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you,” said +Adam. “And you don’t know the value I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. +That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I’d be content for you to go, if +you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth so much to me, I +should feel I ought to be thankful, and not grumble, if you see right to go +away. You know I do mind parting with you, Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear friend,” said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, “I know +you have a brother’s heart towards me, and we shall often be with one another +in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations. +You must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is +a trial—the flesh is weak.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer. +</p> + +<p> +“I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,” he said. “I’ll say no more. Let’s see +if Seth’s ready with breakfast now.” +</p> + +<p> +That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too, have +been in love—perhaps, even, more than once, though you may not choose to say so +to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more think the slight words, +the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each +other gradually, like two little quivering rain-streams, before they mingle +into one—you will no more think these things trivial than you will think the +first-detected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint +indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the +tiniest perceptible budding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and +looks and touches are part of the soul’s language; and the finest language, I +believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as “light,” “sound,” +“stars,” “music”—words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, +any more than “chips” or “sawdust.” It is only that they happen to be the signs +of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a +great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of +it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little +words, “light” and “music,” stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and +enriching your present with your most precious past. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"></a> +Chapter LI<br/> +Sunday Morning</h2> + +<p> +Lisbeth’s touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough to +detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made up her mind to +leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must part. “For a long +while,” Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve. +</p> + +<p> +“Then it’ll be for all my life, an’ I shall ne’er see thee again,” said +Lisbeth. “Long while! I’n got no long while t’ live. An’ I shall be took bad +an’ die, an’ thee canst ne’er come a-nigh me, an’ I shall die a-longing for +thee.” +</p> + +<p> +That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was not in the +house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah +by returning again and again to the question, why she must go away; and +refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but whim and +“contrairiness”; and still more, by regretting that she “couldna’ ha’ one o’ +the lads” and be her daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee couldstna put up wi’ Seth,” she said. “He isna cliver enough for thee, +happen, but he’d ha’ been very good t’ thee—he’s as handy as can be at doin’ +things for me when I’m bad, an’ he’s as fond o’ the Bible an’ chappellin’ as +thee art thysen. But happen, thee’dst like a husband better as isna just the +cut o’ thysen: the runnin’ brook isna athirst for th’ rain. Adam ’ud ha’ done +for thee—I know he would—an’ he might come t’ like thee well enough, if +thee’dst stop. But he’s as stubborn as th’ iron bar—there’s no bending him no +way but’s own. But he’d be a fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, +so looked-on an’ so cliver as he is. And he’d be rare an’ lovin’: it does me +good on’y a look o’ the lad’s eye when he means kind tow’rt me.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth’s closest looks and questions by finding +little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as soon as Seth came +home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say +the last good-bye, and still more to look round on her way across the fields +and see the old woman still standing at the door, gazing after her till she +must have been the faintest speck in the dim aged eyes. “The God of love and +peace be with them,” Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. +“Make them glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the +years wherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; +let me have no will but thine.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near Seth, +who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned wood he had +brought from the village into a small work-box, which he meant to give to Dinah +before she went away. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee’t see her again o’ Sunday afore she goes,” were her first words. “If thee +wast good for anything, thee’dst make her come in again o’ Sunday night wi’ +thee, and see me once more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother,” said Seth. “Dinah ’ud be sure to come again if she saw right to +come. I should have no need to persuade her. She only thinks it ’ud be +troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say good-bye over again.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d ne’er go away, I know, if Adam ’ud be fond on her an’ marry her, but +everything’s so contrairy,” said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation. +</p> + +<p> +Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his mother’s face. +“What! Has she said anything o’ that sort to thee, Mother?” he said, in a lower +tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Said? Nay, she’ll say nothin’. It’s on’y the men as have to wait till folks +say things afore they find ’em out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What’s put it into thy head?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no matter what’s put it into my head. My head’s none so hollow as it must +get in, an’ nought to put it there. I know she’s fond on him, as I know th’ +wind’s comin’ in at the door, an’ that’s anoof. An’ he might be willin’ to +marry her if he know’d she’s fond on him, but he’ll ne’er think on’t if +somebody doesna put it into’s head.” +</p> + +<p> +His mother’s suggestion about Dinah’s feeling towards Adam was not quite a new +thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she should herself +undertake to open Adam’s eyes. He was not sure about Dinah’s feeling, and he +thought he <i>was</i> sure about Adam’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother, nay,” he said, earnestly, “thee mustna think o’ speaking o’ such +things to Adam. Thee’st no right to say what Dinah’s feelings are if she hasna +told thee, and it ’ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam. He +feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he’s no thoughts towards +her that ’ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don’t believe Dinah ’ud +marry him either. I don’t think she’ll marry at all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh,” said Lisbeth, impatiently. “Thee think’st so ’cause she wouldna ha’ thee. +She’ll ne’er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t’ ha’ thy brother.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth was hurt. “Mother,” he said, in a remonstrating tone, “don’t think that of +me. I should be as thankful t’ have her for a sister as thee wouldst t’ have +her for a daughter. I’ve no more thoughts about myself in that thing, and I +shall take it hard if ever thee say’st it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi’ sayin’ things arena as I say +they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mother,” said Seth, “thee’dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling Adam what +thee think’st about her. It ’ud do nothing but mischief, for it ’ud make Adam +uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I’m pretty sure he feels nothing +o’ the sort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, donna tell me what thee’t sure on; thee know’st nought about it. What’s he +allays goin’ to the Poysers’ for, if he didna want t’ see her? He goes twice +where he used t’ go once. Happen he knowsna as he wants t’ see her; he knowsna +as I put salt in’s broth, but he’d miss it pretty quick if it warna there. +He’ll ne’er think o’ marrying if it isna put into’s head, an’ if thee’dst any +love for thy mother, thee’dst put him up to’t an’ not let her go away out o’ my +sight, when I might ha’ her to make a bit o’ comfort for me afore I go to bed +to my old man under the white thorn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be going +against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah’s feelings are. And +besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all +about marrying; and I counsel thee not to do’t. Thee may’st be quite deceived +about Dinah. Nay, I’m pretty sure, by words she said to me last Sabbath, as +she’s no mind to marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, thee’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war summat I didna want, it +’ud be done fast enough.” +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop, leaving Seth +in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam’s mind about Dinah. He consoled +himself after a time with reflecting that, since Adam’s trouble, Lisbeth had +been very timid about speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would +hardly dare to approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he +hoped Adam would not take much notice of what she said. +</p> + +<p> +Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by +timidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she had an +opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause her any strong +temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over her regretful +thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near that point of unmanageable +strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out of their secret nest in a +startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when Seth went away to chapel at +Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came. +</p> + +<p> +Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as there +was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was always at home, +doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she could venture to +interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than usual to prepare +for her sons—very frequently for Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away +the entire day—and the smell of the roast meat before the clear fire in the +clean kitchen, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam +seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she +could go and stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up +at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between +them—all these things made poor Lisbeth’s earthly paradise. +</p> + +<p> +The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large pictured Bible, +and this morning it lay open before him on the round white deal table in the +kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because he knew his mother +liked to have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when he could +indulge her in that way. You would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He +never opened it on a weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving +him for history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between his +waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the course of +the morning you would have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips +moved in semi-articulation—it was when he came to a speech that he could fancy +himself uttering, such as Samuel’s dying speech to the people; then his +eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver a little +with sad sympathy—something, perhaps old Isaac’s meeting with his son, touched +him closely; at other times, over the New Testament, a very solemn look would +come upon his face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious +assent, or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings, +when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of Sirach’s +keen-edged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the +freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the +Articles quite well, as became a good churchman. +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite to him +and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going up to him and +giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This morning he was reading +the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been standing close by him +for some minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than usual this +morning, and looking down at the large page with silent wonderment at the +mystery of letters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, because when +she first went up to him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at +her affectionately and say, “Why, Mother, thee look’st rare and hearty this +morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t’ look at him. He can’t abide to think I love thee +the best.” Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many things. And +now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was a picture—that of the +angel seated on the great stone that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. +This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth’s memory, for she had been +reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the +page, and lifted the book sideways that they might look at the angel, than she +said, “That’s her—that’s Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said, +</p> + +<p> +“It <i>is</i> a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond on her?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, Mother, dost think I don’t set store by +Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had +broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief they might do. +“What’s th’ use o’ settin’ store by things as are thirty mile off? If thee wast +fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve no right t’ hinder her, if she thinks well,” said Adam, looking at +his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw a series of complaints +tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she +said: +</p> + +<p> +“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” Lisbeth dared not +venture beyond a vague phrase yet. +</p> + +<p> +“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. “What have I +done? What dost mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, thee’t never look at nothin’, nor think o’ nothin’, but thy figurin, an’ +thy work,” said Lisbeth, half-crying. “An’ dost think thee canst go on so all +thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o’ timber? An’ what wut do when thy +mother’s gone, an’ nobody to take care on thee as thee gett’st a bit o’ victual +comfortable i’ the mornin’?” +</p> + +<p> +“What hast got i’ thy mind, Mother?” said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. “I +canna see what thee’t driving at. Is there anything I could do for thee as I +don’t do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, an’ that there is. Thee might’st do as I should ha’ somebody wi’ me to +comfort me a bit, an’ wait on me when I’m bad, an’ be good to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i’ th’ house t’ help +thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o’ work to do. We can afford +it—I’ve told thee often enough. It ’ud be a deal better for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what’s the use o’ talking o’ tidy bodies, when thee mean’st one o’ th’ +wenches out o’ th’ village, or somebody from Treddles’on as I ne’er set eyes on +i’ my life? I’d sooner make a shift an’ get into my own coffin afore I die, nor +ha’ them folks to put me in.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost severity he +could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had gone too far +now to check herself, and after scarcely a minute’s quietness she began again. +</p> + +<p> +“Thee mightst know well enough who ’tis I’d like t’ ha’ wi’ me. It isna many +folks I send for t’ come an’ see me, I reckon. An’ thee’st had the fetchin’ on +her times enow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee mean’st Dinah, Mother, I know,” said Adam. “But it’s no use setting thy +mind on what can’t be. If Dinah ’ud be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn’t +likely she can come away from her aunt’s house, where they hold her like a +daughter, and where she’s more bound than she is to us. If it had been so that +she could ha’ married Seth, that ’ud ha’ been a great blessing to us, but we +can’t have things just as we like in this life. Thee must try and make up thy +mind to do without her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but I canna ma’ up my mind, when she’s just cut out for thee; an’ nought +shall ma’ me believe as God didna make her an’ send her there o’ purpose for +thee. What’s it sinnify about her bein’ a Methody! It ’ud happen wear out on +her wi’ marryin’.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He understood +now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the conversation. It was +as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had ever urged, but he could not +help being moved by so entirely new an idea. The chief point, however, was to +chase away the notion from his mother’s mind as quickly as possible. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother,” he said, gravely, “thee’t talking wild. Don’t let me hear thee say +such things again. It’s no good talking o’ what can never be. Dinah’s not for +marrying; she’s fixed her heart on a different sort o’ life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very like,” said Lisbeth, impatiently, “very like she’s none for marr’ing, +when them as she’d be willin’ t’ marry wonna ax her. I shouldna ha’ been for +marr’ing thy feyther if he’d ne’er axed me; an’ she’s as fond o’ thee as e’er I +war o’ Thias, poor fellow.” +</p> + +<p> +The blood rushed to Adam’s face, and for a few moments he was not quite +conscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for him, and he +saw nothing but Dinah’s face turned up towards his. It seemed as if there were +a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very speedily from that dream +(the waking was chill and sad), for it would have been very foolish in him to +believe his mother’s words—she could have no ground for them. He was prompted +to express his disbelief very strongly—perhaps that he might call forth the +proofs, if there were any to be offered. +</p> + +<p> +“What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee’st got no foundation for ’em? +Thee know’st nothing as gives thee a right to say that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I knowna nought as gi’es me a right to say as the year’s turned, for all +I feel it fust thing when I get up i’ th’ morning. She isna fond o’ Seth, I +reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry <i>him?</i> But I can see as she +doesna behave tow’rt thee as she daes tow’rt Seth. She makes no more o’ Seth’s +coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she’s all of a tremble when thee’t +a-sittin’ down by her at breakfast an’ a-looking at her. Thee think’st thy +mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee wast born.” +</p> + +<p> +“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” said Adam anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An’ what should she do +but love thee? Thee’t made to be loved—for where’s there a straighter cliverer +man? An’ what’s it sinnify her bein’ a Methody? It’s on’y the marigold i’ th’ +parridge.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the book on +the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was trembling like a +gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the same moment a +sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust his mother’s insight; +she had seen what she wished to see. And yet—and yet, now the suggestion had +been made to him, he remembered so many things, very slight things, like the +stirring of the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some +confirmation of his mother’s words. +</p> + +<p> +Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, “An’ thee’t find out as thee’t +poorly aff when she’s gone. Thee’t fonder on her nor thee know’st. Thy eyes +follow her about, welly as Gyp’s follow thee.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went out into +the fields. +</p> + +<p> +The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should know was +not summer’s, even if there were not the touches of yellow on the lime and +chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than autumnal calmness for +the working man; the morning sunshine, which still leaves the dew-crystals on +the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of the bushy hedgerows. +</p> + +<p> +Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this new +thought of Dinah’s love had taken possession of him, with an overmastering +power that made all other feelings give way before the impetuous desire to know +that the thought was true. Strange, that till that moment the possibility of +their ever being lovers had never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his +longing suddenly went out towards that possibility. He had no more doubt or +hesitation as to his own wishes than the bird that flies towards the opening +through which the daylight gleams and the breath of heaven enters. +</p> + +<p> +The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with +resignation to the disappointment if his mother—if he himself—proved to be +mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement of his hopes. Her +love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make one presence to +him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinah was so bound up with the sad +memories of his first passion that he was not forsaking them, but rather giving +them a new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his love for her had grown out of +that past: it was the noon of that morning. +</p> + +<p> +But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite contented of +late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of +his mother’s fondness for Adam. But had <i>he</i> seen anything of what their +mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he thought he could trust +Seth’s observation better than his mother’s. He must talk to Seth before he +went to see Dinah, and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to the +cottage and said to his mother, “Did Seth say anything to thee about when he +was coming home? Will he be back to dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, lad, he’ll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles’on. He’s gone +somewhere else a-preachin’ and a-prayin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st more o’s goings nor I do.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with walking about +the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as possible. That would not be +for more than an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely be at home much before +their dinner-time, which was twelve o’clock. But Adam could not sit down to his +reading again, and he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against +the stiles, with eager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very +vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the sky. +Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own +feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love—almost like the wonder +a man feels at the added power he finds in himself for an art which he had laid +aside for a space. How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about +our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? +Or are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger +experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy’s flutelike voice has its +own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music. +</p> + +<p> +At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam hastened to +meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual must have happened, +but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough that it was nothing +alarming. +</p> + +<p> +“Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been to the Common,” said Seth. “Dinah’s been speaking the Word to a +little company of hearers at Brimstone’s, as they call him. They’re folks as +never go to church hardly—them on the Common—but they’ll go and hear Dinah a +bit. She’s been speaking with power this forenoon from the words, ‘I came not +to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.’ And there was a little thing +happened as was pretty to see. The women mostly bring their children with ’em, +but to-day there was one stout curly headed fellow about three or four year +old, that I never saw there before. He was as naughty as could be at the +beginning while I was praying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat +down and Dinah began to speak, th’ young un stood stock still all at once, and +began to look at her with’s mouth open, and presently he ran away from’s mother +and went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice +of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th’ lad on her lap, while she went on +speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went to sleep—and the mother +cried to see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a pity she shouldna be a mother herself,” said Adam, “so fond as the +children are of her. Dost think she’s quite fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost +think nothing ’ud turn her?” +</p> + +<p> +There was something peculiar in his brother’s tone, which made Seth steal a +glance at his face before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“It ’ud be wrong of me to say nothing ’ud turn her,” he answered. “But if thee +mean’st it about myself, I’ve given up all thoughts as she can ever be +<i>my</i> wife. She calls me her brother, and that’s enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be willing to +marry ’em?” said Adam rather shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Seth, after some hesitation, “it’s crossed my mind sometimes o’ +late as she might; but Dinah ’ud let no fondness for the creature draw her out +o’ the path as she believed God had marked out for her. If she thought the +leading was not from Him, she’s not one to be brought under the power of it. +And she’s allays seemed clear about that—as her work was to minister t’ others, +and make no home for herself i’ this world.” +</p> + +<p> +“But suppose,” said Adam, earnestly, “suppose there was a man as ’ud let her do +just the same and not interfere with her—she might do a good deal o’ what she +does now, just as well when she was married as when she was single. Other women +of her sort have married—that’s to say, not just like her, but women as +preached and attended on the sick and needy. There’s Mrs. Fletcher as she talks +of.” +</p> + +<p> +A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his hand on +Adam’s shoulder, said, “Why, wouldst like her to marry <i>thee</i>, brother?” +</p> + +<p> +Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes and said, “Wouldst be hurt if +she was to be fonder o’ me than o’ thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Seth warmly, “how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so little +that I shouldna feel thy joy?” +</p> + +<p> +There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said, “I’d no +notion as thee’dst ever think of her for a wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is it o’ any use to think of her?” said Adam. “What dost say? Mother’s +made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she’s been saying to me this +forenoon. She says she’s sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and ’ud be +willing t’ have me. But I’m afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if +thee’st seen anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a nice point to speak about,” said Seth, “and I’m afraid o’ being wrong; +besides, we’ve no right t’ intermeddle with people’s feelings when they +wouldn’t tell ’em themselves.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth paused. +</p> + +<p> +“But thee mightst ask her,” he said presently. “She took no offence at +<i>me</i> for asking, and thee’st more right than I had, only thee’t not in the +Society. But Dinah doesn’t hold wi’ them as are for keeping the Society so +strict to themselves. She doesn’t mind about making folks enter the Society, so +as they’re fit t’ enter the kingdom o’ God. Some o’ the brethren at Treddles’on +are displeased with her for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where will she be the rest o’ the day?” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“She said she shouldn’t leave the farm again to-day,” said Seth, “because it’s +her last Sabbath there, and she’s going t’ read out o’ the big Bible wi’ the +children.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam thought—but did not say—“Then I’ll go this afternoon; for if I go to +church, my thoughts ’ull be with her all the while. They must sing th’ anthem +without me to-day.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"></a> +Chapter LII<br/> +Adam and Dinah</h2> + +<p> +It was about three o’clock when Adam entered the farmyard and roused Alick and +the dogs from their Sunday dozing. Alick said everybody was gone to church “but +th’ young missis”—so he called Dinah—but this did not disappoint Adam, although +the “everybody” was so liberal as to include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works +of necessity were not unfrequently incompatible with church-going. +</p> + +<p> +There was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all closed, and the +very stones and tubs seemed quieter than usual. Adam heard the water gently +dripping from the pump—that was the only sound—and he knocked at the house door +rather softly, as was suitable in that stillness. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with the great +surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, when she knew it was his regular practice +to be at church. Yesterday he would have said to her without any difficulty, “I +came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were not at home.” But to-day something +prevented him from saying that, and he put out his hand to her in silence. +Neither of them spoke, and yet both wished they could speak, as Adam entered, +and they sat down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was at the corner +of the table near the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it +was not open. She had been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of +clear fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr. Poyser’s +three-cornered chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?” Dinah said, recovering herself. +“Seth said she was well this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, she’s very hearty to-day,” said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah’s +feeling at the sight of him, but shy. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nobody at home, you see,” Dinah said; “but you’ll wait. You’ve been +hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Adam said, and then paused, before he added, “I was thinking about you: +that was the reason.” +</p> + +<p> +This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he thought Dinah +must understand all he meant. But the frankness of the words caused her +immediately to interpret them into a renewal of his brotherly regrets that she +was going away, and she answered calmly, “Do not be careful and troubled for +me, Adam. I have all things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, +for I am not seeking my own will in going.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if things were different, Dinah,” said Adam, hesitatingly. “If you knew +things that perhaps you don’t know now....” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he reached a chair +and brought it near the corner of the table where she was sitting. She +wondered, and was afraid—and the next moment her thoughts flew to the past: was +it something about those distant unhappy ones that she didn’t know? +</p> + +<p> +Adam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which had now a +self-forgetful questioning in them—for a moment he forgot that he wanted to say +anything, or that it was necessary to tell her what he meant. +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah,” he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, “I love you with +my whole heart and soul. I love you next to God who made me.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah’s lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled violently under the +shock of painful joy. Her hands were cold as death between Adam’s. She could +not draw them away, because he held them fast. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t tell me you can’t love me, Dinah. Don’t tell me we must part and pass +our lives away from one another.” +</p> + +<p> +The tears were trembling in Dinah’s eyes, and they fell before she could +answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if you love me, Dinah—not if you love me,” Adam said passionately. “Tell +me—tell me if you can love me better than a brother?” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt to achieve +any end by a deceptive concealment. She was recovering now from the first shock +of emotion, and she looked at Adam with simple sincere eyes as she said, “Yes, +Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you; and of my own will, if I had no +clear showing to the contrary, I could find my happiness in being near you and +ministering to you continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with +others; nay, I fear I should forget the Divine presence, and seek no love but +yours.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other in delicious +silence—for the first sense of mutual love excludes other feelings; it will +have the soul all to itself. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Dinah,” Adam said at last, “how can there be anything contrary to what’s +right in our belonging to one another and spending our lives together? Who put +this great love into our hearts? Can anything be holier than that? For we can +help one another in everything as is good. I’d never think o’ putting myself +between you and God, and saying you oughtn’t to do this and you oughtn’t to do +that. You’d follow your conscience as much as you do now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Adam,” Dinah said, “I know marriage is a holy state for those who are +truly called to it, and have no other drawing; but from my childhood upwards I +have been led towards another path; all my peace and my joy have come from +having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in +God and those of his creatures whose sorrows and joys he has given me to know. +Those have been very blessed years to me, and I feel that if I was to listen to +any voice that would draw me aside from that path, I should be turning my back +on the light that has shone upon me, and darkness and doubt would take hold of +me. We could not bless each other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and +if I yearned, when it was too late, after that better part which had once been +given me and I had put away from me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and if you love me so as +to be willing to be nearer to me than to other people, isn’t that a sign that +it’s right for you to change your life? Doesn’t the love make it right when +nothing else would?” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for now, since you tell me +of your strong love towards me, what was clear to me has become dark again. I +felt before that my heart was too strongly drawn towards you, and that your +heart was not as mine; and the thought of you had taken hold of me, so that my +soul had lost its freedom, and was becoming enslaved to an earthly affection, +which made me anxious and careful about what should befall myself. For in all +other affection I had been content with any small return, or with none; but my +heart was beginning to hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt +that I must wrestle against that as a great temptation, and the command was +clear that I must go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better than you love me... +it’s all different now. You won’t think o’ going. You’ll stay, and be my dear +wife, and I shall thank God for giving me my life as I never thanked him +before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Adam, it’s hard to me to turn a deaf ear... you know it’s hard; but a great +fear is upon me. It seems to me as if you were stretching out your arms to me, +and beckoning me to come and take my ease and live for my own delight, and +Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towards me, and pointing to the +sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. I have seen that again and again when I +have been sitting in stillness and darkness, and a great terror has come upon +me lest I should become hard, and a lover of self, and no more bear willingly +the Redeemer’s cross.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through her. “Adam,” she +went on, “you wouldn’t desire that we should seek a good through any +unfaithfulness to the light that is in us; you wouldn’t believe that could be a +good. We are of one mind in that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Dinah,” said Adam sadly, “I’ll never be the man t’ urge you against your +conscience. But I can’t give up the hope that you may come to see different. I +don’t believe your loving me could shut up your heart—it’s only adding to what +you’ve been before, not taking away from it. For it seems to me it’s the same +with love and happiness as with sorrow—the more we know of it the better we can +feel what other people’s lives are or might be, and so we shall only be more +tender to ’em, and wishful to help ’em. The more knowledge a man has, the +better he’ll do’s work; and feeling’s a sort o’ knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of something visible +only to herself. Adam went on presently with his pleading, “And you can do +almost as much as you do now. I won’t ask you to go to church with me of a +Sunday. You shall go where you like among the people, and teach ’em; for though +I like church best, I don’t put my soul above yours, as if my words was better +for you to follow than your own conscience. And you can help the sick just as +much, and you’ll have more means o’ making ’em a bit comfortable; and you’ll be +among all your own friends as love you, and can help ’em and be a blessing to +’em till their dying day. Surely, Dinah, you’d be as near to God as if you was +living lonely and away from me.