"Book One\n\n\n\n\nChapter I\n\nThe Workshop\n\n\nWith a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes\nto reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is\nwhat I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the\nend of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge,\ncarpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the\neighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.\n\nThe afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors\nand window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlike\npile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of\nthe elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to\nthe open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the\ntransparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the\nfine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall.\nOn a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had\nmade himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his\nfore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the\ntallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of\na wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone\nbelonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing--\n\n     Awake, my soul, and with the sun\n     Thy daily stage of duty run;\n     Shake off dull sloth...\n\nHere some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated\nattention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but it\npresently broke out again with renewed vigour--\n\n     Let all thy converse be sincere,\n     Thy conscience as the noonday clear.\n\nSuch a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest\nbelonged to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with a\nback so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up\nto take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier\nstanding at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm\nthat was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long\nsupple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of\nskill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his\nname; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast\nwith the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that\nshone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows,\nindicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly\nhewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an\nexpression of good-humoured honest intelligence.\n\nIt is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is\nnearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair\nand complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to\nrender more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in\nform and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes\nare grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his\nbrother's; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and\nbenign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is\nnot thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you\nto discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very\ndecidedly over the brow.\n\nThe idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they\nscarcely ever spoke to Adam.\n\nThe concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth,\nwho, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed\nit against the wall, and said, \"There! I've finished my door to-day,\nanyhow.\"\n\nThe workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as\nSandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp\nglance of surprise, \"What! Dost think thee'st finished the door?\"\n\n\"Aye, sure,\" said Seth, with answering surprise; \"what's awanting to't?\"\n\nA loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look\nround confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a\nslight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before,\n\"Why, thee'st forgot the panels.\"\n\nThe laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and\ncoloured over brow and crown.\n\n\"Hoorray!\" shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward\nand seizing the door. \"We'll hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an'\nwrite on't 'Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.' Here, Jim, lend's hould\no' th' red pot.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Adam. \"Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be\nmaking such a slip yourself some day; you'll laugh o' th' other side o'\nyour mouth then.\"\n\n\"Catch me at it, Adam. It'll be a good while afore my head's full o' th'\nMethodies,\" said Ben.\n\n\"Nay, but it's often full o' drink, and that's worse.\"\n\nBen, however, had now got the \"red pot\" in his hand, and was about\nto begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an\nimaginary S in the air.\n\n\"Let it alone, will you?\" Adam called out, laying down his tools,\nstriding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. \"Let it alone, or\nI'll shake the soul out o' your body.\"\n\nBen shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was,\nhe didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from\nhis powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat\nof writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his\nother shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But\nnow Seth spoke.\n\n\"Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right to\nlaugh at me--I canna help laughing at myself.\"\n\n\"I shan't loose him till he promises to let the door alone,\" said Adam.\n\n\"Come, Ben, lad,\" said Seth, in a persuasive tone, \"don't let's have a\nquarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may's well try\nto turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, and\nmake an end on't.\"\n\n\"I binna frighted at Adam,\" said Ben, \"but I donna mind sayin' as I'll\nlet 't alone at your askin', Seth.\"\n\n\"Come, that's wise of you, Ben,\" said Adam, laughing and relaxing his\ngrasp.\n\nThey all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst\nin the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a\nsuccess in sarcasm.\n\n\"Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth,\" he began--\"the pretty parson's face or\nher sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?\"\n\n\"Come and hear her, Ben,\" said Seth, good-humouredly; \"she's going to\npreach on the Green to-night; happen ye'd get something to think on\nyourself then, instead o' those wicked songs you're so fond on. Ye might\nget religion, and that 'ud be the best day's earnings y' ever made.\"\n\n\"All i' good time for that, Seth; I'll think about that when I'm a-goin'\nto settle i' life; bachelors doesn't want such heavy earnin's. Happen\nI shall do the coortin' an' the religion both together, as YE do, Seth;\nbut ye wouldna ha' me get converted an' chop in atween ye an' the pretty\npreacher, an' carry her aff?\"\n\n\"No fear o' that, Ben; she's neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt.\nOnly you come and hear her, and you won't speak lightly on her again.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm half a mind t' ha' a look at her to-night, if there isn't\ngood company at th' Holly Bush. What'll she take for her text? Happen ye\ncan tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i' time for't. Will't\nbe--what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and\nmore than a prophetess--a uncommon pretty young woman.\"\n\n\"Come, Ben,\" said Adam, rather sternly, \"you let the words o' the Bible\nalone; you're going too far now.\"\n\n\"What! Are YE a-turnin' roun', Adam? I thought ye war dead again th'\nwomen preachin', a while agoo?\"\n\n\"Nay, I'm not turnin' noway. I said nought about the women preachin'.\nI said, You let the Bible alone: you've got a jest-book, han't you, as\nyou're rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that.\"\n\n\"Why, y' are gettin' as big a saint as Seth. Y' are goin' to th'\npreachin' to-night, I should think. Ye'll do finely t' lead the singin'.\nBut I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright Adam\nBede a-turnin' Methody.\"\n\n\"Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn\nMethodist any more nor you are--though it's like enough you'll turn\nto something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi'\npeople's doing as they like in religion. That's between themselves and\nGod, as he's said to me many a time.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye; but he's none so fond o' your dissenters, for all that.\"\n\n\"Maybe; I'm none so fond o' Josh Tod's thick ale, but I don't hinder you\nfrom making a fool o' yourself wi't.\"\n\nThere was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's, but Seth said, very\nseriously. \"Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody's religion's\nlike thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the\nMethodists have got the root o' the matter as well as the church folks.\"\n\n\"Nay, Seth, lad; I'm not for laughing at no man's religion. Let 'em\nfollow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it 'ud be better if\ntheir consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the church--there's a deal\nto be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being oversperitial; we\nmust have something beside Gospel i' this world. Look at the canals, an'\nth' aqueduc's, an' th' coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's mills there at\nCromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I\nreckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man must be\ndoing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and looking what's agoing\non inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, and\nthe Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God\nput his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do\nall the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my\nway o' looking at it: there's the sperrit o' God in all things and all\ntimes--weekday as well as Sunday--and i' the great works and inventions,\nand i' the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our\nheadpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man does\nbits o' jobs out o' working hours--builds a oven for 's wife to save her\nfrom going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and makes\ntwo potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doin' more good, and he's just as\nnear to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and\na-groaning.\"\n\n\"Well done, Adam!\" said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to\nshift his planks while Adam was speaking; \"that's the best sarmunt I've\nheared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's been a-plaguin' on\nme to build her a oven this twelvemont.\"\n\n\"There's reason in what thee say'st, Adam,\" observed Seth, gravely. \"But\nthee know'st thyself as it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so much\nfault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It's\nthe preacher as empties th' alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he'll\ndo his work none the worse for that.\"\n\n\"On'y he'll lave the panels out o' th' doors sometimes, eh, Seth?\" said\nWiry Ben.\n\n\"Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again' me as 'll last you your life. But it\nisna religion as was i' fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a\nwool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more's the pity.\"\n\n\"Ne'er heed me, Seth,\" said Wiry Ben, \"y' are a down-right good-hearted\nchap, panels or no panels; an' ye donna set up your bristles at every\nbit o' fun, like some o' your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.\"\n\n\"Seth, lad,\" said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself,\n\"thee mustna take me unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just\nnow. Some 's got one way o' looking at things and some 's got another.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkindness,\" said Seth, \"I know that\nwell enough. Thee't like thy dog Gyp--thee bark'st at me sometimes, but\nthee allays lick'st my hand after.\"\n\nAll hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock\nbegan to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim\nhad loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a\nscrew half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket;\nMum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the\nprevious conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act\nof lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting\nout his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work\nas if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he\nlooked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, \"Look there, now! I can't\nabide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the\nclock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work and\nwas afraid o' doing a stroke too much.\"\n\nSeth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his\npreparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, \"Aye, aye,\nAdam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six-an'-forty like me,\nistid o' six-an'-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Adam, still wrathful; \"what's age got to do with it, I\nwonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms\ndrop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just as\nif he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone\n'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.\"\n\n\"Bodderation, Adam!\" exclaimed Wiry Ben; \"lave a chap aloon, will 'ee?\nYe war afinding faut wi' preachers a while agoo--y' are fond enough o'\npreachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play\nbetter nor work; that'll 'commodate ye--it laves ye th' more to do.\"\n\nWith this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben\nshouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum\nTaft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if\nhe expected him to say something.\n\n\"Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?\" Adam asked, looking\nup.\n\n\"Nay; I've got my hat and things at Will Maskery's. I shan't be home\nbefore going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she's\nwilling. There's nobody comes with her from Poyser's, thee know'st.\"\n\n\"Then I'll tell mother not to look for thee,\" said Adam.\n\n\"Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself to-night?\" said Seth rather\ntimidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.\n\n\"Nay, I'm going to th' school.\"\n\nHitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and\nwatching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing.\nBut no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist\nhis apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his\nmaster's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would\ndoubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his\nemotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear\nmore phlegmatic than nature had made him.\n\n\"What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?\" said Adam, with the same\ngentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth.\n\nGyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, \"Of course.\" Poor\nfellow, he had not a great range of expression.\n\nThe basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner;\nand no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutely\nunconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at\nhis master's heels.\n\nOn leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and\ncarried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a\nlow house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant\nand mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and\nspeckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb\ntide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen\ngown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls\nwhich appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation\nof cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for\nshe did not recognize Adam till he said, \"Here's the key, Dolly; lay it\ndown for me in the house, will you?\"\n\n\"Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary's i' th' house, and\nMester Burge 'ull be back anon; he'd be glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm,\nI'll be's warrand.\"\n\n\"No, Dolly, thank you; I'm off home. Good evening.\"\n\nAdam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the\nworkyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and down\nto the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman,\nwith his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam\nhad passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the\nstalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted\nstockings.\n\nAdam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck\nacross the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day\nlong been running in his head:\n\n     Let all thy converse be sincere,\n     Thy conscience as the noonday clear;\n     For God's all-seeing eye surveys\n     Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways.\n\n\nChapter II\n\nThe Preaching\n\n\nAbout a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement\nin the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its\nlittle street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the\ninhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something\nmore than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The\nDonnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small\nfarmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a\npretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise\nof good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him\nfor the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the\nheraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson,\nthe landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his hands\nin his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking\ntowards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it,\nwhich he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men and\nwomen whom he had observed passing at intervals.\n\nMr. Casson's person was by no means of that common type which can be\nallowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to\nconsist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to\neach other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower sphere\nmight be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the\nupper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and\ntributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson's head was\nnot at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a \"spotty globe,\"\nas Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and\nface could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression--which was\nchiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight\nknot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth\nmention--was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of\npersonal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and\nbearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in\na man who had been butler to \"the family\" for fifteen years, and who, in\nhis present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with\nhis inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his\ncuriosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr. Casson\nhad been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but when\nhe had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and\nthrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his\nhead on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous\nindifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were\ndiverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to\nhave another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door\nof the Donnithorne Arms.\n\n\"Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler,\" said the traveller\nto the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound\nof the horse's hoofs.\n\n\"Why, what's up in your pretty village, landlord?\" he continued, getting\ndown. \"There seems to be quite a stir.\"\n\n\"It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's\na-going to preach on the Green,\" answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and\nwheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. \"Will you please to step\nin, sir, an' tek somethink?\"\n\n\"No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse.\nAnd what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just\nunder his nose?\"\n\n\"Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here; he lives at Brox'on, over the\nhill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for\ngentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir,\nan' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store\nby't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the\nDonnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue,\nsir. They're cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir; the gentry's hard\nwork to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an'\ngot the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think\nthe folks here says for 'hevn't you?'--the gentry, you know, says,\n'hevn't you'--well, the people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's what\nthey call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared\nSquire Donnithorne say many a time; it's the dileck, says he.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said the stranger, smiling. \"I know it very well. But you've\nnot got many Methodists about here, surely--in this agricultural spot? I\nshould have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to\nbe found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists can\nseldom lay much hold on THEM.\"\n\n\"Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's\nMester Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit\no' building an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There's\nplenty of emply i' this countryside, sir. An' there's a fine batch o'\nMethodisses at Treddles'on--that's the market town about three mile\noff--you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score\nof 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our people\ngets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope: that's\nWill Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at\nthe carpenterin'.\"\n\n\"The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off.\nBut she's a-visitin' hereabout at Mester Poyser's at the Hall Farm--it's\nthem barns an' big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She's own\nniece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for making\na fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared as there's no holding\nthese Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their head: many of 'em\ngoes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman's\nquiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I've not seen her\nmyself.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've\nbeen out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at that\nplace in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't\nthere, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler there\na-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir,\nsir--Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this\n'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doin's. He owns all the land\nabout here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does.\"\n\n\"Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it,\" said the traveller,\nmounting his horse; \"and one meets some fine strapping fellows about\ntoo. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about\nhalf an hour ago, before I came up the hill--a carpenter, a tall,\nbroad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along\nlike a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French.\"\n\n\"Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound--Thias Bede's son\neverybody knows him hereabout. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow,\nan' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir--if you'll hexcuse me for\nsaying so--he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a matter o' sixty\nston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir: Captain\nDonnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a\nlittle lifted up an' peppery-like.\"\n\n\"Well, good evening to you, landlord; I must get on.\"\n\n\"Your servant, sir; good evenin'.\"\n\nThe traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when\nhe approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right\nhand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with\nthe knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosity\nto see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get\nto the end of his journey, and he paused.\n\nThe Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road\nbranched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the\nchurch, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the\nside of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of\nthatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but on\nthe opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view\nof gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant\nhill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope\nbelonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its\nbarren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in\nthe arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours'\nride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected\nby lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the\nshelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long\nmeadow-grass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon some\nfine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some\nhomestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks,\nsome grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and\nthatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last\nthat Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the\ngentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station\nnear the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other\ntypical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were\nthe huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify\nthis region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the\nnorth; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with\nsombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only\nrevealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the\nchanging hours, but responding with no change in themselves--left for\never grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of\nthe April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer\nsun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of\nhanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops,\nand not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but\nstill showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of\nthe ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker,\nas if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left\nsmooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall\nmansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke\namong them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy\npool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would\nnot let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead\na foreground which was just as lovely--the level sunlight lying like\ntransparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass\nand the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining\nthe bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of\nthe scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the\nflower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows.\n\nHe might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned\na little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge's\npasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees of\nthe Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in the\nliving groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there,\nfrom old \"Feyther Taft\" in his brown worsted night-cap, who was bent\nnearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while,\nleaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round\nheads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a\nnew arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper,\ncame out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing\nto hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means\nexcited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the\nMethodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with the\nexpectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have\ndisclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the \"preacher\nwoman\"--they had only come out to see \"what war a-goin' on, like.\" The\nmen were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop.\nBut do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: a\nwhisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an\nundertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his\ninterlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to\nrun away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the\ninterest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the\nblacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in\nfront of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black\nbrawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally\nsending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a\nmarked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the\npleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new\nform. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr.\nJoshua Rann. Mr. Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave\nno one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out\nof his chin and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtle\nindications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that\nthey are in the presence of the parish clerk. \"Old Joshway,\" as he\nis irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmering\nindignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in a\nresounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, \"Sehon,\nKing of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King\nof Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever\"--a quotation which may seem\nto have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other\nanomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr.\nRann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of\nthis scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up\nwith his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally\nsuggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday\nafternoon.\n\nThe stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of\nthe Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costume\nand odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there\nwas a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serve\nas a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had\nbeen placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their\neyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to\ncontinue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers\nwith a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy\nCranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as\nChad's Bess, who wondered \"why the folks war amakin' faces a that'ns.\"\nChad's Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair,\nbeing turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head,\nexposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her\nred cheeks--namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets\nin them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own\ncousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling,\noften wished \"them ear-rings\" might come to good.\n\nTimothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her\nfamiliars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome\nset of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy\nbaby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in\nknee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by\nway of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier.\nThis young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess's\nBen, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty,\nhad advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking\nround the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide\nopen, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musical\naccompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by\nthe shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Ben\nfirst kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge\nbehind his father's legs.\n\n\"Ye gallows young dog,\" said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, \"if\nye donna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What dy'e mane by\nkickin' foulks?\"\n\n\"Here! Gie him here to me, Jim,\" said Chad Cranage; \"I'll tie hirs up\nan' shoe him as I do th' hosses. Well, Mester Casson,\" he continued,\nas that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, \"how are ye\nt' naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon when\nthey're hearkenin' to th' Methodys, as if they war bad i' th' inside.\nI mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the\npraicher 'ull think I'm i' th' raight way.\"\n\n\"I'd advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad,\" said Mr. Casson,\nwith some dignity; \"Poyser wouldn't like to hear as his wife's niece was\ntreated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her taking\non herself to preach.\"\n\n\"Aye, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too,\" said Wiry Ben. \"I'll stick\nup for the pretty women preachin'; I know they'd persuade me over a deal\nsooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the\nnight's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.\"\n\n\"Why, Seth's looking rether too high, I should think,\" said Mr. Casson.\n\"This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a common\ncarpenter.\"\n\n\"Tchu!\" said Ben, with a long treble intonation, \"what's folks's kin got\nto do wi't? Not a chip. Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget\nbygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver she\nwas--works at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young\ncarpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match\nfor her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war a\nnevvy o' their own.\"\n\n\"Idle talk! idle talk!\" said Mr. Joshua Rann. \"Adam an' Seth's two men;\nyou wunna fit them two wi' the same last.\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, \"but Seth's the lad for me,\nthough he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've\nbeen teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me\nno more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout-hearted feller too, for when\nwe saw the old tree all afire a-comin' across the fields one night, an'\nwe thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't\nas bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's; an'\nthere's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o'\nthe head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher woman! My\neye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer.\"\n\nSeveral of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his\nhorse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance of\nher companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was near\nSeth's tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart,\nand was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of\nwoman, though in reality she did not exceed it--an effect which was due\nto the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuff\ndress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and\nmount the cart--surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of\nher appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her\ndemeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured\nstep and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her\nface would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or\nelse charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types of\nMethodist--the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as\nif she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward\nappearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, which\nsaid, \"I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach\"; no\ncasting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no\nattitude of the arms that said, \"But you must think of me as a saint.\"\nShe held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly\ncrossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people.\nThere was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding\nlove than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that\nthe mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by\nexternal objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descending\nsun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this sober\nlight the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calm\nvividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a\nuniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin,\na full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow,\nsurmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale\nreddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and\ncovered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap.\nThe eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal\nand firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and\nabundant--nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those\nfaces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour\non their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of\nexpression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that\nno accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their\nglance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat\nin order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage\nlifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben\nwondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her.\n\n\"A sweet woman,\" the stranger said to himself, \"but surely nature never\nmeant her for a preacher.\"\n\nPerhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical\nproperties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and\npsychology, \"makes up,\" her characters, so that there may be no mistake\nabout them. But Dinah began to speak.\n\n\"Dear friends,\" she said in a clear but not loud voice \"let us pray for\na blessing.\"\n\nShe closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the\nsame moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: \"Saviour\nof sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to\ndraw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she\nhad not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thou\ndidst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her\nlife lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that\nblessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us,\nand Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor woman--if\ntheir minds are dark, their lives unholy--if they have come out not\nseeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to the\nfree mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord, open their\nears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them\nthirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give.\n\n\"Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in the\nnight-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with\nthem by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee:\nopen their eyes that they may see Thee--see Thee weeping over them,\nand saying 'Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life'--see Thee\nhanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they know\nnot what they do'--see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to\njudge them at the last. Amen.\"\n\nDinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of\nvillagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand.\n\n\"Dear friends,\" she began, raising her voice a little, \"you have all of\nyou been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman\nread these words: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath\nanointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.' Jesus Christ spoke those\nwords--he said he came TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE POOR. I don't know\nwhether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell you\nwhen I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of\nevening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up\ntook me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I\nremember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white\nhair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had\never heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and\nthis old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody\nI had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down from\nthe sky to preach to us, and I said, 'Aunt, will he go back to the sky\nto-night, like the picture in the Bible?'\n\n\"That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our\nblessed Lord did--preaching the Gospel to the poor--and he entered into\nhis rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but\nI was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing\nhe told us in his sermon. He told us as 'Gospel' meant 'good news.' The\nGospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God.\n\n\"Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as\nI, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came down\nfor was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear\nfriends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and have\nbeen reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven't been to school\nmuch, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but what\nhappens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to\nhear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about\nhearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble\nand has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to\ntell 'em they've got a friend as will help 'em. To be sure, we can't\nhelp knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel,\nthe good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes\nfrom God: don't you say almost every day, 'This and that will happen,\nplease God,' and 'We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to\nsend us a little more sunshine'? We know very well we are altogether\nin the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can't\nkeep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind,\nand the corn, and the cows to give us milk--everything we have comes\nfrom God. And he gave us our souls and put love between parents and\nchildren, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know\nabout God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: we\nare lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to think\nof him.\n\n\"But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much\nnotice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great\nand the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our\nlittle handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he\ncares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the\ngarden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us\nwhen we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and\nhelpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight\ncome, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and\ntrouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he\nseems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?\n\n\"Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what\ndoes other good news signify if we haven't that? For everything else\ncomes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when\neverything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend?\"\n\nThen Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind\nof God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus,\ndwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy.\n\n\"So you see, dear friends,\" she went on, \"Jesus spent his time almost\nall in doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, and\nhe made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with\nthem. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love\nto all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So\nhe cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles to\nfeed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he was\nvery kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost their\nfriends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for\ntheir sins.\n\n\"Ah, wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him--if he were here in\nthis village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would be\nto go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him.\n\n\"Well, dear friends, who WAS this man? Was he only a good man--a very\ngood man, and no more--like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken from\nus?...He was the Son of God--'in the image of the Father,' the Bible\nsays; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all\nthings--the God we want to know about. So then, all the love that\nJesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can\nunderstand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and\nspoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what\nGod was before--the God who made the world and the sky and the thunder\nand lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he\nhad made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might\nwell tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed\nus what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he has\nshowed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us.\n\n\"But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for.\nAnother time he said, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost';\nand another time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to\nrepentance.'\n\n\"The LOST!...SINNERS!...Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?\"\n\nHitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will\nby the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety of\nmodulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious\nskill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like\nnovelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear\nit sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of\nconviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the\ntruth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her\nhearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no\nlonger anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly,\nthough quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before any\ntransition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the\neffect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her\nvoice, and when she came to the question, \"Will God take care of us\nwhen we die?\" she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that\nthe tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased\nto doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the\nattention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she\ncould have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which\nmust surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher,\nuntil she came to the words, \"Lost!--Sinners!\" when there was a great\nchange in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the\nexclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts\nthat showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler;\nthe circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather\nwithout falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled\npity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over\nthe heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there\nwas still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of\nthe Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach,\nbut speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of\nher own simple faith.\n\nBut now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became\nless calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring\nhome to the people their guilt, their wilful darkness, their state of\ndisobedience to God--as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine\nholiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been\nopened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning\ndesire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by\naddressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to\nanother, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was\nyet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin,\nfeeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their\nFather; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching\nfor their return.\n\nThere was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists,\nbut the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering\nvague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effect\nDinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had\nretired, except the children and \"old Feyther Taft,\" who being too deaf\nto catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. Wiry\nBen was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come\nto hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he\ncouldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded\nevery moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in\nparticular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the\nbaby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away\nsome tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better\nfellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, and\ncleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday.\n\nIn front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted\nquietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak.\nNot that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she\nwas lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction\nthere could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's.\nGiving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose,\neyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such\na sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like\nher own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon\nher, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle\ntones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more\nsevere appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always\nbeen considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was\nnecessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She\ncouldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had often\nbeen tittering when she \"curcheyed\" to Mr. Irwine; and these religious\ndeficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minor\nmorals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of\nfeminine characters with whom you may venture to \"eat an egg, an apple,\nor a nut.\" All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had not\nbeen greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if\nthe constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice\nfor some undefined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom she\nhad always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that\nJesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. For\nDinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which is\ncommon among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her\nhearers: she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at\nany moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish\nand penitence into their hearts.\n\n\"See!\" she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a\npoint above the heads of the people. \"See where our blessed Lord stands\nand weeps and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says:\n'How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens\nunder her wings, and ye would not!'...and ye would not,\" she repeated,\nin a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again.\n\"See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins\nthat made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He has gone through all\nthat great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful\neven unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the\nground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they\nmocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then\nthey nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and\nthey mock him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips he\nprays for them, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'\nThen a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners\nfeel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last drop\nin the cup of bitterness. 'My God, my God!' he cries, 'why hast Thou\nforsaken me?'\n\n\"All this he bore for you! For you--and you never think of him; for\nyou--and you turn your backs on him; you don't care what he has gone\nthrough for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you: he has risen\nfrom the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God--'Father,\nforgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon this earth\ntoo; he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his wounded\nbody and his look of love.\"\n\nHere Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity\nhad touched her with pity.\n\n\"Poor child! Poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don't listen to\nhim. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think\nof the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be\nshrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin\nand tottering! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved;\nthen you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your\nevil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you\nnow, won't help you then; because you won't have him to be your Saviour,\nhe will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy and says,\n'Come to me that you may have life'; then he will turn away from you,\nand say, 'Depart from me into ever-lasting fire!'\"\n\nPoor Bessy's wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great\nred cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a\nlittle child's before a burst of crying.\n\n\"Ah, poor blind child!\" Dinah went on, \"think if it should happen to you\nas it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. SHE\nthought of her lace caps and saved all her money to buy 'em; she thought\nnothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit--she\nonly wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when she\nput her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face\ncrowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now\"--here Dinah\npointed to a spot close in front of Bessy--\"Ah, tear off those follies!\nCast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They ARE\nstinging you--they are poisoning your soul--they are dragging you down\ninto a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever,\nand for ever, further away from light and God.\"\n\nBessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, and\nwrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her,\nsobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should be \"laid hold\non\" too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing\nless than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to work at his anvil\nby way of reassuring himself. \"Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' or\nno praichin': the divil canna lay hould o' me for that,\" he muttered to\nhimself.\n\nBut now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the\npenitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love\nwith which the soul of the believer is filled--how the sense of God's\nlove turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so that no uneasy\ndesire vexes it, no fear alarms it: how, at last, the very temptation\nto sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud\npasses between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun.\n\n\"Dear friends,\" she said at last, \"brothers and sisters, whom I love\nas those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great\nblessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am\npoor, like you: I have to get my living with my hands; but no lord nor\nlady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their\nsouls. Think what it is--not to hate anything but sin; to be full of\nlove to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all\nthings will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's\nwill; to know that nothing--no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or\nthe waters come and drown us--nothing could part us from God who loves\nus, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that\nwhatever he wills is holy, just, and good.\n\n\"Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered to you; it\nis the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like\nthe riches of this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest\ncan have. God is without end; his love is without end--\"\n\n     Its streams the whole creation reach,\n     So plenteous is the store;\n     Enough for all, enough for each,\n     Enough for evermore.\n\nDinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the\nparting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The\nstranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as if\nit had been the development of a drama--for there is this sort of\nfascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one\nthe inward drama of the speaker's emotions--now turned his horse aside\nand pursued his way, while Dinah said, \"Let us sing a little, dear\nfriends\"; and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of the\nMethodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of\nexultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn.\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\nAfter the Preaching\n\n\nIN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's\nside along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green\ncorn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had\ntaken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in\nher hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening\ntwilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as\nhe walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to\nher. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity--of absorption\nin thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her\nown personality--an expression that is most of all discouraging to a\nlover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity that\nasks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, \"She's\ntoo good and holy for any man, let alone me,\" and the words he had\nbeen summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But\nanother thought gave him courage: \"There's no man could love her better\nand leave her freer to follow the Lord's work.\" They had been silent for\nmany minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage;\nDinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace\nwas becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few\nminutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth\ncourage to speak.\n\n\"You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday,\nDinah?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dinah, quietly. \"I'm called there. It was borne in upon my\nmind while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a\ndecline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin\nwhite cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this\nmorning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my\neyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen the vision, immediately we\nendeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing\nof the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns over\nmy aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel.\nI've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as\na token that there may be mercy in store for her.\"\n\n\"God grant it,\" said Seth. \"For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her,\nhe'll never turn to anybody else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he\nwas to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep\nmystery--the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest\nhe's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year\nfor HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for\nth' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob served seven years\nfor Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had\nto her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd\ngive me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you\nthink a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St.\nPaul says, 'She that's married careth for the things of the world how\nshe may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to\nspeak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind last\nSaturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and\nI've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's only\ngood for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more\ntexts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St. Paul\nsays as plain as can be in another place, 'I will that the younger\nwomen marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the\nadversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one';\nand that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we\nshould be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same\nMaster, and are striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the\nhusband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the\nwork God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and out,\nto give you more liberty--more than you can have now, for you've got to\nget your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both.\"\n\nWhen Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly and\nalmost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he\nhad poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became\nflushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his\nvoice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of\nthose very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the\noffice of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards\nSeth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes, \"Seth Bede, I thank\nyou for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more\nthan a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not\nfree to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a\nblessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed to\nevery man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has\ncalled me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my\nown, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those\nthat weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned\nmy work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the\nbrethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of\nthis world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might count\nthem, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has\nbeen given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there\nand to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things\nfrom my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's\nwork is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this\nworld. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as\nyour love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence\nfor me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers;\nand I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my\nmind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always came\nin--the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy\nhours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the\nWord was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for\ndirection, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my\nwork lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help\nand not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God's\nwill--He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without\nhusband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and\nfears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the\nwants and sufferings of his poor people.\"\n\nSeth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as\nthey were nearly at the yard-gate, he said, \"Well, Dinah, I must seek\nfor strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible.\nBut I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone,\nI could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing\nthe love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without\nyour marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield and be near you.\nI trusted as the strong love God has given me towards you was a leading\nfor us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel\nmore for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't\nhelp saying of you what the hymn says--\n\n     In darkest shades if she appear,\n     My dawning is begun;\n     She is my soul's bright morning-star,\n     And she my rising sun.\n\nThat may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be\ndispleased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country\nand go to live at Snowfield?\"\n\n\"No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to\nleave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear\nbidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of\nGoshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose\nour own lot; we must wait to be guided.\"\n\n\"But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I\nwanted to tell you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sure; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually\nin my prayers.\"\n\nThey had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, \"I won't go in,\nDinah, so farewell.\" He paused and hesitated after she had given him\nher hand, and then said, \"There's no knowing but what you may see things\ndifferent after a while. There may be a new leading.\"\n\n\"Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as\nI've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay\nplans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell.\"\n\nDinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and\nthen passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly\nhome. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along\nthe fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think\nhis blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he\nhad made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily\nhomewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned what\nit is to love--to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a\nwoman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this\nsort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and\nworthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our\ncaresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence\nof autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or\nBeethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are\nmere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our\nemotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our\nlove at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself in\nthe sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love\nhas been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began for\nus to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a\nMethodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering\nafter-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the\nhips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs\nin carrying a divine message to the poor.