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diff --git a/507-0.txt b/507-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d68de58 --- /dev/null +++ b/507-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21047 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Adam Bede, by George Eliot + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: Adam Bede + +Author: George Eliot [pseudonym of Mary Anne Evans] + +Release Date: April, 1996 [eBook #507] +[Most recently updated: December 2, 2023] + +Language: English + +Produced by: An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADAM BEDE *** + + + + +Adam Bede + +by George Eliot + + +CONTENTS + + Book First + Chapter I — The Workshop + Chapter II — The Preaching + Chapter III — After the Preaching + Chapter IV — Home and Its Sorrows + Chapter V — The Rector + Chapter VI — The Hall Farm + Chapter VII — The Dairy + Chapter VIII — A Vocation + Chapter IX — Hetty’s World + Chapter X — Dinah Visits Lisbeth + Chapter XI — In the Cottage + Chapter XII — In the Wood + Chapter XIII — Evening in the Wood + Chapter XIV — The Return Home + Chapter XV — The Two Bed-Chambers + Chapter XVI — Links + + Book Second + Chapter XVII — In Which the Story Pauses a Little + Chapter XVIII — Church + Chapter XIX — Adam on a Working Day + Chapter XX — Adam Visits the Hall Farm + Chapter XXI — The Night-School and the Schoolmaster + + Book Third + Chapter XXII — Going to the Birthday Feast + Chapter XXIII — Dinner-Time + Chapter XXIV — The Health-Drinking + Chapter XXV — The Games + Chapter XXVI — The Dance + + Book Fourth + Chapter XXVII — A Crisis + Chapter XXVIII — A Dilemma + Chapter XXIX — The Next Morning + Chapter XXX — The Delivery of the Letter + Chapter XXXI — In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber + Chapter XXXII — Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out” + Chapter XXXIII — More Links + Chapter XXXIV — The Betrothal + Chapter XXXV — The Hidden Dread + + Book Fifth + Chapter XXXVI — The Journey of Hope + Chapter XXXVII — The Journey in Despair + Chapter XXXVIII — The Quest + Chapter XXXIX — The Tidings + Chapter XL — The Bitter Waters Spread + Chapter XLI — The Eve of the Trial + Chapter XLII — The Morning of the Trial + Chapter XLIII — The Verdict + Chapter XLIV — Arthur’s Return + Chapter XLV — In the Prison + Chapter XLVI — The Hours of Suspense + Chapter XLVII — The Last Moment + Chapter XLVIII — Another Meeting in the Wood + + Book Sixth + Chapter XLIX — At the Hall Farm + Chapter L — In the Cottage + Chapter LI — Sunday Morning + Chapter LII — Adam and Dinah + Chapter LIII — The Harvest Supper + Chapter LIV — The Meeting on the Hill + Chapter LV — Marriage Bells + + Epilogue + + + + +Book First + + + + +Chapter I +The Workshop + + +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. + +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— + +Awake, my soul, and with the sun +Thy daily stage of duty run; +Shake off dull sloth... + + +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— + +Let all thy converse be sincere, +Thy conscience as the noonday clear. + + +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. + +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. + +The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; +they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. + +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.” + +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?” + +“Aye, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “what’s awanting +to’t?” + +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.” + +The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, +and coloured over brow and crown. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Catch me at it, Adam. It’ll be a good while afore my head’s full o’ +th’ Methodies,” said Ben. + +“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I shan’t loose him till he promises to let the door alone,” said Adam. + +“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.” + +“I binna frighted at Adam,” said Ben, “but I donna mind sayin’ as I’ll +let ’t alone at your askin’, Seth.” + +“Come, that’s wise of you, Ben,” said Adam, laughing and relaxing his +grasp. + +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. + +“Which was ye thinkin’ on, Seth,” he began—“the pretty parson’s face or +her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?” + +“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.” + +“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 _ye_ +do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha’ me get converted an’ chop in atween ye an’ +the pretty preacher, an’ carry her aff?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Come, Ben,” said Adam, rather sternly, “you let the words o’ the Bible +alone; you’re going too far now.” + +“What! Are _ye_ a-turnin’ roun’, Adam? I thought ye war dead again th’ +women preachin’, a while agoo?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Aye, aye; but he’s none so fond o’ your dissenters, for all that.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“On’y he’ll lave the panels out o’ th’ doors sometimes, eh, Seth?” said +Wiry Ben. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking +up. + +“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.” + +“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam. + +“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather +timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. + +“Nay, I’m going to th’ school.” + +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. + +“What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?” said Adam, with the same +gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. + +Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, “Of course.” Poor +fellow, he had not a great range of expression. + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“No, Dolly, thank you; I’m off home. Good evening.” + +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. + +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: + +Let all thy converse be sincere, +Thy conscience as the noonday clear; +For God’s all-seeing eye surveys +Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways. + + + + +Chapter II +The Preaching + + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Why, what’s up in your pretty village, landlord?” he continued, +getting down. “There seems to be quite a stir.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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 _them_.” + +“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’.” + +“The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.” + +“Your servant, sir; good evenin’.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Idle talk! idle talk!” said Mr. Joshua Rann. “Adam an’ Seth’s two men; +you wunna fit them two wi’ the same last.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“A sweet woman,” the stranger said to himself, “but surely nature never +meant her for a preacher.” + +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. + +“Dear friends,” she said in a clear but not loud voice “let us pray for +a blessing.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of +villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. + +“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 _to preach the Gospel to the poor:_ 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?’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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?” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Well, dear friends, who _was_ 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. + +“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.’ + +“The _lost!... Sinners!_... Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and +me?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?’ + +“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.” + +Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident +vanity had touched her with pity. + +“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!’” + +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. + +“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. +_She_ 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 _are_ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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—” + +Its streams the whole creation reach, + So plenteous is the store; +Enough for all, enough for each, + Enough for evermore. + + +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. + + + + +Chapter III +After the Preaching + + +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. + +“You’ve quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o’ Saturday, +Dinah?” + +“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.” + +“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 _her_, 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.” + +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.” + +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— + +In darkest shades if she appear, + My dawning is begun; +She is my soul’s bright morning-star, + And she my rising sun. + + +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?” + +“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.” + +“But you’d let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I +wanted to tell you?” + +“Yes, sure; let me know if you’re in any trouble. You’ll be continually +in my prayers.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter IV +Home and Its Sorrows + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready,” said Lisbeth. “Thee’t work +thyself to death. It ’ud take thee all night to do’t.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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? + +“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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Nay, I’ll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon.” + +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. + +“Why, Mother,” he said, “how is it as Father’s working so late?” + +“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’.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +Seth’s eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his +mild face. + +“Yes, Addy, but it’s what must be borne, and can’t be helped. Why, +thee’st never been to the school, then?” + +“School? No, that screw can wait,” said Adam, hammering away again. + +“Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,” said Seth. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Nay, Mother,” said Seth, “I’ve had no supper yet.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Unaisy? I’m i’ th’ right on’t to be unaisy. It’s well seen on _thee_ +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, I’ve nothin’ to say again’ it.” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself.” + +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.” + +“Aye, Mother, do,” said Adam, kindly; “I’m getting very thirsty.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture +through which the brook ran. + +“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. + +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. + +“I’ll run to Mother,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I’ll be back to thee +in a minute.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter V +The Rector + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“It’s of no use, child; she can’t speak to you. Kate says she has one +of her worst headaches this morning.” + +“Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she’s never too ill +to care about that.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She +beats us younger people hollow. But what’s the matter?” + +“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’.” + +“Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at +the church lead again?” + +“Thieves! No, sir—an’ yet, as I may say, it _is_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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’.” + +“Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass; I daresay she’ll come +round again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into fits?” + +“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.” + +“Well, what’s your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I said +before——” + +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, + +“Godson Arthur—may he come in?” + +“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. + +Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, “But don’t let +me interrupt Joshua’s business—he has something to say.” + +“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.” + +“Out with it, Joshua, quickly!” said Mr. Irwine. + +“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.