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still holding her hands and +looking at her with almost trembling anxiety, when she turned her grave loving +eyes on his and said, in rather a sad voice, “Adam there is truth in what you +say, and there’s many of the brethren and sisters who have greater strength +than I have, and find their hearts enlarged by the cares of husband and +kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so with me, for since my +affections have been set above measure on you, I have had less peace and joy in +God. I have felt as it were a division in my heart. And think how it is with +me, Adam. That life I have led is like a land I have trodden in blessedness +since my childhood; and if I long for a moment to follow the voice which calls +me to another land that I know not, I cannot but fear that my soul might +hereafter yearn for that early blessedness which I had forsaken; and where +doubt enters there is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer guidance. I +must go from you, and we must submit ourselves entirely to the Divine Will. We +are sometimes required to lay our natural lawful affections on the altar.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah’s was not the voice of caprice or +insincerity. But it was very hard for him; his eyes got dim as he looked at +her. +</p> + +<p> +“But you may come to feel satisfied... to feel that you may come to me again, +and we may never part, Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty will be made clear. It may +be when I have entered on my former life, I shall find all these new thoughts +and wishes vanish, and become as things that were not. Then I shall know that +my calling is not towards marriage. But we must wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah,” said Adam mournfully, “you can’t love me so well as I love you, else +you’d have no doubts. But it’s natural you shouldn’t, for I’m not so good as +you. I can’t doubt it’s right for me to love the best thing God’s ever given me +to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, Adam. It seems to me that my love for you is not weak, for my heart waits +on your words and looks, almost as a little child waits on the help and +tenderness of the strong on whom it depends. If the thought of you took slight +hold of me, I should not fear that it would be an idol in the temple. But you +will strengthen me—you will not hinder me in seeking to obey to the uttermost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I’ll speak no word +to disturb you.” +</p> + +<p> +They went out and walked towards the fields, where they would meet the family +coming from church. Adam said, “Take my arm, Dinah,” and she took it. That was +the only change in their manner to each other since they were last walking +together. But no sadness in the prospect of her going away—in the uncertainty +of the issue—could rob the sweetness from Adam’s sense that Dinah loved him. He +thought he would stay at the Hall Farm all that evening. He would be near her +as long as he could. +</p> + +<p> +“Hey-day! There’s Adam along wi’ Dinah,” said Mr. Poyser, as he opened the far +gate into the Home Close. “I couldna think how he happened away from church. +Why,” added good Martin, after a moment’s pause, “what dost think has just +jumped into my head?” +</p> + +<p> +“Summat as hadna far to jump, for it’s just under our nose. You mean as Adam’s +fond o’ Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye! hast ever had any notion of it before?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure I have,” said Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if possible, to be +taken by surprise. “I’m not one o’ those as can see the cat i’ the dairy an’ +wonder what she’s come after.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thee never saidst a word to me about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I aren’t like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle when the wind +blows on me. I can keep my own counsel when there’s no good i’ speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Dinah ’ll ha’ none o’ him. Dost think she will?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard against a possible +surprise, “she’ll never marry anybody, if he isn’t a Methodist and a cripple.” +</p> + +<p> +“It ’ud ha’ been a pretty thing though for ’em t’ marry,” said Martin, turning +his head on one side, as if in pleased contemplation of his new idea. “Thee’dst +ha’ liked it too, wouldstna?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I should. I should ha’ been sure of her then, as she wouldn’t go away from +me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile off, and me not got a creatur to look to, +only neighbours, as are no kin to me, an’ most of ’em women as I’d be ashamed +to show my face, if <i>my</i> dairy things war like their’n. There may well be +streaky butter i’ the market. An’ I should be glad to see the poor thing +settled like a Christian woman, with a house of her own over her head; and we’d +stock her well wi’ linen and feathers, for I love her next to my own children. +An’ she makes one feel safer when she’s i’ the house, for she’s like the driven +snow: anybody might sin for two as had her at their elbow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dinah,” said Tommy, running forward to meet her, “mother says you’ll never +marry anybody but a Methodist cripple. What a silly you must be!” a comment +which Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, and dancing along by +her side with incommodious fondness. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Adam, we missed you i’ the singing to-day,” said Mr. Poyser. “How was +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wanted to see Dinah—she’s going away so soon,” said Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, lad! Can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find her a good husband +somewhere i’ the parish. If you’ll do that, we’ll forgive you for missing +church. But, anyway, she isna going before the harvest supper o’ Wednesday, and +you must come then. There’s Bartle Massey comin’, an’ happen Craig. You’ll be +sure an’ come, now, at seven? The missis wunna have it a bit later.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye,” said Adam, “I’ll come if I can. But I can’t often say what I’ll do +beforehand, for the work often holds me longer than I expect. You’ll stay till +the end o’ the week, Dinah?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Poyser. “We’ll have no nay.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s no call to be in a hurry,” observed Mrs. Poyser. “Scarceness o’ victual +’ull keep: there’s no need to be hasty wi’ the cooking. An’ scarceness is what +there’s the biggest stock of i’ that country.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked of other things +through the rest of the walk, lingering in the sunshine to look at the great +flock of geese grazing, at the new corn-ricks, and at the surprising abundance +of fruit on the old pear-tree; Nancy and Molly having already hastened home, +side by side, each holding, carefully wrapped in her pocket-handkerchief, a +prayer-book, in which she could read little beyond the large letters and the +Amens. +</p> + +<p> +Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through the fields +from “afternoon church”—as such walks used to be in those old leisurely times, +when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive +wonder; when Sunday books had most of them old brown-leather covers, and opened +with remarkable precision always in one place. Leisure is gone—gone where the +spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses, and the slow waggons, and the +pedlars, who brought bargains to the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious +philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to +create leisure for mankind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for +eager thought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now—eager for amusement; prone +to excursion-trains, art museums, periodical literature, and exciting novels; +prone even to scientific theorizing and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old +Leisure was quite a different personage. He only read one newspaper, innocent +of leaders, and was free from that periodicity of sensations which we call +post-time. He was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent +digestion; of quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his +inability to know the causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He +lived chiefly in the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond +of sauntering by the fruit-tree wall and scenting the apricots when they were +warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself under the orchard +boughs at noon, when the summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of weekday +services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed him to +sleep from the text to the blessing; liking the afternoon service best, because +the prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, +jolly conscience, broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of +beer or port-wine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty +aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered the +guineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of the +irresponsible, for had he not kept up his character by going to church on the +Sunday afternoons? +</p> + +<p> +Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modern +standard. He never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, or read +<i>Tracts for the Times</i> or <i>Sartor Resartus</i>. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"></a> +Chapter LIII<br/> +The Harvest Supper</h2> + +<p> +As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o’clock sunlight, +he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its way towards the +yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of “Harvest Home!” rising and +sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more musical through the growing +distance, the falling dying sound still reached him, as he neared the Willow +Brook. The low westering sun shone right on the shoulders of the old Binton +Hills, turning the unconscious sheep into bright spots of light; shone on the +windows of the cottage too, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of +amber or amethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great +temple, and that the distant chant was a sacred song. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s wonderful,” he thought, “how that sound goes to one’s heart almost like a +funeral bell, for all it tells one o’ the joyfullest time o’ the year, and the +time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it’s a bit hard to us to +think anything’s over and gone in our lives; and there’s a parting at the root +of all our joys. It’s like what I feel about Dinah. I should never ha’ come to +know that her love ’ud be the greatest o’ blessings to me, if what I counted a +blessing hadn’t been wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater +need, so as I could crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort.” +</p> + +<p> +He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompany her as +far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to fix some time when he might go +to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that had been born to him +must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do at home, besides putting +on his best clothes, made it seven before he was on his way again to the Hall +Farm, and it was questionable whether, with his longest and quickest strides, +he should be there in time even for the roast beef, which came after the plum +pudding, for Mrs. Poyser’s supper would be punctual. +</p> + +<p> +Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adam +entered the house, but there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment: the +eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was too serious a +business to those good farm-labourers to be performed with a divided attention, +even if they had had anything to say to each other—which they had not. And Mr. +Poyser, at the head of the table, was too busy with his carving to listen to +Bartle Massey’s or Mr. Craig’s ready talk. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, Adam,” said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to see that +Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, “here’s a place kept for you between +Mr. Massey and the boys. It’s a poor tale you couldn’t come to see the pudding +when it was whole.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman’s figure, but Dinah was not +there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides, his attention was +claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope that Dinah was in the house, +though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the eve of her departure. +</p> + +<p> +It was a goodly sight—that table, with Martin Poyser’s round good-humoured face +and large person at the head of it helping his servants to the fragrant roast +beef and pleased when the empty plates came again. Martin, though usually blest +with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef to-night—it was so +pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving and see how the others +enjoyed their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year +except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, +under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles—with relish +certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more +endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint +conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn +ale. He held his head on one side and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle +Massey, and watched half-witted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as “Tom Saft,” +receiving his second plateful of beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom’s face +as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he held +erect, as if they had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to +continue smouldering in a grin—it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn +“haw, haw!” followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and +fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser’s large person shook with his +silent unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she too had been +observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of +good-natured amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“Tom Saft” was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part of the +old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by his success in +repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which falls quite at +random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were much quoted +at sheep-shearing and haymaking times, but I refrain from recording them here, +lest Tom’s wit should prove to be like that of many other bygone jesters +eminent in their day—rather of a temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper +and more lasting relations of things. +</p> + +<p> +Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and labourers, +thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worth their pay of any set +on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example (Beale, probably, if the +truth were known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any claim to +a fifth letter), the old man with the close leather cap and the network of +wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was there any man in Loamshire who knew +better the “natur” of all farming work? He was one of those invaluable +labourers who can not only turn their hand to everything, but excel in +everything they turn their hand to. It is true Kester’s knees were much bent +outward by this time, and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were +among the most reverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that +the object of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he performed some +rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the ricks—for if anything +were his forte more than another, it was thatching—and when the last touch had +been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some distance from +the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yard in his best clothes on a Sunday +morning and stand in the lane, at a due distance, to contemplate his own +thatching, walking about to get each rick from the proper point of view. As he +curtsied along, with his eyes upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden +globes at the summits of the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best +sort, you might have imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration. +Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin, +concerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay-night: not a new +unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried many times before and +had worn well. “Th’ young measter’s a merry mon,” Kester frequently remarked; +for having begun his career by frightening away the crows under the last Martin +Poyser but one, he could never cease to account the reigning Martin a young +master. I am not ashamed of commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to +the hard hands of such men—hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they +tilled so faithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth’s +fruits, and receiving the smallest share as their own wages. +</p> + +<p> +Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, the +shepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not on the best +terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confined to an occasional +snarl, for though they probably differed little concerning hedging and ditching +and the treatment of ewes, there was a profound difference of opinion between +them as to their own respective merits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be +on the same farm, they are not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, +indeed, was not by any means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of +a snarl in it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog +expression—“Don’t you meddle with me, and I won’t meddle with you.” But he was +honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather than he would take beyond +his acknowledged share, and as “close-fisted” with his master’s property as if +it had been his own—throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to the +chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination painfully with a +sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had +his grudge against Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each +other, and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes; +but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind, it +would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits of +unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of +that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently observed in most +districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight on +a field-labourer’s face, and there was seldom any gradation between bovine +gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourer so honest as our friend Alick. At +this very table, among Mr. Poyser’s men, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very +powerful thresher, but detected more than once in carrying away his master’s +corn in his pockets—an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly +be ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him, and +continued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common time out of +mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I daresay, +society was not much the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the +treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, and the House of +Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast beef to-night +with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas and beans as +seed for his garden since the last harvest supper, and felt warranted in +thinking that Alick’s suspicious eye, for ever upon him, was an injury to his +innocence. +</p> + +<p> +But <i>now</i> the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving a +fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and the foaming brown jugs, +and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. <i>Now</i>, the great +ceremony of the evening was to begin—the harvest-song, in which every man must +join. He might be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with +closed lips. The movement was obliged to be in triple time; the rest was <i>ad +libitum</i>. +</p> + +<p> +As to the origin of this song—whether it came in its actual state from the +brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school or +succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp of unity, of +individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though I +am not blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from +that consensus of many minds which was a condition of primitive thought, +foreign to our modern consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect +in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, +failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration. +Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an original +felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can be insensible. +</p> + +<p> +The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That is perhaps +a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our forefathers.) During +the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly <i>forte</i>, no can was filled. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Here’s a health unto our master,<br/> + The founder of the feast;<br/> +Here’s a health unto our master<br/> + And to our mistress!<br/> +<br/> +And may his doings prosper,<br/> + Whate’er he takes in hand,<br/> +For we are all his servants,<br/> + And are at his command.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung +<i>fortissimo</i>, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect of +cymbals and drum together, Alick’s can was filled, and he was bound to empty it +before the chorus ceased. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Then drink, boys, drink!<br/> + And see ye do not spill,<br/> +For if ye do, ye shall drink two,<br/> + For ’tis our master’s will.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed manliness, +it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand—and so on, till every man had +drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the chorus. Tom Saft—the +rogue—took care to spill a little by accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too +officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty. +</p> + +<p> +To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of obvious why +the “Drink, boys, drink!” should have such an immediate and often-repeated +encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all faces were at present +sober, and most of them serious—it was the regular and respectable thing for +those excellent farm-labourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and +gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears +were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an +early stage in the ceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a +silence of five minutes declared that “Drink, boys, drink!” was not likely to +begin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys and Totty: +on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the +table, towards which Totty, seated on her father’s knee, contributed with her +small might and small fist. +</p> + +<p> +When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desire for solo +music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggoner knew a song and +was “allays singing like a lark i’ the stable,” whereupon Mr. Poyser said +encouragingly, “Come, Tim, lad, let’s hear it.” Tim looked sheepish, tucked +down his head, and said he couldn’t sing, but this encouraging invitation of +the master’s was echoed all round the table. It was a conversational +opportunity: everybody could say, “Come, Tim,” except Alick, who never relaxed +into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last, Tim’s next neighbour, Ben +Tholoway, began to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing +rather savage, said, “Let me alooan, will ye? Else I’ll ma’ ye sing a toon ye +wonna like.” A good-tempered waggoner’s patience has limits, and Tim was not to +be urged further. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, David, ye’re the lad to sing,” said Ben, willing to show that he +was not discomfited by this check. “Sing ‘My loove’s a roos wi’out a thorn.’” +</p> + +<p> +The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted expression, +which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity rather than to any +mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to Ben’s invitation, but +blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was +regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some time the company appeared to be +much in earnest about the desire to hear David’s song. But in vain. The +lyricism of the evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn +from that retreat just yet. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken a political turn. +Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally, though he piqued himself +rather on a wise insight than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the +mere facts of a case that really it was superfluous to know them. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m no reader o’ the paper myself,” he observed to-night, as he filled his +pipe, “though I might read it fast enough if I liked, for there’s Miss Lyddy +has ’em and ’s done with ’em i’ no time. But there’s Mills, now, sits i’ the +chimney-corner and reads the paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when +he’s got to th’ end on’t he’s more addle-headed than he was at the beginning. +He’s full o’ this peace now, as they talk on; he’s been reading and reading, +and thinks he’s got to the bottom on’t. ‘Why, Lor’ bless you, Mills,’ says I, +‘you see no more into this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. +I’ll tell you what it is: you think it’ll be a fine thing for the country. And +I’m not again’ it—mark my words—I’m not again’ it. But it’s my opinion as +there’s them at the head o’ this country as are worse enemies to us nor Bony +and all the mounseers he’s got at ’s back; for as for the mounseers, you may +skewer half-a-dozen of ’em at once as if they war frogs.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much intelligence and +edification, “they ne’er ate a bit o’ beef i’ their lives. Mostly sallet, I +reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“And says I to Mills,” continued Mr. Craig, “‘Will <i>you</i> try to make me +believe as furriners like them can do us half th’ harm them ministers do with +their bad government? If King George ’ud turn ’em all away and govern by +himself, he’d see everything righted. He might take on Billy Pitt again if he +liked; but I don’t see myself what we want wi’ anybody besides King and +Parliament. It’s that nest o’ ministers does the mischief, I tell you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, it’s fine talking,” observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated near her +husband, with Totty on her lap—“it’s fine talking. It’s hard work to tell which +is Old Harry when everybody’s got boots on.” +</p> + +<p> +“As for this peace,” said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side in a +dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe between each +sentence, “I don’t know. Th’ war’s a fine thing for the country, an’ how’ll you +keep up prices wi’out it? An’ them French are a wicked sort o’ folks, by what I +can make out. What can you do better nor fight ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye’re partly right there, Poyser,” said Mr. Craig, “but I’m not again’ the +peace—to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like, an’ <i>I’m</i> +in no fear o’ Bony, for all they talk so much o’ his cliverness. That’s what I +says to Mills this morning. Lor’ bless you, he sees no more through Bony!... +why, I put him up to more in three minutes than he gets from’s paper all the +year round. Says I, ‘Am I a gardener as knows his business, or arn’t I, Mills? +Answer me that.’ ‘To be sure y’ are, Craig,’ says he—he’s not a bad fellow, +Mills isn’t, for a butler, but weak i’ the head. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘you talk o’ +Bony’s cliverness; would it be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I’d +got nought but a quagmire to work on?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘that’s +just what it is wi’ Bony. I’ll not deny but he may be a bit cliver—he’s no +Frenchman born, as I understand—but what’s he got at’s back but mounseers?’” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphant specimen +of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping the table rather fiercely, “Why, +it’s a sure thing—and there’s them ’ull bear witness to’t—as i’ one regiment +where there was one man a-missing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, +and they fit him as the shell fits the walnut, and you couldn’t tell the monkey +from the mounseers!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Think o’ that, now!” said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with the political +bearings of the fact and with its striking interest as an anecdote in natural +history. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Craig,” said Adam, “that’s a little too strong. You don’t believe that. +It’s all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr. Irwine’s seen +’em in their own country, and he says they’ve plenty o’ fine fellows among ’em. +And as for knowledge, and contrivances, and manufactures, there’s a many things +as we’re a fine sight behind ’em in. It’s poor foolishness to run down your +enemies. Why, Nelson and the rest of ’em ’ud have no merit i’ beating ’em, if +they were such offal as folks pretend.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition of +authorities. Mr. Irwine’s testimony was not to be disputed; but, on the other +hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling. Martin had +never “heard tell” of the French being good for much. Mr. Craig had found no +answer but such as was implied in taking a long draught of ale and then looking +down fixedly at the proportions of his own leg, which he turned a little +outward for that purpose, when Bartle Massey returned from the fireplace, where +he had been smoking his first pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, +as he thrust his forefinger into the canister, “Why, Adam, how happened you not +to be at church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limping +without you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old age?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I was. I +was in no bad company.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s gone, Adam—gone to Snowfield,” said Mr. Poyser, reminded of Dinah for +the first time this evening. “I thought you’d ha’ persuaded her better. Nought +’ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got +over it. I thought she’d ha’ no sperrit for th’ harvest supper.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in, but she +had had “no heart” to mention the bad news. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said Bartle, with an air of disgust. “Was there a woman concerned? Then +I give you up, Adam.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s a woman you’n spoke well on, Bartle,” said Mr. Poyser. “Come now, you +canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha’ been a bad invention if +they’d all been like Dinah.” +</p> + +<p> +“I meant her voice, man—I meant her voice, that was all,” said Bartle. “I can +bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As for other +things, I daresay she’s like the rest o’ the women—thinks two and two ’ll come +to make five, if she cries and bothers enough about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye!” said Mrs. Poyser; “one ’ud think, an’ hear some folks talk, as the +men war ’cute enough to count the corns in a bag o’ wheat wi’ only smelling at +it. They can see through a barn-door, <i>they</i> can. Perhaps that’s the +reason they can see so little o’ this side on’t.” +</p> + +<p> +Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much as to +say the schoolmaster was in for it now. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Bartle sneeringly, “the women are quick enough—they’re quick enough. +They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and can tell a man what +his thoughts are before he knows ’em himself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like enough,” said Mrs. Poyser, “for the men are mostly so slow, their +thoughts overrun ’em, an’ they can only catch ’em by the tail. I can count a +stocking-top while a man’s getting’s tongue ready an’ when he outs wi’ his +speech at last, there’s little broth to be made on’t. It’s your dead chicks +take the longest hatchin’. Howiver, I’m not denyin’ the women are foolish: God +Almighty made ’em to match the men.” +</p> + +<p> +“Match!” said Bartle. “Aye, as vinegar matches one’s teeth. If a man says a +word, his wife ’ll match it with a contradiction; if he’s a mind for hot meat, +his wife ’ll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs, she’ll match him with +whimpering. She’s such a match as the horse-fly is to th’ horse: she’s got the +right venom to sting him with—the right venom to sting him with.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Mrs. Poyser, “I know what the men like—a poor soft, as ’ud simper +at ’em like the picture o’ the sun, whether they did right or wrong, an’ say +thank you for a kick, an’ pretend she didna know which end she stood uppermost, +till her husband told her. That’s what a man wants in a wife, mostly; he wants +to make sure o’ one fool as ’ull tell him he’s wise. But there’s some men can +do wi’out that—they think so much o’ themselves a’ready. An’ that’s how it is +there’s old bachelors.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Craig,” said Mr. Poyser jocosely, “you mun get married pretty quick, +else you’ll be set down for an old bachelor; an’ you see what the women ’ull +think on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a high +value on his own compliments, “<i>I</i> like a cleverish woman—a woman o’ +sperrit—a managing woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re out there, Craig,” said Bartle, dryly; “you’re out there. You judge o’ +your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You pick the things for what they +can excel in—for what they can excel in. You don’t value your peas for their +roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now, that’s the way you should choose +women. Their cleverness ’ll never come to much—never come to much—but they make +excellent simpletons, ripe and strong-flavoured.” +</p> + +<p> +“What dost say to that?” said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and looking +merrily at his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Say!” answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her eye. “Why, I +say as some folks’ tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin’, not to tell +you the time o’ the day, but because there’s summat wrong i’ their own +inside...” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a further climax, if +every one’s attention had not at this moment been called to the other end of +the table, where the lyricism, which had at first only manifested itself by +David’s <i>sotto voce</i> performance of “My love’s a rose without a thorn,” +had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex character. Tim, thinking +slightly of David’s vocalization, was impelled to supersede that feeble buzz by +a spirited commencement of “Three Merry Mowers,” but David was not to be put +down so easily, and showed himself capable of a copious crescendo, which was +rendering it doubtful whether the rose would not predominate over the mowers, +when old Kester, with an entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up +a quavering treble—as if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him +to go off. +</p> + +<p> +The company at Alick’s end of the table took this form of vocal entertainment +very much as a matter of course, being free from musical prejudices; but Bartle +Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers in his ears; and Adam, who had +been longing to go ever since he had heard Dinah was not in the house, rose and +said he must bid good-night. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go with you, lad,” said Bartle; “I’ll go with you before my ears are +split.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. Massey,” said +Adam. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye!” said Bartle; “then we can have a bit o’ talk together. I never get +hold of you now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh! It’s a pity but you’d sit it out,” said Martin Poyser. “They’ll all go +soon, for th’ missis niver lets ’em stay past ten.” +</p> + +<p> +But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two friends turned +out on their starlight walk together. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home,” said Bartle. “I can +never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poyser’s +eye, and the poor bitch might go limping for ever after.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve never any need to drive Gyp back,” said Adam, laughing. “He always turns +back of his own head when he finds out I’m coming here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye,” said Bartle. “A terrible woman!—made of needles, made of needles. +But I stick to Martin—I shall always stick to Martin. And he likes the needles, +God help him! He’s a cushion made on purpose for ’em.