\n\nThat afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make\nof Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills,\nor the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough\nmen and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary\nculture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their\nimagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and\nsuffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite\nPresence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible\nthat to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than\nlow-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers,\nand hypocritical jargon--elements which are regarded as an exhaustive\nanalysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters.\n\nThat would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were\nanything else than Methodists--not indeed of that modern type which\nreads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes,\nbut of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in\ninstantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; they\ndrew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at\nhazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is\nnot at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible\nfor me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as\nliberal. Still--if I have read religious history aright--faith,\nhope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a\nsensibility to the three concords, and it is possible--thank Heaven!--to\nhave very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon\nwhich clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carry\nit to her neighbour's child to \"stop the fits,\" may be a piteously\ninefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness\nthat prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost.\n\nConsidering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our\nsympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows\nof heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery\nhorses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions.\n\nPoor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when he\nwas a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling\nhim to \"hold on tight\"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing\napostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks\nhomewards under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less\nbent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does.\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\nHome and Its Sorrows\n\n\nA GREEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost to\noverflowing with the late rains, overhung by low stooping willows.\nAcross this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is\npassing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket;\nevidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of timber\nby the side of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope.\n\nThe door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking out; but\nshe is not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine; she has been\nwatching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the last\nfew minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth\nBede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born has\ncome late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman,\nclean as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly back under a pure\nlinen cap with a black band round it; her broad chest is covered with a\nbuff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made of\nblue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips,\nfrom whence there is a considerable length of linsey-woolsey petticoat.\nFor Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong\nlikeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim\nnow--perhaps from too much crying--but her broadly marked eyebrows are\nstill black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly and\nunconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly upright\nan attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from the\nspring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of\ntemperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his\nwell-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence.\n\nFamily likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great\ntragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us\nby the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion;\nand ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every\nmovement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the\nthoughts we despise; we see eyes--ah, so like our mother's!--averted\nfrom us in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us with\nthe air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long\nyears ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage--the mechanical\ninstinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the\nmodelling hand--galls us and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the\nlong-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own\nwrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and\nirrational persistence.\n\nIt is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says,\n\"Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee't allays stay till the\nlast child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth?\nGone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon?\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where's\nfather?\" said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into the\nroom on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. \"Hasn't he done the\ncoffin for Tholer? There's the stuff standing just as I left it this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Done the coffin?\" said Lisbeth, following him, and knitting\nuninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously. \"Eh, my\nlad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver come back. I\ndoubt he's got to th' 'Waggin Overthrow' again.\"\n\nA deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said nothing,\nbut threw off his jacket and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again.\n\n\"What art goin' to do, Adam?\" said the mother, with a tone and look\nof alarm. \"Thee wouldstna go to work again, wi'out ha'in thy bit o'\nsupper?\"\n\nAdam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But his mother threw\ndown her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, and\nsaid, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, \"Nay, my lad, my lad, thee\nmunna go wi'out thy supper; there's the taters wi' the gravy in 'em,\njust as thee lik'st 'em. I saved 'em o' purpose for thee. Come an' ha'\nthy supper, come.\"\n\n\"Let be!\" said Adam impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one of\nthe planks that stood against the wall. \"It's fine talking about having\nsupper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seven\no'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not a\nnail struck yet. My throat's too full to swallow victuals.\"\n\n\"Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready,\" said Lisbeth. \"Thee't work\nthyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do't.\"\n\n\"What signifies how long it takes me? Isn't the coffin promised? Can\nthey bury the man without a coffin? I'd work my right hand off sooner\nthan deceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me mad to think\non't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've stood enough of\n'em.\"\n\nPoor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she had\nbeen wise she would have gone away quietly and said nothing for the next\nhour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns is never to talk\nto an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping bench\nand began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make her voice\nvery piteous, she burst out into words.\n\n\"Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy mother's\nheart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me to\nth' churchyard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my grave\nif I donna see thee at th' last; an' how's they to let thee know as I'm\na-dyin', if thee't gone a-workin' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gone\narter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for's hand shakin',\nbesides not knowin' where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther--thee\nmunna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he\ntook to th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade,\nremember, an's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word--no,\nnot even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus--thy own\nfeyther--an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at everythin' amost\nas thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a baby at\nthe breast.\"\n\nLisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs--a sort of wail,\nthe most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne and\nreal work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.\n\n\"Now, Mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex me\nwithout that? What's th' use o' telling me things as I only think too\nmuch on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, for\nthe sake o' keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking where\nit's no use: I like to keep my breath for doing i'stead o' talking.\"\n\n\"I know thee dost things as nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But thee't\nallays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st nothing too much\nto do for Seth: thee snapp'st me up if iver I find faut wi' th' lad. But\nthee't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi' anybody else.\"\n\n\"That's better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong way,\nI reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't sharp with him he'd sell every bit o'\nstuff i' th' yard and spend it on drink. I know there's a duty to be\ndone by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage him in running\nheadlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it? The lad does no\nharm as I know of. But leave me alone, Mother, and let me get on with\nthe work.\"\n\nLisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp, thinking\nto console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the supper she had\nspread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it,\nby feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his\nmaster with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course\nof things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him, and\nmoved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him to\nsupper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on his\nhaunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticed\nGyp's mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender\nthan usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as\nusual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us\nthan to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb?\n\n\"Go, Gyp; go, lad!\" Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and\nGyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed\nLisbeth into the house-place.\n\nBut no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his\nmaster, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Women\nwho are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and\nif Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when\nhe compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy\nday, he had not a vixen in his eye--a fury with long nails, acrid and\nselfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but\nin the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make\nuncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothing\non herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example--at once patient and\ncomplaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day\nover what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow,\nand crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain\nawe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said,\n\"Leave me alone,\" she was always silenced.\n\nSo the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the\nsound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a draught\nof water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth\nventured to say as she took it in, \"Thy supper stan's ready for thee,\nwhen thee lik'st.\"\n\n\"Donna thee sit up, mother,\" said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked\noff his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his\nmother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with which\nat other times his speech was less deeply tinged. \"I'll see to Father\nwhen he comes home; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall be\neasier if thee't i' bed.\"\n\n\"Nay, I'll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon.\"\n\nIt was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of\nthe days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Seth\nentered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching.\n\n\"Why, Mother,\" he said, \"how is it as Father's working so late?\"\n\n\"It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin'--thee might know that well\nanoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin'--it's thy brother as does\niverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'.\"\n\nLisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usually\npoured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by her\nawe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his\nmother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle.\nBut Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said,\n\"Addy, how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?\"\n\n\"Aye, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done,\" said Adam, looking up\nand casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. \"Why, what's\nthe matter with thee? Thee't in trouble.\"\n\nSeth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his\nmild face.\n\n\"Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Why,\nthee'st never been to the school, then?\"\n\n\"School? No, that screw can wait,\" said Adam, hammering away again.\n\n\"Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed,\" said Seth.\n\n\"No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carry\nit to Brox'on when it's done. I'll call thee up at sunrise. Go and eat\nthy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't hear Mother's talk.\"\n\nSeth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be\npersuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavy\nheart, into the house-place.\n\n\"Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come,\" said\nLisbeth. \"I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother,\" said Seth, \"I've had no supper yet.\"\n\n\"Come, then,\" said Lisbeth, \"but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam\n'ull happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' taters\nan' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, for\nall I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him. An' he's been a-threatenin'\nto go away again,\" she went on, whimpering, \"an' I'm fast sure he'll go\nsome dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll\nniver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha'\nhad a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th'\nhandiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright like\na poplar-tree, an' me to be parted from him an' niver see 'm no more.\"\n\n\"Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain,\" said Seth, in a soothing\nvoice. \"Thee'st not half so good reason to think as Adam 'ull go away\nas to think he'll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's in\nwrath--and he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimes--but his heart\n'ud never let him go. Think how he's stood by us all when it's been none\nso easy--paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an'\nturnin' his earnin's into wood for father, when he's got plenty o' uses\nfor his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married and\nsettled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work,\nand forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by.\"\n\n\"Donna talk to me about's marr'in',\" said Lisbeth, crying afresh. \"He's\nset's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull niver save a penny, an' 'ull\ntoss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' Mary\nBurge, an' be took partners, an' be a big man wi' workmen under him,\nlike Mester Burge--Dolly's told me so o'er and o'er again--if it warna\nas he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor the\ngillyflower on the wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' not\nto know no better nor that!\"\n\n\"But, Mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud have\nus. There's nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could ha'\nwished myself as Adam could ha' made another choice, but I wouldn't\nreproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he tries\nto o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be spoke to\nabout, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.\"\n\n\"Aye, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as thee\ngets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double earnin's o' this side\nYule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half the man thy brother is, for\nall they're a-makin' a preacher on thee.\"\n\n\"It's partly truth thee speak'st there, Mother,\" said Seth, mildly;\n\"Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can ever do for him.\nGod distributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But thee\nmustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us\nwhat no money can buy--a power to keep from sin and be content with\nGod's will, whatever He may please to send. If thee wouldst pray to God\nto help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasy\nabout things.\"\n\n\"Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on THEE what\nit is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away all thy earnin's, an' niver be\nunaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam had been\nas aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Take\nno thought for the morrow--take no thought--that's what thee't allays\nsayin'; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee.\"\n\n\"Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother,\" said Seth. \"They don't\nmean as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn't be overanxious and\nworreting ourselves about what'll happen to-morrow, but do our duty and\nleave the rest to God's will.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, that's the way wi' thee: thee allays makes a peck o' thy own\nwords out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I donna see how thee't to know as\n'take no thought for the morrow' means all that. An' when the Bible's\nsuch a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an' ha' the pick o' the\ntexes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so\nmuch more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can understan' the\ntex as he's allays a-sayin', 'God helps them as helps theirsens.'\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother,\" said Seth, \"that's no text o' the Bible. It comes out of\na book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It was wrote by\na knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying's partly\ntrue; for the Bible tells us we must be workers together with God.\"\n\n\"Well, how'm I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi'\nth' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no more\nnor that bit o' oat-cake? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' new\nbacon. What's th' matter wi' thee?\"\n\n\"Nothing to mind about, Mother; I'm not hungry. I'll just look in at\nAdam again, and see if he'll let me go on with the coffin.\"\n\n\"Ha' a drop o' warm broth?\" said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got\nthe better of her \"nattering\" habit. \"I'll set two-three sticks a-light\nin a minute.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee't very good,\" said Seth, gratefully; and\nencouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on: \"Let me pray a\nbit with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of us--it'll comfort thee,\nhappen, more than thee thinkst.\"\n\n\"Well, I've nothin' to say again' it.\"\n\nLisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in her\nconversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some comfort\nand safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow relieved her\nfrom the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her own behalf.\n\nSo the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the poor\nwandering father and for those who were sorrowing for him at home. And\nwhen he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to set\nup his tent in a far country, but that his mother might be cheered and\ncomforted by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth's\nready tears flowed again, and she wept aloud.\n\nWhen they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said, \"Wilt\nonly lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the while?\"\n\n\"No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself.\"\n\nMeantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holding\nsomething in her hands. It was the brown-and-yellow platter containing\nthe baked potatoes with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she had\ncut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread\nand fresh meat were delicacies to working people. She set the dish down\nrather timidly on the bench by Adam's side and said, \"Thee canst pick a\nbit while thee't workin'. I'll bring thee another drop o' water.\"\n\n\"Aye, Mother, do,\" said Adam, kindly; \"I'm getting very thirsty.\"\n\nIn half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the house but\nthe loud ticking of the old day-clock and the ringing of Adam's tools.\nThe night was very still: when Adam opened the door to look out at\ntwelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling\nstars; every blade of grass was asleep.\n\nBodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the\nmercy of our feelings and imagination; and it was so to-night with Adam.\nWhile his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a\nspectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sad\nfuture, floating before him and giving place one to the other in swift\nsuccession.\n\nHe saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the coffin\nto Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast: his father\nperhaps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance--would sit down,\nlooking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before,\nand hang down his head, examining the floor-quarries; while Lisbeth\nwould ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready, that he had\nslinked off and left undone--for Lisbeth was always the first to utter\nthe word of reproach, although she cried at Adam's severity towards his\nfather.\n\n\"So it will go on, worsening and worsening,\" thought Adam; \"there's no\nslipping uphill again, and no standing still when once you 've begun\nto slip down.\" And then the day came back to him when he was a little\nfellow and used to run by his father's side, proud to be taken out\nto work, and prouder still to hear his father boasting to his\nfellow-workmen how \"the little chap had an uncommon notion o'\ncarpentering.\" What a fine active fellow his father was then! When\npeople asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinction\nas he answered, \"I'm Thias Bede's lad.\" He was quite sure everybody\nknew Thias Bede--didn't he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton\nparsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was three\nyears the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be a\nteacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of sadness, when\nAdam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at the\npublic-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth her\nplaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night of\nshame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish,\nshouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the \"Waggon\nOverthrown.\" He had run away once when he was only eighteen, making\nhis escape in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle over\nhis shoulder, and his \"mensuration book\" in his pocket, and saying\nto himself very decidedly that he could bear the vexations of home no\nlonger--he would go and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at the\ncrossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got\nto Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endure\neverything without him, became too importunate, and his resolution\nfailed him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror his\nmother had gone through in those two days had haunted her ever since.\n\n\"No!\" Adam said to himself to-night, \"that must never happen again. It\n'ud make a poor balance when my doings are cast up at the last, if my\npoor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My back's broad enough and\nstrong enough; I should be no better than a coward to go away and leave\nthe troubles to be borne by them as aren't half so able. 'They that are\nstrong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not to\nplease themselves.' There's a text wants no candle to show't; it shines\nby its own light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i' this\nlife if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making things\neasy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough\nand think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's heart and\nsoul in you, you can't be easy a-making your own bed an' leaving the\nrest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I'll never slip my neck out o' the\nyoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sore\ncross to me, an's likely to be for many a long year to come. What then?\nI've got th' health, and the limbs, and the sperrit to bear it.\"\n\nAt this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was given at the\nhouse door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as might have been expected,\ngave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the door\nand opened it. Nothing was there; all was still, as when he opened it\nan hour before; the leaves were motionless, and the light of the stars\nshowed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty of\nvisible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw nothing except\na rat which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He went in again,\nwondering; the sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it it\ncalled up the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could not\nhelp a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had told\nhim of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam\nwas not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood of\nthe peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant can no\nmore help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can help\ntrembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination\nwhich is at once humble in the region of mystery and keen in the region\nof knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as much as\nhis hard common sense which gave him his disinclination to doctrinal\nreligion, and he often checked Seth's argumentative spiritualism by\nsaying, \"Eh, it's a big mystery; thee know'st but little about it.\" And\nso it happened that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If a\nnew building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a divine\njudgment, he would have said, \"May be; but the bearing o' the roof and\nwalls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come down\"; yet he believed\nin dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he bated his breath a\nlittle when he told the story of the stroke with the willow wand. I\ntell it as he told it, not attempting to reduce it to its natural\nelements--in our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our\nhold of the sympathy that comprehends them.\n\nBut he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessity\nfor getting on with the coffin, and for the next ten minutes his hammer\nwas ringing so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any,\nmight well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to take\nup his ruler, and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled.\nAdam was at the door without the loss of a moment; but again all was\nstill, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-laden\ngrass in front of the cottage.\n\nAdam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of late\nyears he had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston, and\nthere was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping off his\ndrunkenness at the \"Waggon Overthrown.\" Besides, to Adam, the conception\nof the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his father\nthat the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeply\ninfixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought that\noccurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes and tread\nlightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and his\nmother were breathing regularly.\n\nAdam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, \"I won't open\nthe door again. It's no use staring about to catch sight of a sound.\nMaybe there's a world about us as we can't see, but th' ear's quicker\nthan the eye and catches a sound from't now and then. Some people think\nthey get a sight on't too, but they're mostly folks whose eyes are not\nmuch use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think it's better to\nsee when your perpendicular's true than to see a ghost.\"\n\nSuch thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylight\nquenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the time the red\nsunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid of\nthe coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willow\nwand was merged in satisfaction that the work was done and the promise\nredeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving\noverhead, and presently came downstairs.\n\n\"Now, lad,\" said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, \"the coffin's done,\nand we can take it over to Brox'on, and be back again before half after\nsix. I'll take a mouthful o' oat-cake, and then we'll be off.\"\n\nThe coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two brothers,\nand they were making their way, followed close by Gyp, out of the little\nwoodyard into the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a mile\nand a half to Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound very\npleasantly along lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines and\nthe dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twittering\nand trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangely\nmingled picture--the fresh youth of the summer morning, with its\nEdenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothers\nin their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders.\nThey paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside the\nvillage of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done, the coffin nailed\ndown, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorter\nway homewards, which would take them across the fields and the brook in\nfront of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had happened in\nthe night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himself\nto say, \"Seth, lad, if Father isn't come home by the time we've had our\nbreakfast, I think it'll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles'on\nand look after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Never\nmind about losing an hour at thy work; we can make that up. What dost\nsay?\"\n\n\"I'm willing,\" said Seth. \"But see what clouds have gathered since we\nset out. I'm thinking we shall have more rain. It'll be a sore time for\nth' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook's fine and\nfull now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and we should have to\ngo round by the road.\"\n\nThey were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture\nthrough which the brook ran.\n\n\"Why, what's that sticking against the willow?\" continued Seth,\nbeginning to walk faster. Adam's heart rose to his mouth: the vague\nanxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made no\nanswer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began to bark\nuneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.\n\nThis was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father, of whom\nhe had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certain to\nlive to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling with\nthat watery death! This was the first thought that flashed through\nAdam's conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out\nthe tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and\nwhen they had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt and\nlooked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was need\nfor action--forgetting everything but that their father lay dead before\nthem. Adam was the first to speak.\n\n\"I'll run to Mother,\" he said, in a loud whisper. \"I'll be back to thee\nin a minute.\"\n\nPoor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' breakfast, and their porridge\nwas already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink of\ncleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on making\nher hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable and inviting.\n\n\"The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry,\" she said, half-aloud, as she stirred\nthe porridge. \"It's a good step to Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'er\nthe hill--wi' that heavy coffin too. Eh! It's heavier now, wi' poor Bob\nTholer in't. Howiver, I've made a drap more porridge nor common this\nmornin'. The feyther 'ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he'll ate\nmuch porridge. He swallers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o'\npor-ridge--that's his way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many a\ntime, an' am likely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh, poor mon,\nhe takes it quiet enough; there's no denyin' that.