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal +interested in the information. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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_ 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.” + +“You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,” said Mrs. Irwine. “It’s +nearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,” said Mrs. Irwine. +“Make her come here on some pretext or other.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _are_ aspersions. I _am_ 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?” + +“Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch upstairs,” said Carroll; +“she can’t leave Miss Anne.” + +“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. + +“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 _carte blanche_ 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.” + +“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 _was_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _him_. 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.” + +“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 _you_ 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 _ism_.” + +“Well, I don’t know that I’m very fond of _isms_ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _not_ to follow great reformers of +abuses beyond the threshold of their homes. + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter VI +The Hall Farm + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _wonna_ 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.” + +“Munny, my iron’s twite told; pease put it down to warm.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Munny, I tould ’ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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 _she_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But not more than what’s in the Bible, Aunt,” said Dinah. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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——” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Oh, sir, don’t mention it,” said Mrs. Poyser. “Will you and the +captain please to walk into the parlour?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s in capital order. Take me in,” said the +captain, himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser followed. + + + + +Chapter VII +The Dairy + + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half-shy, +half-coquettish glance at him as she said, “Yes, thank you, sir.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“But where _is_ Totty to-day?” he said. “I want to see her.” + +“Where is the little un, Hetty?” said Mrs. Poyser. “She came in here +not long ago.” + +“I don’t know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think.” + +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. + +“And do you carry the butter to market when you’ve made it?” said the +Captain to Hetty, meanwhile. + +“Oh no, sir; not when it’s so heavy. I’m not strong enough to carry it. +Alick takes it on horseback.” + +“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.” + +“Aunt doesn’t like me to go a-walking only when I’m going somewhere,” +said Hetty. “But I go through the Chase sometimes.” + +“And don’t you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? I think I saw +you once in the housekeeper’s room.” + +“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.” + +The reason why there had been space for this _tête-à-tête_ 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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and showed a +tiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. + +“It dot notin’ in it,” she said, as she looked down at it very +earnestly. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter VIII +A Vocation + + +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. + +“You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?” were his first +words, as he seated himself opposite to her. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It _is_ 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.” + +“You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to +the place as your home?” + +“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.” + +“Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; +you are a Methodist—a Wesleyan, I think?” + +“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.” + +“And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand you +preached at Hayslope last night.” + +“I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one.” + +“Your Society sanctions women’s preaching, then?” + +“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.’” + +“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?” + +“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?’” + +“But tell me—if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing it—how +you first came to think of preaching?” + +“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.” + +“But tell me the circumstances—just how it was, the very day you began +to preach.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“_That_ 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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, I’ll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye,” said the +rector, mounting his horse. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Why, Mr. Irwine wasn’t angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah? +Didn’t he scold you for preaching?” + +“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.” + +“Pleasant! and what else did y’ expect to find him but pleasant?” said +Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. “I should think his +countenance _is_ 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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Molly,” she said, rather languidly, “just run out and get me a bunch +of dock-leaves: the butter’s ready to pack up now.” + +“D’ you hear what’s happened, Hetty?” said her aunt. + +“No; how should I hear anything?” was the answer, in a pettish tone. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + + + + +Chapter IX +Hetty’s World + + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter X +Dinah Visits Lisbeth + + +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 _she_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What art goin’ to do?” she said, rather peevishly. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Adam turned round at once and said, “Yes, mother; let us go upstairs. +Come, Seth, let us go together.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _was_ 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!” + +“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at +home.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _he_ 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!” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _would_ 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. + +“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 _ye_’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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No,” said Dinah, “they don’t expect me, and I should like to stay, if +you’ll let me.” + +“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.” + +“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.’” + +“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.’” + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter XI +In the Cottage + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _who_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?” said Adam, his thoughts +reverting to some one there; he wondered whether _she_ had felt +anything about it. + +“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.” + +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. + +“But you won’t be there yourself any longer?” he said to Dinah. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You see Gyp bids you welcome,” said Adam, “and he’s very slow to +welcome strangers.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +“Makeshift, mother?” said Adam. “Why, I think the house looks +beautiful. I don’t know how it could look better.” + +“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.” + +“Dinah,” said Seth, “do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. +We’re all served now.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Donna fear, mother,” said Adam. “If I hadna made up my mind not to go, +I should ha’ been gone before now.” + +He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking. + +“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth. “Set about thy feyther’s +coffin?” + +“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood to the village +and have it made there.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Adam’s eyes met Seth’s, which looked from Dinah to him rather +wistfully. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It’ll +perhaps be the last time.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work +on the coffin. + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XII +In the Wood + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _bon-bons_, +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“Well, Meg, my pretty girl,” said Arthur, patting her neck, “we’ll have +a glorious canter this morning.” + +“Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be,” said John. + +“Not be? Why not?” + +“Why, she’s got lamed.” + +“Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“An’ I wish he’d get the devil to do’s grooming for’n,” growled John. + +“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. + +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 _Zeluco_ 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. + +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. + +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 _would_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?” + +“Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she’s got to go out with Miss +Donnithorne.” + +“And she’s teaching you something, is she?” + +“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.” + +“What! are _you_ going to be a lady’s maid?” + +“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. + +“I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?” + +“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.” + +“Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you the +Hermitage. Did you ever see it?” + +“No, sir.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, please, sir.” + +“Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you afraid to +come so lonely a road?” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?” + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _Zeluco_ 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. + +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 _must not_ see her alone again; he must keep out of her +way. What a fool he was for coming back from Gawaine’s! + +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 _must_ 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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter XIII +Evening in the Wood + + +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 _should_ 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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the +wood? Don’t be frightened—I’ll take care of you now.” + +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. + +“Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what’s the matter. +Come, tell me.” + +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. + +“You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won’t +cry again, now I’m with you, will you?” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter XIV +The Return Home + + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _them_. 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.” + +“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.” + +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 _had_ wanted to +marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership +as effectually as by marrying Hetty. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. + +“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.” + +She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _outward_ 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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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 _you_ could +eat a bit, Dinah, for they don’t keep much of a house down there.” + +“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.” + +“I don’t want any supper,” said Hetty, taking off her hat. “I can hold +Totty now, if Aunt wants me.” + +“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.” + +Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyser +went on speaking to Dinah. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Hetty now came back from the pantry and said, “I can take Totty now, +Aunt, if you like.” + +“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.” + +“Well, she may hold her if the child ’ull go to her,” said Mrs. Poyser. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XV +The Two Bed-Chambers + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_hear_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _could_, without hard head-breaking +demonstration, believe evil of the _one_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _were_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“_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’.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” said Hetty, rather frightened. “But why should you think I shall +be in trouble? Do you know of anything?” + +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.” + +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. + +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?” + +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.” + +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. + +As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again—her waking dreams being +merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. + + + + +Chapter XVI +Links + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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 _would_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of +circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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 _not_ 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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + + + + +Book Second + + + + +Chapter XVII +In Which the Story Pauses a Little + + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _not_ the exact truth. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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 _him_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.” + + + + +Chapter XVIII +Church + + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Aye, aye,” said the son, “I’m in hopes it’ll hold up now.” + +“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. + +“Dood-bye, Dandad,” said Totty. “Me doin’ to church. Me dot my neklace +on. Dive me a peppermint.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Aye, she’ll be welly such a one as Hetty i’ ten years’ time, on’y +she’s got _thy_ coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i’ my +family; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty’s.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _could_ 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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Ah,” said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this +pleasant surprise, “that’s a good lad; why, where is it?” + +“Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking +after the greenfinch, and she sat on th’ nest.” + +“You didn’t frighten her, I hope,” said the mother, “else she’ll +forsake it.” + +“No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly—didn’t I, +Molly?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“We’ll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy.” + +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. + +“Mother,” he said, half-crying, “Marty’s got ever so much more money in +his box nor I’ve got in mine.” + +“Munny, _me_ want half-a-toun in _my_ bots,” said Totty. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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 _her_, 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _should_ 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 _would_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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— + +“Thou sweep’st us off as with a flood; +We vanish hence like dreams”— + + +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! + +“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 _will_ 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.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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 _them_ up to, if they’d just come to +me. And how are _you_, 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XIX +Adam on a Working Day + + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _did_ 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. + +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 _had_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + + + + +Chapter XX +Adam Visits the Hall Farm + + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Good-bye, mother, I can’t stay,” said Adam, putting on his hat and +going out. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _she’s_ thirty, +a-marr’in’ a-that’n, afore her teeth’s all come.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushing +the first evening cheese. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Have a little more, Mr. Bede?” said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the +basin. + +“No, thank you; I’ll go into the garden now, and send in the little +lass.” + +“Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Tommy, my lad, take care you’re not shot for a little thieving bird,” +said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees. + +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. + +“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 _me_ pick the currants up.” + +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. + +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. + +“There’s not many more currants to get,” she said; “I shall soon ha’ +done now.” + +“I’ll help you,” said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was +nearly full of currants, and set it close to them. + +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 _believe_ 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. + +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. + +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 _felt_ 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. + +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. + +“That’ll do,” said Hetty, after a little while. “Aunt wants me to leave +some on the trees. I’ll take ’em in now.” + +“It’s very well I came to carry the basket,” said Adam “for it ’ud ha’ +been too heavy for your little arms.” + +“No; I could ha’ carried it with both hands.” + +“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?” + +“No,” said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of +ant life. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Have you ever been to Eagledale?” she said, as they walked slowly +along. + +“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.” + +“How long did it take to get there?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“She’s drawin’ for the men too,” said Mr. Poyser. “Thee shouldst ha’ +told her to bring our jug up first.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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....” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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....” + +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. + +“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_ think. It’s them nasty glazed handles—they slip o’er the +finger like a snail.” + +“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. + +“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 _will_ 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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Aye,” said Mr. Poyser, “we’ve heared nothing about him, for it’s the +boys’ hollodays now, so we can give you no account.” + +“But you’ll niver think o’ going there at this hour o’ the night?” said +Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Aye, eleven o’clock’s late—it’s late,” said old Martin. “I ne’er sot +up so i’ _my_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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!” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXI +The Night-School and the Schoolmaster + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _will_ 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.” + +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. + +“Quiet, Vixen!” snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. “You’re like +the rest o’ the women—always putting in _your_ word before you know +why.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“No,” said Adam, “not as I remember.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?” said Adam; “or wasn’t he +there o’ Saturday?” + +“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 _buy_ 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.’” + +“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.” + +“Why, how was that? You never told me about it,” said Bartle. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 A B C 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.) + +“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.” + + + + +Book Third + + + + +Chapter XXII +Going to the Birthday Feast + + +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. + +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. + +“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 _would_ +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft in a treble +tone, perceiving that he was in company. + +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. + +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. + +“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 _carte blanche_, +he couldn’t make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Irwine. “I wouldn’t miss your maiden speech +to the tenantry.” + +“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.” + +“What, about Adam?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XXIII +Dinner-Time + + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Why, the broadest man,” said Bartle; “and then he won’t take up other +folks’ room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nay, nay,” said several voices at once, “we’re glad ye’re come. Who’s +got anything to say again’ it?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, there’s folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know +but little about,” said Mr. Craig. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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_ can put up wi’ her.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXIV +The Health-Drinking + + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and +a shouting, with plentiful _da capo_, 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 +_should_ 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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?” said Arthur. “Weren’t you pleased to hear +your husband make such a good speech to-day?” + +“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.” + +“What! you think you could have made it better for him?” said Mr. +Irwine, laughing. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXV +The Games + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“You’re so terribly fastidious, Godmother,” said Arthur, “I’m afraid I +should never satisfy you with my choice.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“See,” said Arthur, “the old women are ready to set out on their race +now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?” + +“The long-legged one, unless they’re going to have several heats, and +then the little wiry one may win.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you +must have seen her,” said Miss Irwine. + +“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.” + +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 _was_ 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. + +“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.” + +“Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“This is Bessy Cranage, mother,” said Mr. Irwine, kindly, “Chad +Cranage’s daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Poor girl,” said Arthur; “I think she’s disappointed. I wish it had +been something more to her taste.” + +“She’s a bold-looking young person,” observed Miss Lydia. “Not at all +one I should like to encourage.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XXVI +The Dance + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Well, I didn’t think o’ dancing to-night,” said Adam, already tempted +to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I’ve got no partner for the fourth dance,” said Hetty; “I’ll dance +that with you, if you like.