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she’s a downright good-natur’d woman, for all that,” said Adam, “and as +true as the daylight. She’s a bit cross wi’ the dogs when they offer to come in +th’ house, but if they depended on her, she’d take care and have ’em well fed. +If her tongue’s keen, her heart’s tender: I’ve seen that in times o’ trouble. +She’s one o’ those women as are better than their word.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Bartle, “I don’t say th’ apple isn’t sound at the core; but +it sets my teeth on edge—it sets my teeth on edge.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"></a> +Chapter LIV<br/> +The Meeting on the Hill</h2> + +<p> +Adam understood Dinah’s haste to go away, and drew hope rather than +discouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feeling +towards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully for the +ultimate guiding voice from within. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I’d asked her to write to me, though,” he thought. “And yet even that +might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quiet in her old way +for a while. And I’ve no right to be impatient and interrupting her with my +wishes. She’s told me what her mind is, and she’s not a woman to say one thing +and mean another. I’ll wait patiently.” +</p> + +<p> +That was Adam’s wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the first two or +three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance of Dinah’s +confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amount of sustenance in +the first few words of love. But towards the middle of October the resolution +began to dwindle perceptibly, and showed dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The +weeks were unusually long: Dinah must surely have had more than enough time to +make up her mind. Let a woman say what she will after she has once told a man +that she loves him, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first +draught she offers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads +the earth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes light +of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory gets sadly diluted +with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. Adam was no longer so +confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhaps Dinah’s old life would +have too strong a grasp upon her for any new feeling to triumph. If she had not +felt this, she would surely have written to him to give him some comfort; but +it appeared that she held it right to discourage him. As Adam’s confidence +waned, his patience waned with it, and he thought he must write himself. He +must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He +sat up late one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it, +afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answer by letter +than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her will. +</p> + +<p> +You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, and when +that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely to still it +though he may have to put his future in pawn. +</p> + +<p> +But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not be displeased +with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She must surely expect that +he would go before long. By the second Sunday in October this view of the case +had become so clear to Adam that he was already on his way to Snowfield, on +horseback this time, for his hours were precious now, and he had borrowed +Jonathan Burge’s good nag for the journey. +</p> + +<p> +What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been to Oakbourne +and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyond Oakbourne the +greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees, seemed to be telling him +afresh the story of that painful past which he knew so well by heart. But no +story is the same to us after a lapse of time—or rather, we who read it are no +longer the same interpreters—and Adam this morning brought with him new +thoughts through that grey country, thoughts which gave an altered significance +to its story of the past. +</p> + +<p> +That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoices and is +thankful over the past evil that has blighted or crushed another, because it +has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adam could never cease +to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which had been brought so close to +him; he could never thank God for another’s misery. And if I were capable of +that narrow-sighted joy in Adam’s behalf, I should still know he was not the +man to feel it for himself. He would have shaken his head at such a sentiment +and said, “Evil’s evil, and sorrow’s sorrow, and you can’t alter it’s natur by +wrapping it up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I +should think all square when things turn out well for me.” +</p> + +<p> +But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad experience has +brought us is worth our own personal share of pain. Surely it is not possible +to feel otherwise, any more than it would be possible for a man with cataract +to regret the painful process by which his dim blurred sight of men as trees +walking had been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of +higher feeling within us is like the growth of faculty, bringing with it a +sense of added strength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy +than a painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a +philosopher to his less complete formula. +</p> + +<p> +Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam’s mind this Sunday +morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. His feeling +towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had been the distant +unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfield eighteen months ago +had been leading him. Tender and deep as his love for Hetty had been—so deep +that the roots of it would never be torn away—his love for Dinah was better and +more precious to him, for it was the outgrowth of that fuller life which had +come to him from his acquaintance with deep sorrow. “It’s like as if it was a +new strength to me,” he said to himself, “to love her and know as she loves me. +I shall look t’ her to help me to see things right. For she’s better than I +am—there’s less o’ self in her, and pride. And it’s a feeling as gives you a +sort o’ liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you’ve more trust in +another than y’ have in yourself. I’ve always been thinking I knew better than +them as belonged to me, and that’s a poor sort o’ life, when you can’t look to +them nearest to you t’ help you with a bit better thought than what you’ve got +inside you a’ready.” +</p> + +<p> +It was more than two o’clock in the afternoon when Adam came in sight of the +grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly towards the green valley +below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near the ugly red mill. +The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine than it had in the +eager time of early spring, and the one grand charm it possessed in common with +all wide-stretching woodless regions—that it filled you with a new +consciousness of the overarching sky—had a milder, more soothing influence than +usual, on this almost cloudless day. Adam’s doubts and fears melted under this +influence as the delicate weblike clouds had gradually melted away into the +clear blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah’s gentle face assuring him, with +its looks alone, of all he longed to know. +</p> + +<p> +He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down from his +horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might ask where she was gone +to-day. He had set his mind on following her and bringing her home. She was +gone to Sloman’s End, a hamlet about three miles off, over the hill, the old +woman told him—had set off directly after morning chapel, to preach in a +cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at the town would tell him the way to +Sloman’s End. So Adam got on his horse again and rode to the town, putting up +at the old inn and taking a hasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty +landlord, from whose friendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape +as soon as possible and set out towards Sloman’s End. With all his haste it was +nearly four o’clock before he could set off, and he thought that as Dinah had +gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning. The little, grey, +desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by sheltering trees, lay in sight long +before he reached it, and as he came near he could hear the sound of voices +singing a hymn. “Perhaps that’s the last hymn before they come away,” Adam +thought. “I’ll walk back a bit and turn again to meet her, farther off the +village.” He walked back till he got nearly to the top of the hill again, and +seated himself on a loose stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should +see the little black figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He +chose this spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from all +eyes—no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near—no presence but the +still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky. +</p> + +<p> +She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at least +watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadows lengthened +and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black figure coming from +between the grey houses and gradually approaching the foot of the hill. Slowly, +Adam thought, but Dinah was really walking at her usual pace, with a light +quiet step. Now she was beginning to wind along the path up the hill, but Adam +would not move yet; he would not meet her too soon; he had set his heart on +meeting her in this assured loneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should +startle her too much. “Yet,” he thought, “she’s not one to be overstartled; +she’s always so calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything.” +</p> + +<p> +What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found +complete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of his love. On +the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses with fluttering wings. +</p> + +<p> +But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall. It +happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah had paused and turned round to +look back at the village—who does not pause and look back in mounting a hill? +Adam was glad, for, with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be +best for her to hear his voice before she saw him. He came within three paces +of her and then said, “Dinah!” She started without looking round, as if she +connected the sound with no place. “Dinah!” Adam said again. He knew quite well +what was in her mind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely +spiritual monitions that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of +the voice. +</p> + +<p> +But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it was that +the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed man! She did not start again +at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm +could clasp her round. +</p> + +<p> +And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was content, +and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first. +</p> + +<p> +“Adam,” she said, “it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yours that it +is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, now you are with me, +and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same love. I have a fulness of +strength to bear and do our heavenly Father’s Will that I had lost before.