\"\n\nBut now Lisbeth heard the heavy \"thud\" of a running footstep on the\nturf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, looking\nso pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards him\nbefore he had time to speak.\n\n\"Hush, Mother,\" Adam said, rather hoarsely, \"don't be frightened.\nFather's tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again.\nSeth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot as\nthe fire.\"\n\nIn reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew there\nwas no other way of repressing his mother's impetuous wailing grief than\nby occupying her with some active task which had hope in it.\n\nHe ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in\nheart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, like\nSeth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whom\nThias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was awe\nand distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's soul; but\nAdam's mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity.\nWhen death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness\nthat we repent of, but our severity.\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\nThe Rector\n\n\nBEFORE twelve o'clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the\nwater lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel walks in the garden\nof Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossed\nby the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border\nflowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy\nmorning--because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin, and\ninstead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded.\n\nBut people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they would\nnever think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet morning, Mr.\nIrwine would not have been in the dining-room playing at chess with his\nmother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass\nsome cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into that\ndining-room and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of Broxton,\nVicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest\nChurch reformer would have found it difficult to look sour. We will\nenter very softly and stand still in the open doorway, without awaking\nthe glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her\ntwo puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black muzzle\naloft, like a sleepy president.\n\nThe room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window\nat one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but the\nfurniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty,\nand there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the\nlarge dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly\nenough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth\nthere is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the\nsame pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboard\nwith a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once\nthat the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than wealth,\nand would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely cut\nnostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a\nbroad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward\nand tied behind with a black ribbon--a bit of conservatism in costume\nwhich tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round\nby and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his\nmother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well\nset off by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about\nher head and neck. She is as erect in her comely embonpoint as a statue\nof Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline nose, firm proud\nmouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and sarcastic in its\nexpression that you instinctively substitute a pack of cards for the\nchess-men and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown hand\nwith which she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and\nturquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over the\ncrown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white folds\nabout her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old lady in the\nmorning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so: she\nis clearly one of those children of royalty who have never doubted their\nright divine and never met with any one so absurd as to question it.\n\n\"There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!\" says this magnificent old lady,\nas she deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. \"I should be\nsorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings.\"\n\n\"Ah, you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian man to win a\ngame off you? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water before\nwe began. You've not won that game by fair means, now, so don't pretend\nit.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, that's what the beaten have always said of great conquerors.\nBut see, there's the sunshine falling on the board, to show you more\nclearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give\nyou another chance?\"\n\n\"No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it's clearing\nup. We must go and plash up the mud a little, mus'n't we, Juno?\" This\nwas addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of the\nvoices and laid her nose in an insinuating way on her master's leg. \"But\nI must go upstairs first and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer's\nfuneral just when I was going before.\"\n\n\"It's of no use, child; she can't speak to you. Kate says she has one of\nher worst headaches this morning.\"\n\n\"Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she's never too ill\nto care about that.\"\n\nIf you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse or\nhabit, you will not wonder when I tell you that this identical objection\nhad been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many hundred\ntimes in the course of the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine's sister Anne\nhad been an invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dress\nin the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters.\n\nBut while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and\nstroking Juno's head, the servant came to the door and said, \"If\nyou please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are at\nliberty.\"\n\n\"Let him be shown in here,\" said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting.\n\"I always like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. His shoes will be\ndirty, but see that he wipes them Carroll.\"\n\nIn two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very deferential bows,\nwhich, however, were far from conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp bark\nand ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger's legs; while the\ntwo puppies, regarding Mr. Rann's prominent calf and ribbed worsted\nstockings from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled over\nthem in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned round his chair and\nsaid, \"Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you've come\nover this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs; give\nthem a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!\"\n\nIt is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a sudden\nrush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chill dusk.\nMr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance to\nhis mother that our loving memory of a friend's face often bears to the\nface itself: the lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, the\nexpression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his face\nmight have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for its\nmixture of bonhomie and distinction.\n\n\"Thank Your Reverence,\" answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to look\nunconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off the\npuppies; \"I'll stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see you\nan' Mrs. Irwine well, an' Miss Irwine--an' Miss Anne, I hope's as well\nas usual.\"\n\n\"Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She beats\nus younger people hollow. But what's the matter?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, I had to come to Brox'on to deliver some work, and I thought\nit but right to call and let you know the goins-on as there's been i'\nthe village, such as I hanna seen i' my time, and I've lived in it man\nand boy sixty year come St. Thomas, and collected th' Easter dues for\nMr. Blick before Your Reverence come into the parish, and been at the\nringin' o' every bell, and the diggin' o' every grave, and sung i' the\nchoir long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi' his\ncounter-singin' and fine anthems, as puts everybody out but himself--one\ntakin' it up after another like sheep a-bleatin' i' th' fold. I know\nwhat belongs to bein' a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin'\ni' respect to Your Reverence, an' church, an' king, if I was t' allow\nsuch goins-on wi'out speakin'. I was took by surprise, an' knowed\nnothin' on it beforehand, an' I was so flustered, I was clean as if I'd\nlost my tools. I hanna slep' more nor four hour this night as is past\nan' gone; an' then it was nothin' but nightmare, as tired me worse nor\nwakin'.\"\n\n\"Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at\nthe church lead again?\"\n\n\"Thieves! No, sir--an' yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an' a-thievin'\nthe church, too. It's the Methodisses as is like to get th' upper hand\ni' th' parish, if Your Reverence an' His Honour, Squire Donnithorne,\ndoesna think well to say the word an' forbid it. Not as I'm a-dictatin'\nto you, sir; I'm not forgettin' myself so far as to be wise above my\nbetters. Howiver, whether I'm wise or no, that's neither here nor there,\nbut what I've got to say I say--as the young Methodis woman as is at\nMester Poyser's was a-preachin' an' a-prayin' on the Green last night,\nas sure as I'm a-stannin' afore Your Reverence now.\"\n\n\"Preaching on the Green!\" said Mr. Irwine, looking surprised but quite\nserene. \"What, that pale pretty young woman I've seen at Poyser's? I saw\nshe was a Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress,\nbut I didn't know she was a preacher.\"\n\n\"It's a true word as I say, sir,\" rejoined Mr. Rann, compressing his\nmouth into a semicircular form and pausing long enough to indicate three\nnotes of exclamation. \"She preached on the Green last night; an' she's\nlaid hold of Chad's Bess, as the girl's been i' fits welly iver sin'.\"\n\n\"Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass; I daresay she'll come\nround again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into fits?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there's no knowin' what'll come,\nif we're t' have such preachin's as that a-goin' on ivery week--there'll\nbe no livin' i' th' village. For them Methodisses make folks believe\nas if they take a mug o' drink extry, an' make theirselves a bit\ncomfortable, they'll have to go to hell for't as sure as they're born.\nI'm not a tipplin' man nor a drunkard--nobody can say it on me--but I\nlike a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat'ral when we're\ngoin' the rounds a-singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin'; or\nwhen I'm a-collectin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' a\nneighbourly chat at Mester Casson's now an' then, for I was brought\nup i' the Church, thank God, an' ha' been a parish clerk this\ntwo-an'-thirty year: I should know what the church religion is.\"\n\n\"Well, what's your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?\"\n\n\"Well, Your Reverence, I'm not for takin' any measures again' the young\nwoman. She's well enough if she'd let alone preachin'; an' I hear as\nshe's a-goin' away back to her own country soon. She's Mr. Poyser's\nown niece, an' I donna wish to say what's anyways disrespectful o' th'\nfamily at th' Hall Farm, as I've measured for shoes, little an' big,\nwelly iver sin' I've been a shoemaker. But there's that Will Maskery,\nsir as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an' I make no doubt it\nwas him as stirred up th' young woman to preach last night, an' he'll be\na-bringin' other folks to preach from Treddles'on, if his comb isn't\ncut a bit; an' I think as he should be let know as he isna t' have the\nmakin' an' mendin' o' church carts an' implemen's, let alone stayin' i'\nthat house an' yard as is Squire Donnithorne's.\"\n\n\"Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come to\npreach on the Green before; why should you think they'll come again? The\nMethodists don't come to preach in little villages like Hayslope, where\nthere's only a handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They\nmight almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. Will Maskery is\nno preacher himself, I think.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, he's no gift at stringin' the words together wi'out book;\nhe'd be stuck fast like a cow i' wet clay. But he's got tongue enough\nto speak disrespectful about's neebors, for he said as I was a blind\nPharisee--a-usin' the Bible i' that way to find nick-names for folks as\nare his elders an' betters!--and what's worse, he's been heard to say\nvery unbecomin' words about Your Reverence; for I could bring them as\n'ud swear as he called you a 'dumb dog,' an' a 'idle shepherd.' You'll\nforgi'e me for sayin' such things over again.\"\n\n\"Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they're\nspoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse fellow than he is. He\nused to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating his\nwife, they told me; now he's thrifty and decent, and he and his wife\nlook comfortable together. If you can bring me any proof that he\ninterferes with his neighbours and creates any disturbance, I shall\nthink it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But it\nwouldn't become wise people like you and me to be making a fuss about\ntrifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will Maskery\nlets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or a young woman talks in a\nserious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must 'live and let\nlive,' Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doing\nyour duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as well as you've always done\nit, and making those capital thick boots for your neighbours, and things\nwon't go far wrong in Hayslope, depend upon it.\"\n\n\"Your Reverence is very good to say so; an' I'm sensable as, you not\nlivin' i' the parish, there's more upo' my shoulders.\"\n\n\"To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people's eyes\nby seeming to be frightened about it for a little thing, Joshua. I shall\ntrust to your good sense, now to take no notice at all of what Will\nMaskery says, either about you or me. You and your neighbours can go on\ntaking your pot of beer soberly, when you've done your day's work, like\ngood churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn't like to join you, but to go\nto a prayer-meeting at Treddleston instead, let him; that's no business\nof yours, so long as he doesn't hinder you from doing what you like. And\nas to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that,\nany more than the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing about\nit. Will Maskery comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his\nwheelwright's business steadily in the weekdays, and as long as he does\nthat he must be let alone.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an' shakes his head, an'\nlooks as sour an' as coxy when we're a-singin' as I should like to fetch\nhim a rap across the jowl--God forgi'e me--an' Mrs. Irwine, an' Your\nReverence too, for speakin' so afore you. An' he said as our Christmas\nsingin' was no better nor the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot.\"\n\n\"Well, he's got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have wooden\nheads, you know, it can't be helped. He won't bring the other people in\nHayslope round to his opinion, while you go on singing as well as you\ndo.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, but it turns a man's stomach t' hear the Scripture misused i'\nthat way. I know as much o' the words o' the Bible as he does, an' could\nsay the Psalms right through i' my sleep if you was to pinch me; but I\nknow better nor to take 'em to say my own say wi'. I might as well take\nthe Sacriment-cup home and use it at meals.\"\n\n\"That's a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I said\nbefore----\"\n\nWhile Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step and the clink\nof a spur were heard on the stone floor of the entrance-hall, and Joshua\nRann moved hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some one who\npaused there, and said, in a ringing tenor voice,\n\n\"Godson Arthur--may he come in?\"\n\n\"Come in, come in, godson!\" Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deep\nhalf-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old woman, and there\nentered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, with his right arm in\na sling; whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of laughing\ninterjections, and hand-shakings, and \"How are you's?\" mingled with\njoyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the canine\nmembers of the family, which tells that the visitor is on the best terms\nwith the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, known\nin Hayslope, variously, as \"the young squire,\" \"the heir,\" and \"the\ncaptain.\" He was only a captain in the Loamshire Militia, but to the\nHayslope tenants he was more intensely a captain than all the young\ngentlemen of the same rank in his Majesty's regulars--he outshone them\nas the planet Jupiter outshines the Milky Way. If you want to know\nmore particularly how he looked, call to your remembrance some\ntawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-complexioned young Englishman\nwhom you have met with in a foreign town, and been proud of as a\nfellow-countryman--well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking as\nif he could deliver well from 'the left shoulder and floor his man: I\nwill not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination with the\ndifference of costume, and insist on the striped waistcoat, long-tailed\ncoat, and low top-boots.\n\nTurning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, \"But don't let\nme interrupt Joshua's business--he has something to say.\"\n\n\"Humbly begging Your Honour's pardon,\" said Joshua, bowing low, \"there\nwas one thing I had to say to His Reverence as other things had drove\nout o' my head.\"\n\n\"Out with it, Joshua, quickly!\" said Mr. Irwine.\n\n\"Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede's dead--drownded this\nmorning, or more like overnight, i' the Willow Brook, again' the bridge\nright i' front o' the house.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal\ninterested in the information.\n\n\"An' Seth Bede's been to me this morning to say he wished me to tell\nYour Reverence as his brother Adam begged of you particular t' allow his\nfather's grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother's set\nher heart on it, on account of a dream as she had; an' they'd ha'\ncome theirselves to ask you, but they've so much to see after with the\ncrowner, an' that; an' their mother's took on so, an' wants 'em to make\nsure o' the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An' if Your\nReverence sees well and good, I'll send my boy to tell 'em as soon as I\nget home; an' that's why I make bold to trouble you wi' it, His Honour\nbeing present.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I'll ride round to\nAdam myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, to say they shall\nhave the grave, lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, good\nmorning, Joshua; go into the kitchen and have some ale.\"\n\n\"Poor old Thias!\" said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone. \"I'm afraid\nthe drink helped the brook to drown him. I should have been glad for the\nload to have been taken off my friend Adam's shoulders in a less painful\nway. That fine fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the\nlast five or six years.\"\n\n\"He's a regular trump, is Adam,\" said Captain Donnithorne. \"When I was\na little fellow, and Adam was a strapping lad of fifteen, and taught me\ncarpentering, I used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make\nAdam my grand-vizier. And I believe now he would bear the exaltation as\nwell as any poor wise man in an Eastern story. If ever I live to be a\nlarge-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged allowance of\npocket-money, I'll have Adam for my right hand. He shall manage my woods\nfor me, for he seems to have a better notion of those things than any\nman I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the money of them\nthat my grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to manage,\nwho understands no more about timber than an old carp. I've mentioned\nthe subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or\nother he has a dislike to Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, Your\nReverence, are you for a ride with me? It's splendid out of doors now.\nWe can go to Adam's together, if you like; but I want to call at the\nHall Farm on my way, to look at the whelps Poyser is keeping for me.\"\n\n\"You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur,\" said Mrs. Irwine. \"It's\nnearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly.\"\n\n\"I want to go to the Hall Farm too,\" said Mr. Irwine, \"to have another\nlook at the little Methodist who is staying there. Joshua tells me she\nwas preaching on the Green last night.\"\n\n\"Oh, by Jove!\" said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. \"Why, she looks as\nquiet as a mouse. There's something rather striking about her, though. I\npositively felt quite bashful the first time I saw her--she was sitting\nstooping over her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode\nup and called out, without noticing that she was a stranger, 'Is Martin\nPoyser at home?' I declare, when she got up and looked at me and just\nsaid, 'He's in the house, I believe: I'll go and call him,' I felt\nquite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to her. She looked like St.\nCatherine in a Quaker dress. It's a type of face one rarely sees among\nour common people.\"\n\n\"I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin,\" said Mrs. Irwine. \"Make\nher come here on some pretext or other.\"\n\n\"I don't know how I can manage that, Mother; it will hardly do for me\nto patronize a Methodist preacher, even if she would consent to be\npatronized by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You should\nhave come in a little sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua's denunciation of\nhis neighbour Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommunicate the\nwheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm--that is to say,\nto your grandfather--to be turned out of house and yard. If I chose to\ninterfere in this business, now, I might get up as pretty a story of\nhatred and persecution as the Methodists need desire to publish in\nthe next number of their magazine. It wouldn't take me much trouble to\npersuade Chad Cranage and half a dozen other bull-headed fellows that\nthey would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting Will\nMaskery out of the village with rope-ends and pitchforks; and then, when\nI had furnished them with half a sovereign to get gloriously drunk after\ntheir exertions, I should have put the climax to as pretty a farce as\nany of my brother clergy have set going in their parishes for the last\nthirty years.\"\n\n\"It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an 'idle\nshepherd' and a 'dumb dog,'\" said Mrs. Irwine. \"I should be inclined to\ncheck him a little there. You are too easy-tempered, Dauphin.\"\n\n\"Why, Mother, you don't think it would be a good way of sustaining my\ndignity to set about vindicating myself from the aspersions of Will\nMaskery? Besides, I'm not so sure that they ARE aspersions. I AM a lazy\nfellow, and get terribly heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I'm\nalways spending more than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so that\nI get savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those poor\nlean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate mankind by setting\nout to preach in the morning twilight before they begin their day's\nwork, may well have a poor opinion of me. But come, let us have our\nluncheon. Isn't Kate coming to lunch?\"\n\n\"Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch upstairs,\" said Carroll;\n\"she can't leave Miss Anne.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I'll go up and see Miss Anne\npresently. You can use your right arm quite well now, Arthur,\" Mr.\nIrwine continued, observing that Captain Donnithorne had taken his arm\nout of the sling.\n\n\"Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up constantly for\nsome time to come. I hope I shall be able to get away to the regiment,\nthough, in the beginning of August. It's a desperately dull business\nbeing shut up at the Chase in the summer months, when one can neither\nhunt nor shoot, so as to make one's self pleasantly sleepy in the\nevening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My\ngrandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you the\nentertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. The world will not see\nthe grand epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall have a lofty\nthrone for you, Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another in\nthe ballroom, that you may sit and look down upon us like an Olympian\ngoddess.\"\n\n\"I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christening\ntwenty years ago,\" said Mrs. Irwine. \"Ah, I think I shall see your poor\nmother flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost like\na shroud that very day; and it WAS her shroud only three months after;\nand your little cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She\nhad set her heart on that, sweet soul! Thank God you take after your\nmother's family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, yellow baby, I\nwouldn't have stood godmother to you. I should have been sure you would\nturn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested,\nloud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a Tradgett.\"\n\n\"But you might have been a little too hasty there, Mother,\" said Mr.\nIrwine, smiling. \"Don't you remember how it was with Juno's last pups?\nOne of them was the very image of its mother, but it had two or three\nof its father's tricks notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat\neven you, Mother.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff.\nYou'll never persuade me that I can't tell what men are by their\noutsides. If I don't like a man's looks, depend upon it I shall never\nlike HIM. I don't want to know people that look ugly and disagreeable,\nany more than I want to taste dishes that look disagreeable. If they\nmake me shudder at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly,\npiggish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite ill; it's like a bad\nsmell.\"\n\n\"Talking of eyes,\" said Captain Donnithorne, \"that reminds me that I've\ngot a book I meant to bring you, Godmamma. It came down in a parcel from\nLondon the other day. I know you are fond of queer, wizardlike stories.\nIt's a volume of poems, 'Lyrical Ballads.' Most of them seem to be\ntwaddling stuff, but the first is in a different style--'The Ancient\nMariner' is the title. I can hardly make head or tail of it as a story,\nbut it's a strange, striking thing. I'll send it over to you; and there\nare some other books that you may like to see, Irwine--pamphlets about\nAntinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can't think\nwhat the fellow means by sending such things to me. I've written to him\nto desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or pamphlet on\nanything that ends in ISM.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know that I'm very fond of isms myself; but I may as well\nlook at the pamphlets; they let one see what is going on. I've a little\nmatter to attend to, Arthur,\" continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the\nroom, \"and then I shall be ready to set out with you.\"\n\nThe little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him up the old\nstone staircase (part of the house was very old) and made him pause\nbefore a door at which he knocked gently. \"Come in,\" said a woman's\nvoice, and he entered a room so darkened by blinds and curtains that\nMiss Kate, the thin middle-aged lady standing by the bedside, would not\nhave had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting which\nlay on the little table near her. But at present she was doing what\nrequired only the dimmest light--sponging the aching head that lay on\nthe pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poor\nsufferer; perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn and\nsallow. Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, \"Don't speak\nto her; she can't bear to be spoken to to-day.\" Anne's eyes were closed,\nand her brow contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. Irwine went to the\nbedside and took up one of the delicate hands and kissed it, a slight\npressure from the small fingers told him that it was worth-while to have\ncome upstairs for the sake of doing that. He lingered a moment, looking\nat her, and then turned away and left the room, treading very gently--he\nhad taken off his boots and put on slippers before he came upstairs.\nWhoever remembers how many things he has declined to do even for\nhimself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off his\nboots, will not think this last detail insignificant.\n\nAnd Mr. Irwine's sisters, as any person of family within ten miles of\nBroxton could have testified, were such stupid, uninteresting women!\nIt was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwine should have had such\ncommonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten\nmiles to see, any day; her beauty, her well-preserved faculties, and her\nold-fashioned dignity made her a graceful subject for conversation in\nturn with the King's health, the sweet new patterns in cotton dresses,\nthe news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey's lawsuit, which was fretting poor\nLady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss\nIrwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded them\nas deep in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as \"the\ngentlefolks.\" If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his\nflannel jacket, he would have answered, \"the gentlefolks, last\nwinter\"; and widow Steene dwelt much on the virtues of the \"stuff\" the\ngentlefolks gave her for her cough. Under this name too, they were used\nwith great effect as a means of taming refractory children, so that at\nthe sight of poor Miss Anne's sallow face, several small urchins had a\nterrified sense that she was cognizant of all their worst misdemeanours,\nand knew the precise number of stones with which they had intended to\nhit Farmer Britton's ducks. But for all who saw them through a\nless mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous\nexistences--inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without\nadequate effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have\nbeen accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might have\nhad some romantic interest attached to her: but no such story had either\nbeen known or invented concerning her, and the general impression was\nquite in accordance with the fact, that both the sisters were old maids\nfor the prosaic reason that they had never received an eligible offer.\n\nNevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificant\npeople has very important consequences in the world. It can be shown to\naffect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many evil\ntempers from the selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and,\nin other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that\nhandsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had not\nhad these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would have been shaped\nquite differently: he would very likely have taken a comely wife in his\nyouth, and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, would\nhave had tall sons and blooming daughters--such possessions, in short,\nas men commonly think will repay them for all the labour they take under\nthe sun. As it was--having with all his three livings no more than seven\nhundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and his\nsickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken of\nwithout any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birth\nand habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his own--he\nremained, you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, not\nmaking any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one\nalluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a\nwife would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person in\nthe world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous;\nfor his was one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never\nknow a narrow or a grudging thought; Epicurean, if you will, with no\nenthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; but yet, as you have seen,\nof a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an unwearying tenderness\nfor obscure and monotonous suffering. It was his large-hearted\nindulgence that made him ignore his mother's hardness towards her\ndaughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her doting\nfondness towards himself; he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable\nfaults.