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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 _her_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +How Hetty’s heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked +at her to-day: now he _must_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Let me hold her,” said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; “the children +are so heavy when they’re asleep.” + +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. + +“My locket, my locket!” she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam; +“never mind the beads.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Oh, it doesn’t matter, I don’t mind about it,” said Hetty, who had +been pale and was now red. + +“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. + +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. + +“See,” she said, “they’re taking their places to dance; let us go.” + +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. + +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 _must_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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—_she_ 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.” + + + + +Book Fourth + + + + +Chapter XXVII +A crisis + + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Stop a bit, sir,” said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without +turning round. “I’ve got a word to say to you.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What!” he said, “won’t you fight me like a man? You know I won’t +strike you while you stand so.” + +“Go away, Adam,” said Arthur, “I don’t want to fight you.” + +“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.” + +“I never meant to injure you,” said Arthur, with returning anger. “I +didn’t know you loved her.” + +“But you’ve made her love _you_,” said Adam. “You’re a double-faced +man—I’ll never believe a word you say again.” + +“Go away, I tell you,” said Arthur, angrily, “or we shall both repent.” + +“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.” + +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. + +He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise. + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXVIII +A Dilemma + + +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. + +“Do you feel any pain, sir?” he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur’s +cravat. + +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. + +“Do you feel any hurt, sir?” Adam said again, with a trembling in his +voice. + +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.” + +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. + +When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full, Arthur +looked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened consciousness. + +“Can you drink a drop out o’ your hand, sir?” said Adam, kneeling down +again to lift up Arthur’s head. + +“No,” said Arthur, “dip my cravat in and souse it on my head.” + +The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself a +little higher, resting on Adam’s arm. + +“Do you feel any hurt inside sir?” Adam asked again + +“No—no hurt,” said Arthur, still faintly, “but rather done up.” + +After a while he said, “I suppose I fainted away when you knocked me +down.” + +“Yes, sir, thank God,” said Adam. “I thought it was worse.” + +“What! You thought you’d done for me, eh? Come help me on my legs.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from a +doze. + +“That’s right,” Arthur said; “I’m tremendously in want of some +brandy-vigour.” + +“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.” + +“No, no; the candle will last long enough—I shall soon be up to walking +home now.” + +“I can’t go before I’ve seen you safe home, sir,” said Adam, +hesitatingly. + +“No: it will be better for you to stay—sit down.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +He paused again before he went on. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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 _she_ may feel—you don’t think o’ that.” + +“Good God, Adam, let me alone!” Arthur burst out impetuously; “I feel +it enough without your worrying me.” + +He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped him. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached +the step, he stopped again and leaned against the door-post. + +“You’re not well enough to walk alone, sir,” said Adam. “Take my arm +again.” + +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.” + +Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till +they came where the basket and the tools lay. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“What time will it be conven’ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?” +said Adam. + +“You may send me word that you’re here at five o’clock,” said Arthur; +“not before.” + +“Good-night, sir,” said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned +into the house. + + + + +Chapter XXIX +The Next Morning + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. _So_ good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful +arrangement of things! + +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 +_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character—until the placid +adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution. + +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. + +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.... + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _could_ 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 _must_ 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 _could_ 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. + +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. + +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 _her_. 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!) + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“That’s happen one o’ the symptims, John,” said the facetious coachman. + +“Then I wish he war let blood for ’t, that’s all,” said John, grimly. + +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: + +“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. + “There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall + meet with better feelings some months hence. + + +“A.D.” + + +“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 _feel_ 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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXX +The Delivery of the Letter + + +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. + +“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: + +“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.” + +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 _her_ 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 _must_ go on seeming to encourage Adam, +lest her uncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her of having some +secret lover. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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! + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Hegh, Totty,” said Adam, “come and ride on my shoulder—ever so +high—you’ll touch the tops o’ the trees.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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 _his_ 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. + +“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 _he_ 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Seth, lad,” Adam said, putting his arm on his brother’s shoulder, +“hast heard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Thee shouldstna sit i’ the dark, Mother,” said Adam; “that makes the +time seem longer.” + +“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.” + +“I’m hungry, Mother,” said Seth, seating himself at the little table, +which had been spread ever since it was light. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Come, then, Gyp,” said Adam, “we’ll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I’m +very tired.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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’.” + +Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah’s letter by the light of his dip +candle. + +DEAR BROTHER SETH—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. + +“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? + +“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—_that_ 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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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, + +“DINAH MORRIS.” + + +“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.” + +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. + +“Hast read the letter?” said Seth. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be +displeased with me for going,” said Seth. + +“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.” + +“Aye,” said Seth, rather timidly, “and Dinah’s fond o’ Hetty too; she +thinks a deal about her.” + +Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but “good-night” passed +between them. + + + + +Chapter XXXI +In Hetty’s Bed-Chamber + + +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. + +_Now_ 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. + +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. + +“DEAREST HETTY—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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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, + +“ARTHUR DONNITHORNE.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work. + +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.” + +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. + +“Why, what’s put that into your head, my wench?” he said at last, after +he had given one conservative puff. + +“I should like it—I should like it better than farm-work.” + +“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.” + +Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. + +“I like the needlework,” said Hetty, “and I should get good wages.” + +“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.” + +“No, it isn’t my aunt,” said Hetty, “but I should like the work +better.” + +“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?” + +“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 _her_ 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty’s, struggling +amidst the serious sad destinies of a human being, _are_ 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! + +“Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings.” + +But that will not save the vessel—the pretty thing that might have been +a lasting joy. + + + + +Chapter XXXII +Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out” + + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ay, ay, man,” said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, “you +talk the right language for _you_. When Mike Holdsworth’s goat says +ba-a-a, it’s all right—it ’ud be unnatural for it to make any other +noise.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“Will you please to take this chair, sir?” he said, lifting his +father’s arm-chair forward a little: “you’ll find it easy.” + +“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.” + +“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; _she_ 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. + +“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.” + +“Oh,” said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination as +to the nature of the arrangement. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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_ think: folks have to wait long enough +afore it’s brought to ’em.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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—_that’s_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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’.” + +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. + +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. + +“Thee’st done it now,” said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, +but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife’s outbreak. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“_I’m_ 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.” + + + + +Chapter XXXIII +More Links + + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out of +the farm next Michaelmas, eh?” said Mrs. Irwine. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“When they’ve got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without them,” +said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother’s hand. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _impersonal_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +Chapter XXXIV +The Betrothal + + +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.” + +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.” + +“What’s that?” Hetty said indifferently. + +“Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I’m going +to take it.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +“Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love and +take care of as long as I live?” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Come, my wench,” said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, “come and kiss +us, and let us wish you luck.” + +Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man. + +“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.” + +Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair. + +“Come, Adam, then, take one,” persisted Mr. Poyser, “else y’ arena half +a man.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Aye, to be sure,” said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; “Christian +folks can’t be married like cuckoos, I reckon.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XXXV +The Hidden Dread + + +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 _she_ 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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _must_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“God bless her for loving me,” said Adam, as he went on his way to work +again, with Gyp at his heels. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +Book Fifth + + + + +Chapter XXXVI +The Journey of Hope + + +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. + +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?” + +“Who?” said Hetty, rather startled. + +“Why, the sweetheart as you’ve left behind, or else him as you’re goin’ +arter—which is it?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Could you take me up in your waggon, if you’re going towards Ashby?” +said Hetty. “I’ll pay you for it.” + +“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?” + +“I come from Stoniton. I’m going a long way—to Windsor.” + +“What! Arter some service, or what?” + +“Going to my brother—he’s a soldier there.” + +“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 _your_ 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.” + +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?” + +“No, no,” he said, gruffly, “never mind—put the shilling up again.” + +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. + +“Come, young woman, come in,” he said, “and have a drop o’ something; +you’re pretty well knocked up, I can see that.” + +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. + +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. + +“Why, you’re not very fit for travelling,” she said, glancing while she +spoke at Hetty’s ringless hand. “Have you come far?” + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“I want to see a gentleman as is there,” said Hetty. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Oh yes,” said Hetty; “you know him—where is he?” + +“A fine sight o’ miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia’s gone to +Ireland; it’s been gone this fortnight.” + +“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. + +“Here’s a bad business, I suspect,” said the landlord, as he brought in +some water. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XXXVII +The Journey in Despair + + +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. + +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 _her_ 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. + +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. + +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 _could_ +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. + +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—_Dinah Morris, +Snowfield_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Hetty, hastily, “so as I can get money to go +back.” + +“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.” + +The blood rushed to Hetty’s face with anger. “I belong to respectable +folks,” she said; “I’m not a thief.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?” said the +well-wisher, at length. + +“Three guineas,” answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, +for want of any other standard, and afraid of asking too much. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Yes,” said Hetty indifferently. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _there_, 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. + +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. + +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 _could_ 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. + +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 +_was_ 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. + +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. + +“Why, what do you do here, young woman?” the man said roughly. + +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. + +“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?” + +She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet to +adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such misery! + + + + +Chapter XXXVIII +The Quest + + +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. + +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 _she’s_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I’m content, Addy, I’m content,” said Seth cheerfully. “I’ll be an old +bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi’ thy children.” + +They turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward, +mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns—he was very fond of +hymns: + +“Dark and cheerless is the morn + Unaccompanied by thee: +Joyless is the day’s return + Till thy mercy’s beams I see: +Till thou inward light impart, +Glad my eyes and warm my heart. + +Visit, then, this soul of mine, + Pierce the gloom of sin and grief— +Fill me, Radiancy Divine, + Scatter all my unbelief. +More and more thyself display, +Shining to the perfect day.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is Dinah Morris at home?” said Adam. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air. + +“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. + +“It’s a pity ye didna know,” she said. “Have ye come from your own +country o’ purpose to see her?” + +“But Hetty—Hetty Sorrel,” said Adam, abruptly; “Where is _she?_” + +“I know nobody by that name,” said the old woman, wonderingly. “Is it +anybody ye’ve heared on at Snowfield?” + +“Did there come no young woman here—very young and pretty—Friday was a +fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?” + +“Nay; I’n seen no young woman.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _him_. 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +“God have mercy on us, Addy,” he said, in a low voice, sitting down on +the bench beside Adam, “what is it?” + +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. + +Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of +their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before. + +“Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?” he asked, in a low tone, when Adam +raised his head and was recovering himself. + +“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.” + +Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could +suggest to him a reason for Hetty’s going away. + +“Hast any notion what she’s done it for?” he said, at last. + +“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. + +“I hear Mother stirring,” said Seth. “Must we tell her?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Nay, lad,” said Adam, “don’t be afraid. I’m for doing nought but +what’s a man’s duty.” + +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. + +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. + +“Why, Adam, lad, is’t you? Have ye been all this time away and not +brought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?” + +“No, I’ve not brought ’em,” said Adam, turning round, to indicate that +he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser. + +“Why,” said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, “ye look +bad. Is there anything happened?” + +“Yes,” said Adam, heavily. “A sad thing’s happened. I didna find Hetty +at Snowfield.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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 _certainty_ that she was gone to Arthur. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“She’d a deal better be staying wi’ her own kin,” said Mr. Poyser, +indignantly, “than going preaching among strange folks a-that’n.” + +“I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser,” said Adam, “for I’ve a deal to see +to.” + +“Aye, you’d best be after your business, and I must tell the missis +when I go home. It’s a hard job.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _her_ 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. + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XXXIX +The Tidings + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then, +determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out. + +“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.” + +Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. + +“Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?” he said. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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....” + +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!” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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 _now_ 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: + +“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!” + +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. + +“I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to _him_. She +is in Stonyshire—at Stoniton.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Adam’s lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and +he whispered, “Tell me.” + +“She has been arrested... she is in prison.” + +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?” + +“For a great crime—the murder of her child.” + +“It _can’t be!_” 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. _Who_ says +it?” + +“God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is.” + +“But who says she is guilty?” said Adam violently. “Tell me +everything.” + +“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.” + +“But what proof have they got against her, if it _is_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“It’s _his_ doing,” he said; “if there’s been any crime, it’s at his +door, not at hers. _He_ taught her to deceive—_he_ deceived me first. +Let ’em put _him_ on his trial—let him stand in court beside her, and +I’ll tell ’em how he got hold of her heart, and ’ticed her t’ evil, and +then lied to me. Is _he_ to go free, while they lay all the punishment +on her... so weak and young?” + +The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor +Adam’s maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of the +room as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone +of appealing anguish, + +“I _can’t_ bear it... O God, it’s too hard to lay upon me—it’s too hard +to think she’s wicked.” + +Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter +soothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him, +with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in +moments of terrible emotion—the hard bloodless look of the skin, the +deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow—the sight +of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, +moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless, +with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that +short space he was living through all his love again. + +“She can’t ha’ done it,” he said, still without moving his eyes, as if +he were only talking to himself: “it was fear made her hide it... I +forgive her for deceiving me... I forgive thee, Hetty... thee wast +deceived too... it’s gone hard wi’ thee, my poor Hetty... but they’ll +never make me believe it.” + +He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce +abruptness, “I’ll go to him—I’ll bring him back—I’ll make him go and +look at her in her misery—he shall look at her till he can’t forget +it—it shall follow him night and day—as long as he lives it shall +follow him—he shan’t escape wi’ lies this time—I’ll fetch him, I’ll +drag him myself.” + +In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and +looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was +present with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by the +arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, + +“No, Adam, no; I’m sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be +done for _her_, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance. The +punishment will surely fall without your aid. Besides, he is no longer +in Ireland. He must be on his way home—or would be, long before you +arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least +ten days ago. I want you now to go with me to Stoniton. I have ordered +a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can compose yourself.” + +While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the +actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened. + +“Remember,” Mr. Irwine went on, “there are others to think of, and act +for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty’s friends, the good +Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to +think. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam—from your sense of +duty to God and man—that you will try to act as long as action can be +of any use.” + +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. + +“You _will_ 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.” + +“Yes, sir,” said Adam, “I’ll do what you think right. But the folks at +th’ Hall Farm?” + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XL +The Bitter Waters Spread + + +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. + +“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.” + +“What have they done about Arthur?” said Mr. Irwine. “Sent a messenger +to await him at Liverpool?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“No, Mother, I’m not thinking of that; but I’m not prepared to rejoice +just now.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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 _her_.” + +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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Pity?” said the grandfather, sharply. “I ne’er wanted folks’s pity i’ +_my_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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!” + +“Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?” said +Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro. + +“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?” + +“It’s a good way off, mother—Leeds, a big town. But I could be back in +three days, if thee couldst spare me.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“You know what I’m come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay,” said +Bartle. + +“You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you... +about Hetty Sorrel?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Do you think the creatur’s guilty, then?” said Bartle. “Do you think +they’ll hang her?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, sir, yes,” said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles, +“I’ll do that, I’ll do that; though the mother’s a whimpering thing—I +don’t like to come within earshot of her; however, she’s a +straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you +good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you’ve spared me. You’re +everybody’s friend in this business—everybody’s friend. It’s a heavy +weight you’ve got on your shoulders.” + +“Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.” + +Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll’s conversational +advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs +pattered beside him on the gravel, “Now, I shall be obliged to take you +with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You’d go fretting yourself to +death if I left you—you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by +some tramp. And you’ll be running into bad company, I expect, putting +your nose in every hole and corner where you’ve no business! But if you +do anything disgraceful, I’ll disown you—mind that, madam, mind that!” + + + + +Chapter XLI +The Eve of the Trial + + +An upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it—one laid +on the floor. It is ten o’clock on Thursday night, and the dark wall +opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled +with the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey is +pretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles at +Adam Bede, seated near the dark window. + +You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face +has got thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected +beard of a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs +over his forehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines +him to push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He +has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down +at his clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door. + +“There he is,” said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the +door. It was Mr. Irwine. + +Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine +approached him and took his hand. + +“I’m late, Adam,” he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle +placed for him, “but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I +intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I +have done everything now, however—everything that can be done to-night, +at least. Let us all sit down.” + +Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was +no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background. + +“Have you seen her, sir?” said Adam tremulously. + +“Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening.” + +“Did you ask her, sir... did you say anything about me?” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, “I spoke of you. I said +you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented.” + +As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning eyes. + +“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.’” + +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...” + +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. + +“Is he come back?” said Adam at last. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Adam, he _will_ know—he _will_ 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 _him_ could benefit _her_.” + +“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... _it can never be undone_. 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...” + +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.” + +“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 _is_ 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.” + +“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 _her_ 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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“Is Dinah Morris come to ’em, sir? Seth said they’d sent for her.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“But it’s o’ no use if she doesn’t come,” said Adam sadly. + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter XLII +The Morning of the Trial + + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet +obedience, took up the cup and drank a little. + +“Tell me how _she_ looked,” he said presently. + +“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.” + +“God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey,” said Adam, in a low voice, +laying his hand on Bartle’s arm. + +“Aye, aye, he’s good metal; he gives the right ring when you try him, +our parson does. A man o’ sense—says no more than’s needful. He’s not +one of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as if +folks who stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble was +than those who have to bear it. I’ve had to do with such folks in my +time—in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to be a +witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her +character and bringing up.” + +“But the other evidence... does it go hard against her!” said Adam. +“What do you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth.” + +“Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at +last. The doctors’ evidence is heavy on her—is heavy. But she’s gone on +denying she’s had a child from first to last. These poor silly +women-things—they’ve not the sense to know it’s no use denying what’s +proved. It’ll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so +obstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the +verdict’s against her. But Mr. Irwine ’ull leave no stone unturned with +the judge—you may rely upon that, Adam.” + +“Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the +court?” said Adam. + +“There’s the chaplain o’ the jail sits near her, but he’s a sharp +ferrety-faced man—another sort o’ flesh and blood to Mr. Irwine. They +say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o’ the clergy.” + +“There’s one man as ought to be there,” said Adam bitterly. Presently +he drew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently +turning over some new idea in his mind. + +“Mr. Massey,” he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, “I’ll +go back with you. I’ll go into court. It’s cowardly of me to keep away. +I’ll stand by her—I’ll own her—for all she’s been deceitful. They +oughtn’t to cast her off—her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to +God’s mercy, and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I’ll +never be hard again. I’ll go, Mr. Massey—I’ll go with you.” + +There was a decision in Adam’s manner which would have prevented Bartle +from opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only said, “Take +a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must +stop and eat a morsel. Now, you take some.” + +Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and drank +some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as he had been yesterday, but +he stood upright again, and looked more like the Adam Bede of former +days. + + + + +Chapter XLIII +The Verdict + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the +_likeness_ we see—it is the likeness, which makes itself felt the more +keenly because something else _was_ and _is not_. 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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Guilty.” + +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. + +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....” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XLIV +Arthur’s Return + + +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.” + +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. _Now_ 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. + +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. + +What—Hetty? + +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. + +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. + +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 _now_ 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. + +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 _he_ +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. + +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. _He_ 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.” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done +in his life before. + +“Dear Aunt,” he said affectionately, as he held her hand, “_your_ 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.” + +“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: + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the +writing-table in your dressing-room.” + +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. + +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. + +_“I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I may +then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it +has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know +what I have to tell you without delay. + “I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the + retribution that is now falling on you: any other words that I + could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side + of those in which I must tell you the simple fact. + “Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the + crime of child-murder.”