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we’ll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us.” +</p> + +<p> +And they kissed each other with a deep joy. +</p> + +<p> +What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are +joined for life—to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on each other +in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other +in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"></a> +Chapter LV<br/> +Marriage Bells</h2> + +<p> +In little more than a month after that meeting on the hill—on a rimy morning in +departing November—Adam and Dinah were married. +</p> + +<p> +It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge’s men had a +holiday, and all Mr. Poyser’s, and most of those who had a holiday appeared in +their best clothes at the wedding. I think there was hardly an inhabitant of +Hayslope specially mentioned in this history and still resident in the parish +on this November morning who was not either in church to see Adam and Dinah +married, or near the church door to greet them as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine +and her daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates in their carriage (for +they had a carriage now) to shake hands with the bride and bridegroom and wish +them well; and in the absence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. +Mills, and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent “the family” at +the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was quite lined with familiar +faces, many of them faces that had first looked at Dinah when she preached on +the Green. And no wonder they showed this eager interest on her marriage +morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history which had brought her and Adam +Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the memory of man. +</p> + +<p> +Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though she did not +exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who stood near her, judiciously +suggested, Dinah was not going away, and if Bessy was in low spirits, the best +thing for her to do was to follow Dinah’s example and marry an honest fellow +who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, just within the church door, there +were the Poyser children, peeping round the corner of the pews to get a sight +of the mysterious ceremony; Totty’s face wearing an unusual air of anxiety at +the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come back looking rather old, for in Totty’s +experience no married people were young. +</p> + +<p> +I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly ended and Adam +led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this morning, for her Aunt Poyser +would by no means allow such a risk of incurring bad luck, and had herself made +a present of the wedding dress, made all of grey, though in the usual Quaker +form, for on this point Dinah could not give way. So the lily face looked out +with sweet gravity from under a grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor +blushing, but with lips trembling a little under the weight of solemn feelings. +Adam, as he pressed her arm to his side, walked with his old erectness and his +head thrown rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it was not +because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont of bridegrooms, +for his happiness was of a kind that had little reference to men’s opinion of +it. There was a tinge of sadness in his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not +feel aggrieved. +</p> + +<p> +There were three other couples, following the bride and bridegroom: first, +Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright fire on this rimy morning, led +quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; then came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. +Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, with Lisbeth—Lisbeth in a new +gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride in her son and her delight in +possessing the one daughter she had desired to devise a single pretext for +complaint. +</p> + +<p> +Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam’s earnest request, +under protest against marriage in general and the marriage of a sensible man in +particular. Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against him after the wedding +dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had given the bride one more kiss +than was necessary. +</p> + +<p> +Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this good morning’s +work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen Adam in the worst moments of +his sorrow; and what better harvest from that painful seed-time could there be +than this? The love that had brought hope and comfort in the hour of despair, +the love that had found its way to the dark prison cell and to poor Hetty’s +darker soul—this strong gentle love was to be Adam’s companion and helper till +death. +</p> + +<p> +There was much shaking of hands mingled with “God bless you’s” and other good +wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr. Poyser answering for +the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue, for he had all the appropriate +wedding-day jokes at his command. And the women, he observed, could never do +anything but put finger in eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust +herself to speak as the neighbours shook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to +cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was getting young +again. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join in the +ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with some contempt at these +informal greetings which required no official co-operation from the clerk, +began to hum in his musical bass, “Oh what a joyful thing it is,” by way of +preluding a little to the effect he intended to produce in the wedding psalm +next Sunday. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a bit of good news to cheer Arthur,” said Mr. Irwine to his mother, as +they drove off. “I shall write to him the first thing when we get home.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"></a> +Epilogue</h2> + +<p> +It is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut up half an +hour or more in Adam Bede’s timber-yard, which used to be Jonathan Burge’s, and +the mellow evening light is falling on the pleasant house with the buff walls +and the soft grey thatch, very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the +keys on that June evening nine years ago. +</p> + +<p> +There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading her +eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, for the rays +that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair are very +dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all +altered—only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronly figure, which +still seems light and active enough in the plain black dress. +</p> + +<p> +“I see him, Seth,” Dinah said, as she looked into the house. “Let us go and +meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother.” +</p> + +<p> +The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with pale +auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ran out +silently and put her hand into her mother’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Uncle Seth,” said Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, aye, we’re coming,” Seth answered from within, and presently appeared +stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the black head of a +sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by demanding to be +carried on uncle’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout +black-eyed fellow. “He’s troublesome to thee so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit.” A +kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising +force against Uncle Seth’s chest. But to walk by Dinah’s side, and be +tyrannized over by Dinah’s and Adam’s children, was Uncle Seth’s earthly +happiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. +“I can’t catch sight of him anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I saw his hat and his +shoulder. There he is again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Trust thee for catching sight of him if he’s anywhere to be seen,” said Seth, +smiling. “Thee’t like poor mother used to be. She was always on the look out +for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been longer than he expected,” said Dinah, taking Arthur’s watch from a +small side pocket and looking at it; “it’s nigh upon seven now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Aye, they’d have a deal to say to one another,” said Seth, “and the meeting +’ud touch ’em both pretty closish. Why, it’s getting on towards eight years +since they parted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Dinah, “Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the +change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, +as well as the years which have changed us all. And the death of the poor +wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“See, Addy,” said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, +“there’s Father coming—at the far stile.” +</p> + +<p> +Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed till +she clasped her father’s leg. Adam patted her head and lifted her up to kiss +her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face as she approached +him, and he put her arm within his in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, youngster, must I take you?” he said, trying to smile, when Addy +stretched out his arms—ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, to give up +his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at hand. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s cut me a good deal, Dinah,” Adam said at last, when they were walking on. +</p> + +<p> +“Didst find him greatly altered?” said Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he’s altered and yet not altered. I should ha’ known him anywhere. But +his colour’s changed, and he looks sadly. However, the doctors say he’ll soon +be set right in his own country air. He’s all sound in th’ inside; it’s only +the fever shattered him so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just +as he did when he was a lad. It’s wonderful how he’s always had just the same +sort o’ look when he smiles.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve never seen him smile, poor young man,” said Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“But thee <i>wilt</i> see him smile, to-morrow,” said Adam. “He asked after +thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk to one +another. ‘I hope she isn’t altered,’ he said, ‘I remember her face so well.’ I +told him ‘no,’” Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned +towards his, “only a bit plumper, as thee’dst a right to be after seven year. +‘I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn’t I?’ he said; ‘I long to tell her how +I’ve thought of her all these years.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Didst tell him I’d always used the watch?” said Dinah. +</p> + +<p> +“Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman a bit +like thee. ‘I shall turn Methodist some day,’ he said, ‘when she preaches out +of doors, and go to hear her.’ And I said, ‘Nay, sir, you can’t do that, for +Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she’s given it up, all but +talking to the people a bit in their houses.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, “and a sore +pity it was o’ Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we’d ha’ left the +Wesleyans and joined a body that ’ud put no bonds on Christian liberty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, lad, nay,” said Adam, “she was right and thee wast wrong. There’s no +rules so wise but what it’s a pity for somebody or other. Most o’ the women do +more harm nor good with their preaching—they’ve not got Dinah’s gift nor her +sperrit—and she’s seen that, and she thought it right to set th’ example o’ +submitting, for she’s not held from other sorts o’ teaching. And I agree with +her, and approve o’ what she did.” +</p> + +<p> +Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely alluded to, +and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, “Didst remember, Adam, to speak to +Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and aunt entrusted to thee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and he’s going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after to-morrow. +Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and he would have it as the +Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. He said—and he’s in the right of +it—as it’ll be bad for him t’ have his feelings stirred with seeing many people +one after another. ‘We must get you strong and hearty,’ he said, ‘that’s the +first thing to be done Arthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I +shall keep you under your old tutor’s thumb till then.’ Mr. Irwine’s fine and +joyful at having him home again.” +</p> + +<p> +Adam was silent a little while, and then said, “It was very cutting when we +first saw one another. He’d never heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met +him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first thing he +said to me, when we’d got hold o’ one another’s hands was, ‘I could never do +anything for her, Adam—she lived long enough for all the suffering—and I’d +thought so of the time when I might do something for her. But you told me the +truth when you said to me once, “There’s a sort of wrong that can never be made +up for.”’” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,” said Seth. +</p> + +<p> +“So there is,” said Dinah. “Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come in, +Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADAM BEDE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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