\n\nSee the difference between the impression a man makes on you when you\nwalk by his side in familiar talk, or look at him in his home, and the\nfigure he makes when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in the\neyes of a critical neighbour who thinks of him as an embodied system\nor opinion rather than as a man. Mr. Roe, the \"travelling preacher\"\nstationed at Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general statement\nconcerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom he\ndescribed as men given up to the lusts of the flesh and the pride of\nlife; hunting and shooting, and adorning their own houses; asking what\nshall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be\nclothed?--careless of dispensing the bread of life to their flocks,\npreaching at best but a carnal and soul-benumbing morality, and\ntrafficking in the souls of men by receiving money for discharging the\npastoral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on the\nfaces of the people more than once a-year. The ecclesiastical historian,\ntoo, looking into parliamentary reports of that period, finds honourable\nmembers zealous for the Church, and untainted with any sympathy for\nthe \"tribe of canting Methodists,\" making statements scarcely less\nmelancholy than that of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible for me to say that\nMr. Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification assigned\nhim. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: if I\nwere closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that he felt\nno serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have\nthought it a mere loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening\nmanner to old \"Feyther Taft,\" or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith.\nIf he had been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps\nhave said that the only healthy form religion could take in such minds\nwas that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing themselves as a\nhallowing influence over the family affections and neighbourly duties.\nHe thought the custom of baptism more important than its doctrine, and\nthat the religious benefits the peasant drew from the church where his\nfathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buried\nwere but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the Liturgy or\nthe sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these days an\n\"earnest\" man: he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and had\nmuch more insight into men's characters than interest in their opinions;\nhe was neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious\nin alms-giving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental\npalate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotation\nfrom Sophocles or Theocritus that was quite absent from any text in\nIsaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, how\ncan you wonder at its retaining a relish for uncooked partridge in\nafter-life? And Mr. Irwine's recollections of young enthusiasm and\nambition were all associated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof from\nthe Bible.\n\nOn the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partiality\ntowards the rector's memory, that he was not vindictive--and some\nphilanthropists have been so; that he was not intolerant--and there is a\nrumour that some zealous theologians have not been altogether free from\nthat blemish; that although he would probably have declined to give his\nbody to be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing all\nhis goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimes\nbeen lacking to very illustrious virtue--he was tender to other men's\nfailings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was one of those men,\nand they are not the commonest, of whom we can know the best only by\nfollowing them away from the marketplace, the platform, and the pulpit,\nentering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice with which\nthey speak to the young and aged about their own hearthstone, and\nwitnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants of everyday\ncompanions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and not\nas a subject for panegyric.\n\nSuch men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, and\nhave sometimes even been the living representatives of the abuses.\nThat is a thought which might comfort us a little under the opposite\nfact--that it is better sometimes NOT to follow great reformers of\nabuses beyond the threshold of their homes.\n\nBut whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had met him that\nJune afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his dogs running beside\nhim--portly, upright, manly, with a good-natured smile on his finely\nturned lips as he talked to his dashing young companion on the bay mare,\nyou must have felt that, however ill he harmonized with sound theories\nof the clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with that\npeaceful landscape.\n\nSee them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then by\nrolling masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the Broxton side,\nwhere the tall gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tiny\nwhitewashed church. They will soon be in the parish of Hayslope; the\ngrey church-tower and village roofs lie before them to the left, and\nfarther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall\nFarm.\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\nThe Hall Farm\n\n\nEVIDENTLY that gate is never opened, for the long grass and the great\nhemlocks grow close against it, and if it were opened, it is so rusty\nthat the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely to\npull down the square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the two\nstone lionesses which grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above\na coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough,\nby the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick\nwall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to the\nrusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and all but\nthe very corners of the grassy enclosure.\n\nIt is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powdery\nlichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so as\nto bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with the\nlimestone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and the\ndoor-place. But the windows are patched with wooden panes, and the door,\nI think, is like the gate--it is never opened. How it would groan and\ngrate against the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy,\nhandsome door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a\nsonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen his master and\nmistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair.\n\nBut at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of a\nchancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double row of\nwalnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and rot among\nthe grass, if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echoing\nfrom great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned calves that\nhave been sheltering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against the\nleft-hand wall come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark,\ndoubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk.\n\nYes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; for\nimagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but may\nclimb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your face\nto one of the glass panes in the right-hand window: what do you see? A\nlarge open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded floor;\nat the far end, fleeces of wool stacked up; in the middle of the floor,\nsome empty corn-bags. That is the furniture of the dining-room. And\nwhat through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion,\na spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open and stuffed full of coloured\nrags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll, which, so\nfar as mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finest\nGreek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it\nthere is a little chair, and the butt end of a boy's leather long-lashed\nwhip.\n\nThe history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence of\na country squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to mere\nspinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It\nwas once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in some\ncoast town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where the\ngenteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses\nbusy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no\nlonger radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the farmyard.\n\nPlenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of the year,\njust before hay-harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the day too,\nfor it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs.\nPoyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is always a stronger sense\nof life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is pouring\ndown his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting\nup every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and\nturning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the\ndrain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing the\nopportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as possible.\nThere is quite a concert of noises; the great bull-dog, chained against\nthe stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approach\nof a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a thundering\nbark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite\ncow-house; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among\nthe straw, set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins\nthem; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled as\nto the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the calves\nare bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a fine ear discerns\nthe continuous hum of human voices.\n\nFor the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men are busy\nthere mending the harness, under the superintendence of Mr. Goby,\nthe \"whittaw,\" otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latest\nTreddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that\nAlick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whittaws, since the\nmorning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pretty\nstrongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men's shoes brought\ninto the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her\nequanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since\ndinner, and the house-floor is perfectly clean again; as clean as\neverything else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance of\ncollecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-coffer,\nand put your finger on the high mantel-shelf on which the glittering\nbrass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this time\nof year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, or\nat least light enough to discern the outline of objects after you\nhave bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could an\noak clock-case and an oak table have got to such a polish by the hand:\ngenuine \"elbow polish,\" as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God\nshe never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel\noften took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking\nat the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, for\nthe oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more for\nornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes in the great\nround pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves above the long\ndeal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone like\njasper.\n\nEverything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sun\nshone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfaces\npleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass--and\non a still pleasanter object than these, for some of the rays fell on\nDinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her pale red hair to auburn,\nas she bent over the heavy household linen which she was mending for her\naunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was\nironing a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had\nnot been making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to and\nfro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her\nblue-grey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was making\nup the butter, and from the dairy to the back kitchen, where Nancy was\ntaking the pies out of the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs.\nPoyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-looking\nwoman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy\nhair, well-shapen, light-footed. The most conspicuous article in her\nattire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered her\nskirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap\nand gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than\nfeminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The family\nlikeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast\nbetween her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression,\nmight have served a painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and\nMary. Their eyes were just of the same colour, but a striking test of\nthe difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour of Trip, the\nblack-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily exposed\nhimself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's glance. Her tongue\nwas not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel came within\nearshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ\ntakes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off.\n\nThe fact that it was churning day was another reason why it was\ninconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently, Mrs.\nPoyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual severity. To all\nappearance Molly had got through her after-dinner work in an exemplary\nmanner, had \"cleaned herself\" with great dispatch, and now came to ask,\nsubmissively, if she should sit down to her spinning till milking time.\nBut this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret\nindulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth and held up\nto Molly's view with cutting eloquence.\n\n\"Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, and\nlet you have your own way. I never knew your equals for gallowsness. To\nthink of a gell o' your age wanting to go and sit with half-a-dozen men!\nI'd ha' been ashamed to let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you.\nAnd you, as have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you\nat Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character--as I say, you might\nbe grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place; and you knew\nno more o' what belongs to work when you come here than the mawkin i'\nthe field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was.\nWho taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave\nthe dirt in heaps i' the corners--anybody 'ud think you'd never been\nbrought up among Christians. And as for spinning, why, you've wasted\nas much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin.\nAnd you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as\nthoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for the\nwhittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to be doing, is it? That's the\nway with you--that's the road you'd all like to go, headlongs to ruin.\nYou're never easy till you've got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as\nyourself: you think you'll be finely off when you're married, I daresay,\nand have got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to\ncover you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are\na-snatching at.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I donna want t' go wi' the whittaws,\" said Molly, whimpering,\nand quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her future, \"on'y we\nallays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's; an' so I just\naxed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I may\nnever stir if I do.\"\n\n\"Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr.\nOttley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi' whittaws\nfor what I know. There's no knowing what people WONNA like--such ways as\nI've heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to know\nwhat cleaning was; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to\nthat Betty as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha'\nleft the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end, and the\ndairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come downstairs\nafter my illness, as the doctor said it was inflammation--it was a mercy\nI got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, and\nbeen here a-going i' nine months, and not for want o' talking to,\nneither--and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run\ndown, instead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sitting\ndown to your work a little while after it's time to put by.\"\n\n\"Munny, my iron's twite told; pease put it down to warm.\"\n\nThe small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from a little\nsunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chair\nat the end of the ironing table, was arduously clutching the handle of\na miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an\nassiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far as\nanatomy would allow.\n\n\"Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!\" said Mrs. Poyser, who\nwas remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from her\nofficial objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. \"Never\nmind! Mother's done her ironing now. She's going to put the ironing\nthings away.\"\n\n\"Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd.\"\n\n\"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet,\" said Mrs. Poyser, carrying\naway her iron. \"Run into the dairy and see cousin Hetty make the\nbutter.\"\n\n\"I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-take,\" rejoined Totty, who seemed to be\nprovided with several relays of requests; at the same time, taking the\nopportunity of her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowl\nof starch, and drag it down so as to empty the contents with tolerable\ncompleteness on to the ironing sheet.\n\n\"Did ever anybody see the like?\" screamed Mrs. Poyser, running towards\nthe table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. \"The child's\nallays i' mischief if your back's turned a minute. What shall I do to\nyou, you naughty, naughty gell?\"\n\nTotty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, and\nwas already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of waddling run,\nand an amount of fat on the nape of her neck which made her look like\nthe metamorphosis of a white suckling pig.\n\nThe starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the ironing\napparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting which always lay\nready at hand, and was the work she liked best, because she could carry\nit on automatically as she walked to and fro. But now she came and sat\ndown opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative way, as she\nknitted her grey worsted stocking.\n\n\"You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. I\ncould almost fancy it was thirty years back, and I was a little gell\nat home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd done\nthe house up; only it was a little cottage, Father's was, and not a big\nrambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you clean it in\nanother--but for all that, I could fancy you was your Aunt Judith, only\nher hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broader\ni' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she had\nsuch queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, your\nmother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after the\nvery pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to\ntake care on, and bring up with a spoon when SHE was in the graveyard at\nStoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound weight\nany day to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the same\nfrom the first o' my remembering her; it made no difference in her, as\nI could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she talked a bit\ndifferent and wore a different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her life\nspent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent.\"\n\n\"She was a blessed woman,\" said Dinah; \"God had given her a loving,\nself-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by grace. And she was very\nfond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I often heard her talk of you in the same\nsort of way. When she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven\nyears old, she used to say, 'You'll have a friend on earth in your Aunt\nRachel, if I'm taken from you, for she has a kind heart,' and I'm sure\nI've found it so.\"\n\n\"I don't know how, child; anybody 'ud be cunning to do anything for you,\nI think; you're like the birds o' th' air, and live nobody knows how.\nI'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a mother's sister, if you'd come\nand live i' this country where there's some shelter and victual for\nman and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hills, like poultry\na-scratching on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to some\ndecent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave\noff that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judith\never did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering\nMethodist and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your\nuncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's allays been\ngood-natur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome to\nthe house; and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do\nfor Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the house\nas I could well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting and\ntable-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o'\nsheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun--she was a rare\ngirl to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her;\nand, you know, the spinning's going on constant, and there's new linen\nwove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the use o' talking,\nif ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in her\nsenses, i'stead o' wearing yourself out with walking and preaching,\nand giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved against\nsickness; and all the things you've got i' the world, I verily believe,\n'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all because\nyou've got notions i' your head about religion more nor what's i' the\nCatechism and the Prayer-book.\"\n\n\"But not more than what's in the Bible, Aunt,\" said Dinah.\n\n\"Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter,\" Mrs. Poyser rejoined, rather\nsharply; \"else why shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible--the\nparsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it--do the same\nas you do? But, for the matter o' that, if everybody was to do like\nyou, the world must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried to\ndo without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was\nallays talking as we must despise the things o' the world as you say, I\nshould like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the corn, and the\nbest new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody 'ud be wanting bread\nmade o' tail ends and everybody 'ud be running after everybody else\nto preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying by\nagainst a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the right\nreligion.\"\n\n\"Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people are called to\nforsake their work and their families. It's quite right the land should\nbe ploughed and sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the things\nof this life cared for, and right that people should rejoice in their\nfamilies, and provide for them, so that this is done in the fear of the\nLord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while they are\ncaring for the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lot is\ncast, but He gives us different sorts of work, according as He fits us\nfor it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying\nto do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help running if\nyou heard little Totty crying at the other end of the house; the voice\nwould go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble or\nin danger, and you couldn't rest without running to help her and comfort\nher.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door, \"I know it\n'ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for hours. You'd make me\nthe same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brook\nand tell it to stan' still.\"\n\nThe causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyser\nto stand there quite pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard,\nthe grey worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all the\nwhile. But she had not been standing there more than five minutes before\nshe came in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-stricken\ntone, \"If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming into\nthe yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preaching\non the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've said\nenough a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle's\nfamily. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr. Poyser's own\nniece--folks must put up wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their own\nnoses--it's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine\nbeing cause o' my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought\nhim no fortin but my savin's----\"\n\n\"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel,\" said Dinah gently, \"you've no cause for such\nfears. I've strong assurance that no evil will happen to you and my\nuncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach without\ndirection.\"\n\n\"Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction,\" said Mrs.\nPoyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. \"When there's a bigger\nmaggot than usual in your head you call it 'direction'; and then nothing\ncan stir you--you look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on\nchurch, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether it's fair weather or foul. I\nhanna common patience with you.\"\n\nBy this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and had got\ndown from their horses: it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs. Poyser\nadvanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low and trembling between\nanger with Dinah and anxiety to conduct herself with perfect propriety\non the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a\nwhispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt when\nthey stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human shape.\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?\" said Mr.\nIrwine, with his stately cordiality. \"Our feet are quite dry; we shall\nnot soil your beautiful floor.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, don't mention it,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"Will you and the captain\nplease to walk into the parlour?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,\" said the captain, looking eagerly\nround the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could not\nfind. \"I delight in your kitchen. I think it is the most charming room\nI know. I should like every farmer's wife to come and look at it for a\npattern.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat,\" said Mrs.\nPoyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the captain's evident\ngood-humour, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw,\nwas looking at Dinah and advancing towards her.\n\n\"Poyser is not at home, is he?\" said Captain Donnithorne, seating\nhimself where he could see along the short passage to the open\ndairy-door.\n\n\"No, sir, he isn't; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the factor,\nabout the wool. But there's Father i' the barn, sir, if he'd be of any\nuse.\"\n\n\"No, thank you; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a message about\nthem with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband; I\nwant to have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he's\nlikely to be at liberty?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'on\nmarket-day--that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's anywhere on the\nfarm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got rid o' the Scantlands,\nwe should have no outlying fields; and I should be glad of it, for if\never anything happens, he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things\nallays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance; and it's an unnat'ral\nthing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest in\nanother.\"\n\n\"Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especially\nas he wants dairyland and you've got plenty. I think yours is the\nprettiest farm on the estate, though; and do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I\nwere going to marry and settle, I should be tempted to turn you out, and\ndo up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir,\" said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, \"you wouldn't like it at\nall. As for farming, it's putting money into your pocket wi' your\nright hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it's\nraising victual for other folks and just getting a mouthful for yourself\nand your children as you go along. Not as you'd be like a poor man as\nwants to get his bread--you could afford to lose as much money as you\nliked i' farming--but it's poor fun losing money, I should think, though\nI understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more than\nanything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son had\nlost thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they said\nmy lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know more\nabout that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think as\nyou'd like it; and this house--the draughts in it are enough to cut you\nthrough, and it's my opinion the floors upstairs are very rotten, and\nthe rats i' the cellar are beyond anything.\"\n\n\"Why, that's a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doing\nyou a service to turn you out of such a place. But there's no chance\nof that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm a\nstout gentleman of forty; and my grandfather would never consent to part\nwith such good tenants as you.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, if he thinks so well o' Mr. Poyser for a tenant I wish you\ncould put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Five\ncloses, for my husband's been asking and asking till he's tired, and to\nthink o' what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowed\nhim, be the times bad or good. And as I've said to my husband often and\noften, I'm sure if the captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn't\nbe so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o' them as have got the\npower i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'ull bear\nsometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, and\nhardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for thinking as the cheese\nmay swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow green\nagain i' the sheaf--and after all, at th' end o' the year, it's like\nas if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your\npains.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed along\nwithout any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry. The confidence\nshe felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force that\novercame all resistance.\n\n\"I'm afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speak\nabout the gates, Mrs. Poyser,\" said the captain, \"though I assure you\nthere's no man on the estate I would sooner say a word for than your\nhusband. I know his farm is in better order than any other within\nten miles of us; and as for the kitchen,\" he added, smiling, \"I don't\nbelieve there's one in the kingdom to beat it. By the by, I've never\nseen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, it's not fit for you to go in, for Hetty's in the middle\no' making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I'm quite\nashamed.\" This Mrs. Poyser said blushing, and believing that the captain\nwas really interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of\nher to the appearance of her dairy.\n\n\"Oh, I've no doubt it's in capital order. Take me in,\" said the captain,\nhimself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser followed.\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\nThe Dairy\n\n\nTHE dairy was certainly worth looking at: it was a scene to sicken for\nwith a sort of calenture in hot and dusty streets--such coolness, such\npurity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of firm butter, of\nwooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water; such soft colouring of\nred earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey\nlimestone and rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and\nhinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details when they\nsurround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, standing on little\npattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of\nthe scale.\n\nHetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donnithorne entered the\ndairy and spoke to her; but it was not at all a distressed blush, for\nit was inwreathed with smiles and dimples, and with sparkles from under\nlong, curled, dark eyelashes; and while her aunt was discoursing to him\nabout the limited amount of milk that was to be spared for butter and\ncheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large quantity\nbut inferior quality of milk yielded by the shorthorn, which had\nbeen bought on experiment, together with other matters which must be\ninteresting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hetty\ntossed and patted her pound of butter with quite a self-possessed,\ncoquettish air, slyly conscious that no turn of her head was lost.