..._ + + +Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a +single minute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole frame, as +if the life were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next +minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching the letter—he was +hurrying along the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills +was still there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted +man across the hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out +after him as fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, +where the young squire was going. + +When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur +was forcing himself to read the remaining words of the letter. He +thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that +moment caught sight of Mills’ anxious face in front of him. + +“Tell them I’m gone—gone to Stoniton,” he said in a muffled tone of +agitation—sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop. + + + + +Chapter XLV +In the Prison + + +Near sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his +back against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail, saying a few +last words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away, but the +elderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and +stroking his chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet +clear woman’s voice, saying, “Can I get into the prison, if you +please?” + +He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments +without answering. + +“I have seen you before,” he said at last. “Do you remember preaching +on the village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?” + +“Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on +horseback?” + +“Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?” + +“I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned +to death—and to stay with her, if I may be permitted. Have you power in +the prison, sir?” + +“Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you +know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?” + +“Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I +was away at Leeds, and didn’t know of this great trouble in time to get +here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenly +Father, to let me go to her and stay with her.” + +“How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come +from Leeds?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don’t let us +delay.” + +“Come, then,” said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining +admission, “I know you have a key to unlock hearts.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.” + +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.” + +“Nay, friend, thank you,” said Dinah. “I wish to go in alone.” + +“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. + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +“Hetty... Dinah is come to you.” + +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. + +“Don’t you know me, Hetty? Don’t you remember Dinah? Did you think I +wouldn’t come to you in trouble?” + +Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah’s face—at first like an animal that +gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof. + +“I’m come to be with you, Hetty—not to leave you—to stay with you—to be +your sister to the last.” + +Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and +was clasped in Dinah’s arms. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Hetty,” she said gently, “do you know who it is that sits by your +side?” + +“Yes,” Hetty answered slowly, “it’s Dinah.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering. + +“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.” + +“You won’t leave me, Dinah? You’ll keep close to me?” + +“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.” + +Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, “Who?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, Dinah, won’t nobody do anything for me? _Will_ they hang me for +certain?... I wouldn’t mind if they’d let me live.” + +“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?” + +“But I can’t know anything about it,” Hetty said, with sullen sadness. + +“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.” + +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.” + +Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching— + +“Dinah... help me... I can’t feel anything like you...my heart is +hard.” + +Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice: + +“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. + +“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. + +“Saviour! It is yet time—time to snatch this poor soul from everlasting +darkness. I believe—I believe in thy infinite love. What is _my_ love +or _my_ 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. + +“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.’...” + +“Dinah,” Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah’s neck, “I +will speak... I will tell... I won’t hide it any more.” + +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.” + +She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone. + +“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.” + +Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon +her for words. + +“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....” + +Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began +again, it was in a whisper. + +“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 _couldn’t_ 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?” + +Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long +before she went on. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to +the God of all mercy.” + + + + +Chapter XLVI +The Hours of Suspense + + +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.” + +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. + +“Is it any news?” he said. + +“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. + +“Ask her to come in,” said Adam. + +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.” + +“Bless you for coming to her,” Adam said. “Mr. Massey brought me word +yesterday as you was come.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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, + +“I _will_ come, Dinah... to-morrow morning... if it must be. I may have +more strength to bear it, if I know it _must_ be. Tell her, I forgive +her; tell her I will come—at the very last.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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, + +“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 _him_.... O God, it’s the very day +we should ha’ been married.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Good come out of it!” said Adam passionately. “That doesn’t alter th’ +evil: _her_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Not I, lad—not I.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +No; there was no news come—no pardon—no reprieve. + +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. + +“The cart is to set off at half-past seven.” + +It must be said—the last good-bye: there was no help. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Speak to him, Hetty,” Dinah said; “tell him what is in your heart.” + +Hetty obeyed her, like a little child. + +“Adam... I’m very sorry... I behaved very wrong to you... will you +forgive me... before I die?” + +Adam answered with a half-sob, “Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave +thee long ago.” + +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. + +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?” + +Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave +each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter XLVII +The Last Moment + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Close your eyes, Hetty,” Dinah said, “and let us pray without ceasing +to God.” + +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. + +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. + +But it was not a shout of execration—not a yell of exultant cruelty. + +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. + +The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a +hard-won release from death. + + + + +Chapter XLVIII +Another Meeting in the Wood + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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, +_before_ I began to think he might be dead.” + +In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the +same spot at the same time. + +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: _that_ Arthur existed no longer. + +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. + +“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.” + +He paused, but Adam said nothing. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he +spoke again. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I was going to the Hermitage,” said Arthur. “Will you go there with me +and sit down? We can talk better there.” + +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. + +They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said, +“I’m going away, Adam; I’m going into the army.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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, + +“Haven’t _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?” + +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, + +“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 _her_. 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.” + +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. + +“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...” + +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. + +“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 _did_ 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.” + +They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, +“How did she seem when you left her, sir?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And you _will_ 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 _will_ stay yourself, and help +Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Then we’ll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and +consult with him about everything.” + +“Are you going soon, sir?” said Adam. + +“As soon as possible—after I’ve made the necessary arrangements. +Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place.” + +“Good-bye, sir. God bless you.” + +The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling +that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone. + +As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the +waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief. + + + + +Book Sixth + + + + +Chapter XLIX +At the Hall Farm + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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 +_that’s_ 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the +bright oak table and reached down the tea-cups. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“Nay, nay,” said Adam, “I can lift her with my hand—I’ve no need to +take my arm to it.” + +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. + +“You’re surprised to see me at this hour o’ the day,” said Adam. + +“Yes, but come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; “there’s no +bad news, I hope?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Husband!” said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period +of the boyish mind. “Why, Dinah hasn’t got a husband.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“What do you think Dinah’s been a-telling me since dinner-time?” Mrs. +Poyser continued, looking at her husband. + +“Eh! I’m a poor un at guessing,” said Mr. Poyser. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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 +_be_ a Methodist to know what a Methodist ’ull do. It’s ill guessing +what the bats are flying after.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“Mother, what’s Dinah crying for?” said Totty. “She isn’t a naughty +dell.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You get on pretty well wi’ the new steward, I reckon?” said Mr. +Poyser. + +“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.” + +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.” + +Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a +little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty. + +“You’re ready, I see, Dinah,” Adam said; “so we’ll set off, for the +sooner I’m at home the better.” + +“Mother,” said Totty, with her treble pipe, “Dinah was saying her +prayers and crying ever so.” + +“Hush, hush,” said the mother, “little gells mustn’t chatter.” + +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. + +“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.” + +So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm +together. + + + + +Chapter L +In the Cottage + + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as +she had seen him in the prison. + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Yes, I told him last Sabbath.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Dear friend,” said Dinah, taking her hand, “you’re not well. If I’d +known it sooner, I’d have come.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“What’s the matter wi’ thee?” said Lisbeth, in astonishment; “thee’st +been a-cryin’.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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?” + +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.” + +“No, lad,” Adam answered, “there’s nothing but what I must do myself. +Thee’st got thy new book to read.” + +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. + +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 _her_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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: + +Eternal Beam of Light Divine, + Fountain of unexhausted love, +In whom the Father’s glories shine, + Through earth beneath and heaven above; + +Jesus! the weary wanderer’s rest, + Give me thy easy yoke to bear; +With steadfast patience arm my breast, + With spotless love and holy fear. + +Speak to my warring passions, “Peace!” + Say to my trembling heart, “Be still!” +Thy power my strength and fortress is, + For all things serve thy sovereign will. + + +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?” + +“Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,” said a +deep strong voice, not Seth’s. + +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. + +“What! You think I’m a cross fellow at home, Dinah?” he said, +smilingly. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +Chapter LI +Sunday Morning + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What’s put it into thy +head?” + +“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.” + +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 _was_ sure about Adam’s. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi’ sayin’ things arena as I +say they are.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Eh, thee’t as contrairy as the rest on ’em. If it war summat I didna +want, it ’ud be done fast enough.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel’s face, said, + +“It _is_ a bit like her; but Dinah’s prettier, I think.” + +“Well, then, if thee think’st her so pretty, why arn’t fond on her?” + +Adam looked up in surprise. “Why, Mother, dost think I don’t set store +by Dinah?” + +“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.” + +“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: + +“But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.” Lisbeth dared +not venture beyond a vague phrase yet. + +“Contrairy, mother?” Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. “What +have I done? What dost mean?” + +“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’?” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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’.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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 _him?_ 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.” + +“But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?” said Adam +anxiously. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went +out into the fields. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _he_ 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?” + +“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’.” + +“Hast any notion which way he’s gone?” said Adam. + +“Nay, but he aften goes to th’ Common. Thee know’st more o’s goings nor +I do.” + +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. + +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. + +“Where hast been?” said Adam, when they were side by side. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +There was something peculiar in his brother’s tone, which made Seth +steal a glance at his face before he answered. + +“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 _my_ wife. She calls me her brother, and that’s enough.” + +“But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be +willing to marry ’em?” said Adam rather shyly. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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 _thee_, +brother?” + +Adam looked doubtfully at Seth’s inquiring eyes and said, “Wouldst be +hurt if she was to be fonder o’ me than o’ thee?” + +“Nay,” said Seth warmly, “how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble +so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Seth paused. + +“But thee mightst ask her,” he said presently. “She took no offence at +_me_ 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.” + +“Where will she be the rest o’ the day?” said Adam. + +“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.” + +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.” + + + + +Chapter LII +Adam and Dinah + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?” Dinah said, recovering +herself. “Seth said she was well this morning.” + +“No, she’s very hearty to-day,” said Adam, happy in the signs of +Dinah’s feeling at the sight of him, but shy. + +“There’s nobody at home, you see,” Dinah said; “but you’ll wait. You’ve +been hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless.” + +“Yes,” Adam said, and then paused, before he added, “I was thinking +about you: that was the reason.” + +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.” + +“But if things were different, Dinah,” said Adam, hesitatingly. “If you +knew things that perhaps you don’t know now....” + +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? + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +The tears were trembling in Dinah’s eyes, and they fell before she +could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice. + +“Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“But you may come to feel satisfied... to feel that you may come to me +again, and we may never part, Dinah?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I’ll speak +no word to disturb you.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Summat as hadna far to jump, for it’s just under our nose. You mean as +Adam’s fond o’ Dinah.” + +“Aye! hast ever had any notion of it before?” + +“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.” + +“Thee never saidst a word to me about it.” + +“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.” + +“But Dinah ’ll ha’ none o’ him. Dost think she will?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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 _my_ 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.” + +“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. + +“Why, Adam, we missed you i’ the singing to-day,” said Mr. Poyser. “How +was it?” + +“I wanted to see Dinah—she’s going away so soon,” said Adam. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Poyser. “We’ll have no nay.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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? + +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 _Tracts for the Times_ or _Sartor Resartus_. + + + + +Chapter LIII +The Harvest Supper + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +But _now_ 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. +_Now_, 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 _ad libitum_. + +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. + +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 +_forte_, no can was filled. + +“Here’s a health unto our master, + The founder of the feast; +Here’s a health unto our master + And to our mistress! + +And may his doings prosper, + Whate’er he takes in hand, +For we are all his servants, + And are at his command.” + + +But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung +_fortissimo_, 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. + +“Then drink, boys, drink! + And see ye do not spill, +For if ye do, ye shall drink two, + For ’tis our master’s will.” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.’” + +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. + +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. + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +“And says I to Mills,” continued Mr. Craig, “‘Will _you_ 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.’” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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’m_ 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?’” + +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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“No, Mr. Massey,” said Adam. “Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I +was. I was in no bad company.” + +“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.” + +Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in, +but she had had “no heart” to mention the bad news. + +“What!” said Bartle, with an air of disgust. “Was there a woman +concerned? Then I give you up, Adam.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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, _they_ can. +Perhaps that’s the reason they can see so little o’ this side on’t.” + +Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much +as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a +high value on his own compliments, “_I_ like a cleverish woman—a woman +o’ sperrit—a managing woman.” + +“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.” + +“What dost say to that?” said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and +looking merrily at his wife. + +“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...” + +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 _sotto voce_ 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. + +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. + +“I’ll go with you, lad,” said Bartle; “I’ll go with you before my ears +are split.” + +“I’ll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. +Massey,” said Adam. + +“Aye, aye!” said Bartle; “then we can have a bit o’ talk together. I +never get hold of you now.” + +“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.” + +But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two +friends turned out on their starlight walk together. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +Chapter LIV +The Meeting on the Hill + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was +content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first. + +“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.” + +Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. + +“Then we’ll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us.” + +And they kissed each other with a deep joy. + +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? + + + + +Chapter LV +Marriage Bells + + +In little more than a month after that meeting on the hill—on a rimy +morning in departing November—Adam and Dinah were married. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + + + + +Epilogue + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I see him, Seth,” Dinah said, as she looked into the house. “Let us go +and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother.” + +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. + +“Come, Uncle Seth,” said Dinah. + +“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. + +“Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking fondly at the +stout black-eyed fellow. “He’s troublesome to thee so.” + +“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. + +“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining +field. “I can’t catch sight of him anywhere.” + +“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I saw his hat and +his shoulder. There he is again.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“See, Addy,” said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and +pointing, “there’s Father coming—at the far stile.” + +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. + +“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. + +“It’s cut me a good deal, Dinah,” Adam said at last, when they were +walking on. + +“Didst find him greatly altered?” said Dinah. + +“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.” + +“I’ve never seen him smile, poor young man,” said Dinah. + +“But thee _wilt_ 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.’” + +“Didst tell him I’d always used the watch?” said Dinah. + +“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.’” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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.”’” + +“Why, there’s Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,” said +Seth. + +“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.” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADAM BEDE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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