\n\nThere are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of\nthemselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; but\nthere is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only\nof men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty\nlike that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling\nnoises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and\nto engage in conscious mischief--a beauty with which you can never be\nangry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the\nstate of mind into which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sort\nof beauty. Her aunt, Mrs. Poyser, who professed to despise all personal\nattractions and intended to be the severest of mentors, continually\ngazed at Hetty's charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; and\nafter administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety\nto do well by her husband's niece--who had no mother of her own to scold\nher, poor thing!--she would often confess to her husband, when they were\nsafe out of hearing, that she firmly believed, \"the naughtier the little\nhuzzy behaved, the prettier she looked.\"\n\nIt is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty's cheek was like a\nrose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her large\ndark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that her\ncurly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while she was at\nwork, stole back in dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about her\nwhite shell-like ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovely\nwas the contour of her pink-and-white neckerchief, tucked into her low\nplum-coloured stuff bodice, or how the linen butter-making apron, with\nits bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, since it\nfell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thick-soled\nbuckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have\nhad when empty of her foot and ankle--of little use, unless you have\nseen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for\notherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she\nwould not in the least resemble that distracting kittenlike maiden. I\nmight mention all the divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you\nhad never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes\nafter the mounting lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when\nthe fresh-opened blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty like\nthat of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descriptive\ncatalogue? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright spring\nday. Hetty's was a spring-tide beauty; it was the beauty of young\nfrisking things, round-limbed, gambolling, circumventing you by a\nfalse air of innocence--the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for\nexample, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you\na severe steeplechase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in\nthe middle of a bog.\n\nAnd they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a pretty\ngirl is thrown in making up butter--tossing movements that give a\ncharming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white\nneck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of the hand,\nand nice adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected\nwithout a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then\nthe butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm--it is so pure,\nso sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful\nfirm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light! Moreover, Hetty was\nparticularly clever at making up the butter; it was the one performance\nof hers that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism; so she\nhandled it with all the grace that belongs to mastery.\n\n\"I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the thirtieth of July,\nMrs. Poyser,\" said Captain Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admired\nthe dairy and given several improvised opinions on Swede turnips and\nshorthorns. \"You know what is to happen then, and I shall expect you\nto be one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. Will you\npromise me your hand for two dances, Miss Hetty? If I don't get your\npromise now, I know I shall hardly have a chance, for all the smart\nyoung farmers will take care to secure you.\"\n\nHetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs. Poyser\ninterposed, scandalized at the mere suggestion that the young squire\ncould be excluded by any meaner partners.\n\n\"Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. And I'm\nsure, whenever you're pleased to dance with her, she'll be proud and\nthankful, if she stood still all the rest o' th' evening.\"\n\n\"Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows who\ncan dance. But you will promise me two dances, won't you?\" the captain\ncontinued, determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him.\n\nHetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half-shy,\nhalf-coquettish glance at him as she said, \"Yes, thank you, sir.\"\n\n\"And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs. Poyser; your\nlittle Totty, as well as the boys. I want all the youngest children on\nthe estate to be there--all those who will be fine young men and women\nwhen I'm a bald old fellow.\"\n\n\"Oh dear, sir, that 'ull be a long time first,\" said Mrs. Poyser, quite\novercome at the young squire's speaking so lightly of himself, and\nthinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this\nremarkable specimen of high-born humour. The captain was thought to\nbe \"very full of his jokes,\" and was a great favourite throughout the\nestate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was quite sure\nthings would be different when the reins got into his hands--there\nwas to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of lime, and\nreturns of ten per cent.\n\n\"But where is Totty to-day?\" he said. \"I want to see her.\"\n\n\"Where IS the little un, Hetty?\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"She came in here not\nlong ago.\"\n\n\"I don't know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think.\"\n\nThe proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty,\npassed at once into the back kitchen, in search of her, not, however,\nwithout misgivings lest something should have happened to render her\nperson and attire unfit for presentation.\n\n\"And do you carry the butter to market when you've made it?\" said the\nCaptain to Hetty, meanwhile.\n\n\"Oh no, sir; not when it's so heavy. I'm not strong enough to carry it.\nAlick takes it on horseback.\"\n\n\"No, I'm sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights.\nBut you go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evenings, don't you?\nWhy don't you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it's so green and\npleasant? I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church.\"\n\n\"Aunt doesn't like me to go a-walking only when I'm going somewhere,\"\nsaid Hetty. \"But I go through the Chase sometimes.\"\n\n\"And don't you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? I think I saw\nyou once in the housekeeper's room.\"\n\n\"It isn't Mrs. Best, it's Mrs. Pomfret, the lady's maid, as I go to see.\nShe's teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending. I'm going to tea\nwith her to-morrow afternoon.\"\n\nThe reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can only be\nknown by looking into the back kitchen, where Totty had been discovered\nrubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same moment\nallowing some liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore.\nBut now she appeared holding her mother's hand--the end of her round\nnose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and\nwater.\n\n\"Here she is!\" said the captain, lifting her up and setting her on the\nlow stone shelf. \"Here's Totty! By the by, what's her other name? She\nwasn't christened Totty.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte's her christened\nname. It's a name i' Mr. Poyser's family: his grandmother was named\nCharlotte. But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it's got to\nTotty. To be sure it's more like a name for a dog than a Christian\nchild.\"\n\n\"Totty's a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. Has she got a\npocket on?\" said the captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets.\n\nTotty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and showed a\ntiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse.\n\n\"It dot notin' in it,\" she said, as she looked down at it very\nearnestly.\n\n\"No! What a pity! Such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I've got some\nthings in mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. Yes! I declare I've\ngot five little round silver things, and hear what a pretty noise they\nmake in Totty's pink pocket.\" Here he shook the pocket with the five\nsixpences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in\ngreat glee; but, divining that there was nothing more to be got by\nstaying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket in\nthe hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, \"Oh for shame,\nyou naughty gell! Not to thank the captain for what he's given you I'm\nsure, sir, it's very kind of you; but she's spoiled shameful; her father\nwon't have her said nay in anything, and there's no managing her. It's\nbeing the youngest, and th' only gell.\"\n\n\"Oh, she's a funny little fatty; I wouldn't have her different. But I\nmust be going now, for I suppose the rector is waiting for me.\"\n\nWith a \"good-bye,\" a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty Arthur left the\ndairy. But he was mistaken in imagining himself waited for. The rector\nhad been so much interested in his conversation with Dinah that he would\nnot have chosen to close it earlier; and you shall hear now what they\nhad been saying to each other.\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\nA Vocation\n\n\nDINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of\nthe sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwine\nlooking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to\nher, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes\nmet his, was, \"What a well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seed\nmight fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish.\" The agreeable\nimpression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a\nbenignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had\nbeen the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.\n\n\"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?\" were his first\nwords, as he seated himself opposite to her.\n\n\"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very\nkind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill,\nand she invited me to come and stay with her for a while.\"\n\n\"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there.\nIt's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; but\nthat's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed by\nthe employment that mill must have brought.\"\n\n\"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a\nlivelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the\ntradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for\nthereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you\nsay, sir--very different from this country.\"\n\n\"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to\nthe place as your home?\"\n\n\"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But\nshe was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that I\nknow of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and would\nhave me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land,\nwherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leave\nSnowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like\nthe small grass on the hill-top.\"\n\n\"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; you\nare a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?\"\n\n\"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause\nto be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliest\nchildhood.\"\n\n\"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand you\npreached at Hayslope last night.\"\n\n\"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one.\"\n\n\"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?\"\n\n\"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work,\nand when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and the\nstrengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard\nabout, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, before\nshe was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved\nof her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many\nothers now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the\nministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in the\nSociety of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to\nnought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they\nmake channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow not\nthere.'\"\n\n\"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to say\nthat it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find sometimes that\nboth men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and are\nquite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit\nand bring holy things into contempt?\"\n\n\"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among us\nwho have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive\ntheir own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction to\nput a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept among\nus, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as they\nthat must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'Am\nI my brother's keeper?'\"\n\n\"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing\nit--how you first came to think of preaching?\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the time\nI was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and\nsometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much\ndrawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, for\nwhen I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit still and\nkeep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the\nthought of God overflowing my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in the\nWillow Brook. For thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem to\nlie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where\nI am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could\ngive no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of\nthem in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes\nit seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and words\nwere given to me that came out as the tears come, because our hearts\nare full and we can't help it. And those were always times of great\nblessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me before\na congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little\nchildren, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite\nsuddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work\nthat was laid upon me.\"\n\n\"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you began\nto preach.\"\n\n\"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged\nman, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--that's a\nvillage where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines,\nand where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep\nwithout a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so\nwe set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a\nwonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where\nthere's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look\nsmaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel\nthe everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother\nMarlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for\nhe overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying,\nand walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his\ntrade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people were\nexpecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he was\nthere before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were\nassembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might\nbe drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and\nhe was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So I\nwent to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I\nwould read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and\nsaw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the\nmen, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the\nSabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to\nthe sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I\nwas shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went to\nwhere the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on\nthe low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke the\nwords that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out\nof all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been\njoined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and\nI've preached ever since.\"\n\nDinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in\nher usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling treble\nby which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up\nher sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply\ninterested. He said to himself, \"He must be a miserable prig who would\nact the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees for\ngrowing in their own shape.\"\n\n\"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth--that\nyou are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed?\" he said\naloud.\n\n\"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people ever\ntake notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt\nthrough us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed\nwhat sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I've\npreached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about\nSnowfield--men that looked very hard and wild--but they never said an\nuncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me\nto pass through the midst of them.\"\n\n\"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe,\" said Mr. Irwine,\nemphatically. \"And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?\nDid you find them quiet and attentive?\"\n\n\"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except\nin a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned\ngreatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up\nto folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her\nafterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed that\nin these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green\npastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the\ncattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can\nbe from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy\nwoman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest of\nsouls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a\nprison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil.\nI think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is so\ndark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at\nease.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take life\nalmost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent\nworkmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by,\nis a Methodist.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a\ngracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the\npatriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he\nshows to his brother and his parents.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them?\nTheir father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night,\nnot far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam.\"\n\n\"Ah, their poor aged mother!\" said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking\nbefore her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy.\n\"She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious,\ntroubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help.\"\n\nAs she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne,\nhaving exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the\nmilk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine\nnow rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and\nsaid, \"Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not be\nthe last visit you will pay your aunt--so we shall meet again, I hope.\"\n\nHis cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest,\nand her face was brighter than usual, as she said, \"I've never asked\nafter Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they're as well as\nusual.\"\n\n\"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad\nheadaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you\nsent us--my mother especially.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I\nremembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her,\nand to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultry\nthis long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, black\nand white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye,\" said the\nrector, mounting his horse.\n\n\"Just ride slowly on, Irwine,\" said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also.\n\"I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to the\nshepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I\nshall come and have a long talk with him soon.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had\ndisappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the\npigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog,\nwho performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the\nbreaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it was\na fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well guarded, and that\nno loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate had\nclosed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where\nDinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt,\nbefore she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.\n\nMrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking\non it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine's\nbehaviour.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?\nDidn't he scold you for preaching?\"\n\n\"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite\ndrawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thought\nof him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the\nmorning sunshine.\"\n\n\"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?\" said\nMrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. \"I should think his\ncountenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got a\nmother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such\nanother woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man as\nthat i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at\na full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; it\nmakes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs\nas you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o'\nbare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's\nright, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword\nand sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about\nthat fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?\"\n\n\"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasure\nabout it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told me\nsomething that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede\nwas drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that the\naged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use\nto her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out.\"\n\n\"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child,\"\nsaid Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to\nthe frank and genial C. \"The kettle's boiling--we'll have it ready in\na minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'm\nquite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one as\nis allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for the\nmatter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the\ndifference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk,\nand it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the\nlook and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way nor\nin--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten year but\nmake trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be well\nfor you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresay\nshe's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down,\nchild, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o'\ntea, and so I tell you.\"\n\nDuring the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching\ndown the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards\nthe pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made her\nappearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of\nthe dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her\nhands at the back of her head.\n\n\"Molly,\" she said, rather languidly, \"just run out and get me a bunch of\ndock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now.\"\n\n\"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?\" said her aunt.\n\n\"No; how should I hear anything?\" was the answer, in a pettish tone.\n\n\"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're too\nfeather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stay\nupstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody\nbesides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as think\na deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might\nbe drownded for what you'd care--you'd be perking at the glass the next\nminute.\"\n\n\"Adam Bede--drowned?\" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking\nrather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usual\nexaggerating with a didactic purpose.\n\n\"No, my dear, no,\" said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to\nthe pantry without deigning more precise information. \"Not Adam. Adam's\nfather, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow\nBrook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it.\"\n\n\"Oh, how dreadful!\" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply\naffected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them\nsilently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions.\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\nHetty's World\n\n\nWHILE she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant\nbutter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green I am afraid Hetty\nwas thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast\nat her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from\na handsome young gentleman with white hands, a gold chain, occasional\nregimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable--those were the\nwarm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its little\nfoolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue\ngave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind,\nor in response to any other influence divine or human than certain\nshort-lived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to accommodate\nourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned\ninstruments called human souls have only a very limited range of music,\nand will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others with\ntremulous rapture or quivering agony.\n\nHetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her.\nShe was not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to\nHayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her;\nand that he would have made much more decided advances if her uncle\nPoyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was so\nfoul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him\nby any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr. Craig, the gardener at\nthe Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made\nunmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas.\nShe knew still better, that Adam Bede--tall, upright, clever, brave Adam\nBede--who carried such authority with all the people round about, and\nwhom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that\n\"Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those as\nthought themselves his betters\"--she knew that this Adam, who was often\nrather stern to other people and not much given to run after the lasses,\ncould be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from\nher. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't help\nperceiving that Adam was \"something like\" a man; always knew what to say\nabout things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended\nthe churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the value of the\nchestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the walls,\nand what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand\nthat you could read off, and could do figures in his head--a degree\nof accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that\ncountryside. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when\nshe once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only\nbroken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as\nfor Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure,\nbut he was knock-kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk;\nmoreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way\nto forty.\n\nHetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and\nwould be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there\nwas no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable\nartisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the public house, they\nmight be seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer having\na latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which\nsustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin\nPoyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he liked a friendly\nchat over his own home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay down\nthe law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best\nof his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something from\na clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three\nyears--ever since he had superintended the building of the new\nbarn--Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Farm, especially of\na winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, master\nand mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that glorious\nkitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the\nlast two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her\nuncle say, \"Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a\nmaster-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is\nin the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if\nit's true what they say; the woman as marries him 'ull have a good take,\nbe't Lady day or Michaelmas,\" a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed\nup with her cordial assent. \"Ah,\" she would say, \"it's all very fine\nhaving a ready-made rich man, but mayhappen he'll be a ready-made fool;\nand it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a hole\nin the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own,\nif you've got a soft to drive you: he'll soon turn you over into the\nditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains; for\nwhere's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled\nto a geck as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself\nfine to sit back'ards on a donkey.\"\n\nThese expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of\nMrs. Poyser's mind with regard to Adam; and though she and her husband\nmight have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter\nof their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match with\nAdam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servant\nelsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a\ndomestic help to her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not\nbeen equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of servants\nand children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement.\nEven in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his\nsuperiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself to\nthink of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful,\nkeen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he had\nshown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish\ntyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have\nbeen grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. \"Mary Burge,\nindeed! Such a sallow-faced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon,\nshe looked as yellow as a crow-flower and her hair was as straight as a\nhank of cotton.\" And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from\nthe Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion\nas a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by\nlittle airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his\nneglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair!\nThere was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never\ngrew a shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill\nwhen she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or advancing\ntowards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the meadow; she felt\nnothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing\nthat he loved her and would not care to look at Mary Burge. He could no\nmore stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young\nlove than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the\nsubtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was--a poor man with old\nparents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to\ngive her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. And\nHetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a carpeted parlour, and\nalways wear white stockings; to have some large beautiful ear-rings,\nsuch as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top of\nher gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, like\nMiss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to be\nobliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam\nhad been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him well\nenough to marry him.\n\nBut for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty--vague,\natmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects,\nbut producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground\nand go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or\neffort, and showing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if\nshe were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a\nbeatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty\nhad become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of\ntrouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself at\nchurch so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing;\nthat he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, and\nalways would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak\nto him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present the\nidea that the young squire could ever be her lover than a baker's pretty\ndaughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperial\nbut admiring smile, conceives that she shall be made empress. But the\nbaker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young emperor, and\nperhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking what a heavenly lot\nit must be to have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had got a face\nand a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, soft\nglances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy\nlanguor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so\nfine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching\ntenderness, but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little\nsilly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through that\natmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of\nlittle else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had\ndirected towards her--of little else than recalling the sensations with\nwhich she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and\nbecame conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became\nconscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed\nto touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with an\nodour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish\nthoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years\nago, and Hetty was quite uneducated--a simple farmer's girl, to whom\na gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until\nto-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the next\ntime Captain Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday when\nshe should see him at church; but now she thought, perhaps he would try\nto meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow--and if he should\nspeak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by! That had never\nhappened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past,\nwas busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow--whereabout in the\nChase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new\nrose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say\nto her to make her return his glance--a glance which she would be living\nthrough in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day.\n\nIn this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's\ntroubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls,\nin such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterflies\nsipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier of\ndreams--by invisible looks and impalpable arms.\n\nWhile Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled\nwith these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr.\nIrwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain\nindistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind while\nhe was listening to Mr. Irwine's account of Dinah--indistinct, yet\nstrong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenly\nsaid, \"What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have you\nbecome an amateur of damp quarries and skimming dishes?\"\n\nArthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention would\nbe of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, \"No, I went to\nlook at the pretty butter-maker Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe; and\nif I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girls\none sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns.\nThat common, round, red face one sees sometimes in the men--all cheek\nand no features, like Martin Poyser's--comes out in the women of the\nfamily as the most charming phiz imaginable.\"\n\n\"Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic\nlight, but I must not have you feeding her vanity and filling her little\nnoddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine\ngentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's wife--honest Craig's,\nfor example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little\npuss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable\nas it's a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty.\nApropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get settled, now the\npoor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and\nI've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest\ngirl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day\nwhen I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he\nlooked uneasy and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making\ndoesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a better\nposition. He has independence of spirit enough for two men--rather an\nexcess of pride, if anything.\"\n\n\"That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's\nshoes and make a fine thing of that building business, I'll answer for\nhim. I should like to see him well settled in this parish; he would be\nready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan\nno end of repairs and improvements together. I've never seen the girl,\nthough, I think--at least I've never looked at her.\"\n\n\"Look at her next Sunday at church--she sits with her father on the\nleft of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel\nthen. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting\ndog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to\nme and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic and\ninclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my\nwisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had become\ncheap, I bestow it upon you.\"\n\n\"Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day though I don't\nknow that I have any present use for it. Bless me! How the brook has\noverflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of the\nhill.\"\n\nThat is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be merged\nany minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from\nSocrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the\nnecessity of further conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind\nAdam's cottage.\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\nDinah Visits Lisbeth\n\n\nAT five o'clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand:\nit was the key of the chamber where her husband lay dead. Throughout the\nday, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been\nin incessant movement, performing the initial duties to her dead with\nthe awe and exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had brought\nout her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long years\nkept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday--that time\nso many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay,\nthat he might be sure and reach it out for her when SHE died, for she\nwas the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to\nthe strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing\nfrom it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window, which\nhad hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summer\nsunrise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fair\nwhite sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare\nrafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected\nand unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for the\nmoments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do the\nsmallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in all\nher thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never dead\nto us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can\nbe wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their\nplace is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their\npresence. And the aged peasant woman most of all believes that her dead\nare conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of for\nherself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation that she\nshould know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by\nher husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work of\nher life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently before\nher--under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she\nlay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above and smelt\nthe white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went\nto be churched after Adam was born.\n\nBut now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamber\nof death--had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons in\nlifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from the\nvillage, not being fond of female neighbours generally; and her\nfavourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr. Burge's, who had come to\ncondole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death,\nwas too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and now\nheld the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chair\nthat stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in\nordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen had\nhad none of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread of\nmuddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But\nwhat at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habits\nof order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it was\nright that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, now\nthe old man had come to his end in that sad way; the kitchen ought not\nto look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitations\nand exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep\non a bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back kitchen making a\nfire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade his\nmother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowed\nherself.\n\nThere was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herself\ninto the chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt and\nconfusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally; it was\nall of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind--that confusion which\nbelongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul\nis like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vast\ncity, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it is\nthe growing or the dying day--not knowing why and whence came this\nillimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate in\nthe midst of it.\n\nAt another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, \"Where is\nAdam?\" but the sudden death of her husband had restored him in\nthese hours to that first place in her affections which he had held\nsix-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget the\nsorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the young\nhusband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her eyes continued\nto wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the\nscattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might set\nout his mother's tea upon it.\n\n\"What art goin' to do?\" she said, rather peevishly.\n\n\"I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother,\" answered Seth, tenderly.\n\"It'll do thee good; and I'll put two or three of these things away, and\nmake the house look more comfortable.\"\n\n\"Comfortable! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable? Let a-be, let\na-be. There's no comfort for me no more,\" she went on, the tears coming\nwhen she began to speak, \"now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed for\nand mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allays\nso pleased wi' iverything I done for him, an' used to be so handy an' do\nthe jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made me\nthe posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could be, an' carried the\nlad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er grumbled,\nall the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sister, as\nwar dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to be\ndrownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an'\ncome home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put my\nplates an' things on, an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause he\nknow'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to know, but to\nbe a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me to\nlive to see that! An' us as war young folks once, an' thought we should\ndo rarely when we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha'\nno tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th'\nbridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin'? I may's well\ndie, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me.\"\n\nHere Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards and\nforwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards his\nmother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was\nuseless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past;\nso he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire and folding\nup his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since\nmorning--afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest he\nshould irritate her further.\n\nBut after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some minutes,\nshe suddenly paused and said aloud to herself, \"I'll go an' see arter\nAdam, for I canna think where he's gotten; an' I want him to go upstairs\nwi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is like\nthe meltin' snow.\"\n\nSeth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother\nrose from her chair, he said, \"Adam's asleep in the workshop, mother.\nThee'dst better not wake him. He was o'erwrought with work and trouble.\"\n\n\"Wake him? Who's a-goin' to wake him? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' at\nhim. I hanna seen the lad this two hour--I'd welly forgot as he'd e'er\ngrowed up from a babby when's feyther carried him.\"\n\nAdam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, which\nrested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table in\nthe middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few\nminutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his first\nattitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday,\nlooked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his\nforehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon\nwatching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had an\nexpression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat\non his haunches, resting his nose on his master's stretched-out leg, and\ndividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down and\nglancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog was\nhungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waiting\nimpatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this feeling\non Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advanced\ntowards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awaken\nhim was immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to find\nvent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his\neyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike his\ndream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, in\na fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and his\nmother with her fretful grief was present to him through it all. The\nchief difference between the reality and the vision was that in\nhis dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodily\npresence--strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which\nshe had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his\nmother angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her smart\nclothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, to\ntell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to follow\nsoon; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling to see\nher standing near him.\n\n\"Eh, my lad, my lad!\" Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulse\nreturning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating its\nloss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, \"thee'st\ngot nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden to\nthee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger thee no more; an' thy mother\nmay's well go arter him--the sooner the better--for I'm no good to\nnobody now. One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's good for\nnought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thy\nvictual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber,\na-sittin' i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; he\ndreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if\nthy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room for\nanother, for he could no more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' the\nscissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung away\ntogether, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha'\ndone for us both.\"\n\nHere Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silence--he could not speak\notherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not help\nbeing irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to\nknow how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a wounded\ndog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all\ncomplaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed,\nand when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more\nbitterly.\n\n\"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee\nlikedst an' marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say thee\nnay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to find\nfaut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens well\noff to get the bit an' the sup, though they'n to swallow ill words wi't.\nAn' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring thee nought and waste\nall, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll say\nnought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor an\nold haft when the blade's gone.\"\n\nAdam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and\nwalked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him.\n\n\"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin'\nnow, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays so\npleased when thee wast mild to him.\"\n\nAdam turned round at once and said, \"Yes, mother; let us go upstairs.\nCome, Seth, let us go together.\"\n\nThey went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key\nwas turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But\nAdam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter\nmore of his mother's querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed.\nLisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her\napron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as\nbefore. Seth thought, \"She will be quieter by and by, now we have been\nupstairs\"; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his little\nfire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.\n\nLisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes,\ngiving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she\nsuddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice\nsaid to her, \"Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a\ncomfort to you.\"\n\nLisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from\nher face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister's spirit\ncome back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled and\ndared not look.\n\nDinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for\nthe sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her\nbonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice,\nhad come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth's\nchair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendly\npresence.\n\nSlowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim\ndark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face--a pure, pale face, with\nloving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased;\nperhaps it WAS an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand\non Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a much\nsmaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah\nhad never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of\nlabour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand\nfor a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said,\nwith something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, \"Why,\nye're a workin' woman!\"\n\n\"Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at\nhome.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; \"ye comed in so light, like\nthe shadow on the wall, an' spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be a\nsperrit. Ye've got a'most the face o' one as is a-sittin' on the grave\ni' Adam's new Bible.\"\n\n\"I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser--she's my aunt, and\nshe has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm come\nto see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sons\nAdam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman\ntold me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went out\ntowards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place of\na daughter in this grief, if you will let me.\"\n\n\"Ah! I know who y' are now; y' are a Methody, like Seth; he's tould\nme on you,\" said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain\nreturning, now her wonder was gone. \"Ye'll make it out as trouble's a\ngood thing, like HE allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to me\na-that'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'll ne'er make me\nbelieve as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if he\nmust die, an' ha' the parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an'\ntell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes when I war\nangered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a sup\nhe'd swallow. But eh! To die i' the cold water, an' us close to him, an'\nne'er to know; an' me a-sleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no more\nnor if he'd been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!\"\n\nHere Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, \"Yes,\ndear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to\nsay that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to you\nto make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me.\nIf you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your\nfriends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down and\nrejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share those\ngood things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your\nlabour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won't\nsend me away? You're not angry with me for coming?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come.\nAn' Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some\nfor me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them as\nwants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', for\nit's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet fields to see an old\nwoman like me....Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my own--ne'er had one--an'\nI warna sorry, for they're poor queechy things, gells is; I allays\nwanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'ull be\nmarryin'--I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye make\nthe tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day--it's\nall one what I swaller--it's all got the taste o' sorrow wi't.\"\n\nDinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted\nLisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old\nwoman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day\nof hard work and fasting.\n\nSeth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help\nthinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief\nincessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached\nhimself--it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's sad\ndeath. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah WOULD triumph--it was\nlike the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And the\nfeeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother's\nnotice, while she was drinking her tea.\n\n\"Thee may'st well talk o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for thee\nthriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if thee know'dst no more o' care an'\ncumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin' awake i' th' cradle. For\nthee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud lie\nstill a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal as\ncan ne'er be bruised--though, for the matter o' that, thy poor feyther\nwar just such another. But ye've got the same look too\" (here Lisbeth\nturned to Dinah). \"I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'm\na-findin' faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an'\nsomehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o'\ntrouble, they're like to thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an'\ntake it away from them as donna like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty;\nfor when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; and\nnow he's gone, I'd be glad for the worst o'er again.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, for\nher reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance,\nalways issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute and\nready sympathy; \"yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed\nfor the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence\nthat came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cup\nof tea and eat a little more.\"\n\n\"What!\" said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous\ntone, \"had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about\nyour aunt?\"\n\n\"No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby.\nShe had no children, for she was never married and she brought me up as\ntenderly as if I'd been her own child.\"\n\n\"Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby,\nan' her a lone woman--it's ill bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresay\nye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life.\nBut what did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live in\nthis country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt too?\"\n\nDinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attracted, told her the story\nof her early life--how she had been brought up to work hard, and\nwhat sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life\nthere--all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The\nold woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to\nthe soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she was\npersuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this,\nbelieving that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in\ndisposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her\nside. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinah\nwould like to be left alone with his mother.\n\nLisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and\nsaid at last, \"Ye've got a notion o' cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'in\nye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothes\nan' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this countryside. I reckon folks\nis different at Snowfield from what they are here.\"\n\n\"They have a different sort of life, many of 'em,\" said Dinah; \"they\nwork at different things--some in the mill, and many in the mines, in\nthe villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere,\nand there are the children of this world and the children of light there\nas well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists there than in this\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's Will\nMaskery's wife, as they say's a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at,\nat all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An' I'm thinkin' I wouldna mind if\nye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i'\nth' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at Mester Poyser's.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Dinah, \"they don't expect me, and I should like to stay, if\nyou'll let me.\"\n\n\"Well, there's room; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er the\nback kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me. I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me to\nspeak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts me\ni' mind o' the swallows as was under the thack last 'ear when they fust\nbegun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my old man war\nfond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this\n'ear. Happen THEY'RE dead too.\"\n\n\"There,\" said Dinah, \"now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear\nMother--for I'm your daughter to-night, you know--I should like you to\nwash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did,\nwhen God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alive\nhe fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor\ndrink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child.\nBut when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and\nanointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and when\nthey asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now\nthe child was dead, he said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fasted\nand wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me,\nthat the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast?\nCan I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return\nto me.'\"\n\n\"Eh, that's a true word,\" said Lisbeth. \"Yea, my old man wonna come back\nto me, but I shall go to him--the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as\nye like wi' me: there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the\nback kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam's\nnew Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I\nlike them words--'I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.'\"\n\nDinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater\nquietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had\nbeen trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence\nfrom exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience among\nthe sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled through\npoverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of the\nmode in which they could best be touched and softened into willingness\nto receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressed\nit, \"she was never left to herself; but it was always given her when to\nkeep silence and when to speak.\" And do we not all agree to call rapid\nthought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest\nanalysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that\nour highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us.\n\nAnd so there was earnest prayer--there was faith, love, and hope pouring\nforth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretful\nLisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any\ncourse of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love,\nand of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing\nlife. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, under\nthe subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be\npatient and still.\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\nIn the Cottage\n\n\nIT was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lying\nawake listening to the birds and watching the growing light through the\nlittle window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very\nquietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was\nastir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's\npattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but Dinah\nwas not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth,\nfor he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night before.\nSeth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the opening\ndoor. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last\nby Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodily\nweariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and so\nwhen he went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours of\ntossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning\nsleep than was usual with him.\n\nBut Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual\nimpatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day and\nsubdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in\nthe valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start to\nwork again when he had had his breakfast.\n\n\"There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work,\" he said\nto himself; \"the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if\none's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen,\nand you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as\ntrue when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' working\nis, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot.\"\n\nAs he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely\nhimself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thick\nblack hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the\nworkshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending that\nhe and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge's and have the\ncoffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not\nsee and hear the sad task going forward at home.\n\nHe had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a light\nrapid foot on the stairs--certainly not his mother's. He had been in bed\nand asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered\nwhose step this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him\nstrangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person likely to\nbe in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have the\nclear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he\nhad taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpreted\nfor him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with a\ntimid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed\nby the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the\nlightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path; and\nAdam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguish\nsmiles looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaning\na little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought--it could not be\nHetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was\nto go and see WHO it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to\nbelief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank and went to\nthe kitchen door.\n\n\"How do you do, Adam Bede?\" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from\nher sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. \"I trust you feel\nrested and strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the day.\"\n\nIt was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adam\nhad seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he was\nnot very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's, and\nhe had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in\nlove with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards\nher for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black\ngown, and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force that\nbelongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the\nfirst moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with the\nconcentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object in which\nhe has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her\nlife, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in the dark\npenetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness and\ntimidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as she\nwondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness.\n\n\"I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come and see\nmy mother in her trouble,\" he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his\nquick mind told him at once how she came to be there. \"I hope my mother\nwas thankful to have you,\" he added, wondering rather anxiously what had\nbeen Dinah's reception.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dinah, resuming her work, \"she seemed greatly comforted\nafter a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night, by times.\nShe was fast asleep when I left her.\"\n\n\"Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?\" said Adam, his thoughts\nreverting to some one there; he wondered whether SHE had felt anything\nabout it.\n\n\"It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved\nfor your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come; and so is my\nuncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter all\nyesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go,\nfor there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad to see you.\"\n\nDinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam was\nlonging to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble; she was\ntoo rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived\nto say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way\nof cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary\nhide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while\ndisbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind was\ndirectly full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, when\nHetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had ever done\nbefore.\n\n\"But you won't be there yourself any longer?\" he said to Dinah.\n\n\"No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to\nTreddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go\nback to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt and\nher children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like\nme; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at\nthe beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em; but she's a strange way of\nnot liking young women. Though, to be sure,\" Adam went on, smiling, \"her\nnot liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you.\"\n\nHitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless\nsilence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his\nmaster's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's movements\nabout the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words\nwas apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger\nwas to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her\nsweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against her\nhand in a friendly way.\n\n\"You see Gyp bids you welcome,\" said Adam, \"and he's very slow to\nwelcome strangers.\"\n\n\"Poor dog!\" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, \"I've a strange\nfeeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a\ntrouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for the\ndogs always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have more\nin them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say half\nwhat we feel, with all our words.\"\n\nSeth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; he\nwanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women.\nBut after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to\nconsult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning.\n\nBy six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as\nclean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open,\nand the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood,\nthyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by the side of the\ncottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about, serving the\nothers with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had\ngot ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what\nhis mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent\nsince she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her\nideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find\nall the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations\nseemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting\nthe porridge, she broke silence:\n\n\"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse,\" she said to Dinah; \"I can ate it\nwi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no\nharm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' know\nthat? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'n\nmade it for 'em; it's well if they get onybody as 'll make parridge at\nall. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' body\nin a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well\nenough for a ma'shift.\"\n\n\"Makeshift, mother?\" said Adam. \"Why, I think the house looks beautiful.\nI don't know how it could look better.\"\n\n\"Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether\nthe floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thy\nparridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it.\nThee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then.\"\n\n\"Dinah,\" said Seth, \"do come and sit down now and have your breakfast.\nWe're all served now.\"\n\n\"Aye, come an' sit ye down--do,\" said Lisbeth, \"an' ate a morsel; ye'd\nneed, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come,\nthen,\" she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down\nby her side, \"I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer,\nI doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better nor wi' most folks.\"\n\n\"I'll stay till to-night if you're willing,\" said Dinah. \"I'd stay\nlonger, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with\nmy aunt to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that\nStonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the right\non't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been a\nbad country for a carpenter.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Adam, \"I remember father telling me when I was a little lad\nthat he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. But\nI'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says--and he knows the South--as\nthe northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and\nstronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says in some o' those\ncounties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothing\nof a distance without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abide\nthat. I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bit of a hill,\nand see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit\nof a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place,\nand there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besides\nyourself.\"\n\n\"I like th' hills best,\" said Seth, \"when the clouds are over your head\nand you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as\nI've often done o' late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if that\nwas heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life's\ndark and cloudy.\"\n\n\"Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,\" said Dinah; \"I shouldn't like to set\nmy face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and cattle, and\nthe ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills\nwhere the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spend\ntheir days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on a\nbleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel\nthe love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone\nhouses, where there's nothing else to give comfort.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" said Lisbeth, \"that's very well for ye to talk, as looks welly\nlike the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I'n\ngethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight;\nbut th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes less\nmouths for the scant cake. But,\" she went on, looking at Adam, \"donna\nthee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther and\nmother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin'\non. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard of\na Sunday.\"\n\n\"Donna fear, mother,\" said Adam. \"If I hadna made up my mind not to go,\nI should ha' been gone before now.\"\n\nHe had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.\n\n\"What art goin' to do?\" asked Lisbeth. \"Set about thy feyther's coffin?\"\n\n\"No, mother,\" said Adam; \"we're going to take the wood to the village\nand have it made there.\"\n\n\"Nay, my lad, nay,\" Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; \"thee\nwotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen? Who'd make it\nso well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is the\nhead o' the village an' all Treddles'on too, for cleverness.\"\n\n\"Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home;\nbut I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on.\"\n\n\"An' why shouldna I like 't? It's the right thing to be done. An' what's\nliking got to do wi't? It's choice o' mislikings is all I'n got i' this\nworld. One morsel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste.\nThee mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I wonna ha' nobody to\ntouch the coffin but thee.\"\n\nAdam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully.\n\n\"No, Mother,\" he said, \"I'll not consent but Seth shall have a hand\nin it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the village this\nforenoon, because Mr. Burge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at\nhome and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and then he can go.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, \"I'n set my heart on't\nas thee shalt ma' thy feyther's coffin. Thee't so stiff an' masterful,\nthee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi'\nthy feyther when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he's\ngone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's coffin.\"\n\n\"Say no more, Adam, say no more,\" said Seth, gently, though his voice\ntold that he spoke with some effort; \"Mother's in the right. I'll go to\nwork, and do thee stay at home.\"\n\nHe passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while\nLisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away the\nbreakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any\nlonger. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of\nquietly joining the brothers in the workshop.\n\nThey had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was\nstanding with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed with\nthe hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their\nbacks were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came\nin so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heard\nher voice saying, \"Seth Bede!\" Seth started, and they both turned round.\nDinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth's\nface, saying with calm kindness, \"I won't say farewell. I shall see you\nagain when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it\nwill be quite soon enough.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It'll\nperhaps be the last time.\"\n\nThere was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand and\nsaid, \"You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your\ntenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother.\"\n\nShe turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had\nentered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she\nhad not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, \"I don't wonder\nat thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily.\"\n\nSeth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his\nsecret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment,\nas he answered, \"Aye, Addy, I do love her--too much, I doubt. But she\ndoesna love me, lad, only as one child o' God loves another. She'll\nnever love any man as a husband--that's my belief.\"\n\n\"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made out\no' stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see that clear\nenough. But if she's better than they are in other things, I canna think\nshe'll fall short of 'em in loving.\"\n\nNo more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work\non the coffin.\n\n\"God help the lad, and me too,\" he thought, as he lifted the board.\n\"We're like enough to find life a tough job--hard work inside and out.\nIt's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his\nteeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold\nat only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's a\nmystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting\no' the seed, for that matter.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\nIn the Wood\n\n\nTHAT same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about in\nhis dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person reflected in\nthe old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green piece\nof tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to have\nbeen minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself,\nwhich, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over his\nshoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution.\n\n\"I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so,\" he said aloud.\n\"I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready by\nhalf-past eleven.\"\n\nThe low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution,\nhere broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as he\nhurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar's Opera,\n\"When the heart of a man is oppressed with care.\" Not an heroic strain;\nnevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the\nstables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation was\nnecessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite\ngratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yet\nforfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his own\nvirtues. No young man could confess his faults more candidly; candour\nwas one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man's candour be seen\nin all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had\nan agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous\nkind--impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty,\nreptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anything\nmean, dastardly, or cruel. \"No! I'm a devil of a fellow for getting\nmyself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on\nmy own shoulders.\" Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice in\nhobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their\nworst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly\nexpressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme\nof things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besides\nhimself. He was nothing if not good-natured; and all his pictures of\nthe future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of a\nprosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be the\nmodel of an English gentleman--mansion in first-rate order, all elegance\nand high taste--jolly housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire--purse open\nto all public objects--in short, everything as different as possible\nfrom what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of\nthe first good actions he would perform in that future should be to\nincrease Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he might\nkeep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the\nrector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection\npartly filial, partly fraternal--fraternal enough to make him like\nIrwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enough\nto make him shrink strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation.\n\nYou perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was \"a good fellow\"--all his\ncollege friends thought him such. He couldn't bear to see any one\nuncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods for\nany harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia herself had\nthe benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore towards the whole\nsex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmless\nand purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was a\nquestion that no one had yet decided against him; he was but twenty-one,\nyou remember, and we don't inquire too closely into character in the\ncase of a handsome generous young fellow, who will have property enough\nto support numerous peccadilloes--who, if he should unfortunately\nbreak a man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension him\nhandsomely; or if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence for her,\nwill make it up to her with expensive bon-bons, packed up and directed\nby his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analytic\nin such cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of a\nconfidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets about\na young man of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuition\nwhich is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once that\nhe is \"nice.\" The chances are that he will go through life without\nscandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse to\ninsure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes make\nterribly evident some flaw in their construction that would never have\nbeen discoverable in smooth water; and many a \"good fellow,\" through a\ndisastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal.\n\nBut we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguries\nconcerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capable\nof a prudent resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear:\nNature has taken care that he shall never go far astray with perfect\ncomfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never get beyond that\nborder-land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assaults\nfrom the other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of\nVice, and wear her orders in his button-hole.\n\nIt was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly;\neverything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is a\npleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel on\none's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent of\nthe stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be among\nthe soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it some\nirritation to Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables;\neverything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather\npersisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of\nlever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire a\nsuccession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whom\nhad lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on\nArthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embittering; one\ncan put up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable made\na scene of vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human flesh\nand blood can be expected to endure long together without danger of\nmisanthropy.\n\nOld John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that met\nArthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned for\nhim the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He could\nnever speak quite patiently to the old blockhead.\n\n\"You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-past\neleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Do\nyou hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n,\" said old John very deliberately, following\nthe young master into the stable. John considered a young master as the\nnatural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor\ncontrivance for carrying on the world.\n\nArthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possible\nto see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper before\nbreakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and\nturned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny\nspaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curled\nup on her back.\n\n\"Well, Meg, my pretty girl,\" said Arthur, patting her neck, \"we'll have\na glorious canter this morning.\"\n\n\"Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be,\" said John.\n\n\"Not be? Why not?\"\n\n\"Why, she's got lamed.\"\n\n\"Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em\nflung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near foreleg.\"\n\nThe judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued.\nYou understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled\nwith soothing \"who-ho's\" while the leg was examined; that John stood\nby with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved\ncrab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed\nthe iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went.\n\nHe considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was not\nanother mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg and\nRattler. It was vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the way\nfor a week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such a\ncombination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a broken\narm when every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himself\nat Windsor--shut up with his grandfather, who had the same sort of\naffection for him as for his parchment deeds! And to be disgusted at\nevery turn with the management of the house and the estate! In such\ncircumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off the\nirritation by some excess or other. \"Salkeld would have drunk a bottle\nof port every day,\" he muttered to himself, \"but I'm not well seasoned\nenough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gallop\non Rattler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine.\"\n\nBehind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he lunched\nwith Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach the Chase again\ntill nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in the\nhousekeeper's room; and when she set out to go home, it would be his\nlazy time after dinner, so he should keep out of her way altogether.\nThere really would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing,\nand it was worth dancing with a dozen ballroom belles only to look at\nHetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any more\nnotice of her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted;\nthough Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so soft\nand easily bruised; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool\nand cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's case, it\nwas out of the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond for\nhimself with perfect confidence.\n\nSo the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping towards Norburne; and by\ngood fortune Halsell Common lay in his road and gave him some fine\nleaps for Rattler. Nothing like \"taking\" a few bushes and ditches for\nexorcising a demon; and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, with\ntheir immense advantages in this way, have left so bad a reputation in\nhistory.\n\nAfter this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear that although Gawaine\nwas at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcely\ncleared the last stroke of three when Arthur returned through the\nentrance-gates, got down from the panting Rattler, and went into the\nhouse to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been men\nsince his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and then\ngalloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favourite\nstratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round\nupon us at the moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own.\n\n\"The cap'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace,\" said Dalton the\ncoachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipe\nagainst the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler.\n\n\"An' I wish he'd get the devil to do's grooming for'n,\" growled John.\n\n\"Aye; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now,\" observed\nDalton--and the joke appeared to him so good that, being left alone upon\nthe scene, he continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouth\nin order to wink at an imaginary audience and shake luxuriously with\na silent, ventral laughter, mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the\nbeginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' hall.\n\nWhen Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it was\ninevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in the\nday should flash across his mind; but it was impossible for him now\nto dwell on the remembrance--impossible to recall the feelings and\nreflections which had been decisive with him then, any more than to\nrecall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when he\nfirst opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an\nill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the force with which this\ntrivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous as he\nbrushed his hair--pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was\nbecause he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of\nit as if it were of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing\nHetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was all\nIrwine's fault. \"If Irwine had said nothing, I shouldn't have thought\nhalf so much of Hetty as of Meg's lameness.\" However, it was just the\nsort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he would go and finish\nDr. Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree\nGrove--the way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm.\nSo nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a mere\ncircumstance of his walk, not its object.\n\nArthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chase\nthan might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warm\nafternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when he stood before\nthe tall narrow gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood which\nskirted one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, not\nbecause the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a wood\nof beeches and limes, with here and there a light silver-stemmed\nbirch--just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs: you see their\nwhite sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behind\nthe smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid\nlaughter--but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they\nvanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that their\nvoice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose themselves\ninto a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from the topmost\nbough. It was not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for you\nto tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged with\nfaint dashes of delicate moss--paths which look as if they were made\nby the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside to\nlook at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs.\n\nIt was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed,\nunder an avenue of limes and beeches. It was a still afternoon--the\ngolden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only\nglancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge of\nfaintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold\nawful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy\nwings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled along\ncarelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on the ground\nas meditative men are apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on the\ndistant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appear\nbefore long. Ah! There she comes. First a bright patch of colour, like\na tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a round\nhat on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almost\nfrightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a fluttered\nyet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had time\nto think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feel\nfluttered too, be conscious of blushing too--in fact, look and feel as\nfoolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what\nhe expected. Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden age\nof childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each other\nwith timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss,\nand toddled off to play together. Arthur would have gone home to his\nsilk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow, and both would\nhave slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardly\nconscious of a yesterday.\n\nArthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side without giving a reason.\nThey were alone together for the first time. What an overpowering\npresence that first privacy is! He actually dared not look at this\nlittle butter-maker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet\nrested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs; she had\nforgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of her\nlimbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting\non a liquid bed and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams. It may seem a\ncontradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and confidence\nfrom his timidity: it was an entirely different state of mind from what\nhe had expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was of\nvague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the\nthought that his previous debates and scruples were needless.\n\n\"You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase,\" he\nsaid at last, looking down at Hetty; \"it is so much prettier as well as\nshorter than coming by either of the lodges.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice.\nShe didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr. Arthur, and\nher very vanity made her more coy of speech.\n\n\"Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with Miss\nDonnithorne.\"\n\n\"And she's teaching you something, is she?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the\nstocking-mending--it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell it's\nbeen mended; and she teaches me cutting-out too.\"\n\n\"What! are YOU going to be a lady's maid?\"\n\n\"I should like to be one very much indeed.\" Hetty spoke more audibly\nnow, but still rather tremulously; she thought, perhaps she seemed as\nstupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her.\n\n\"I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?\"\n\n\"She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because my aunt\ncouldn't spare me; but the regular time is four, because that gives us\ntime before Miss Donnithorne's bell rings.\"\n\n\"Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you the\nHermitage. Did you ever see it?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I'll\nshow it you some other time, if you'd like to see it.\"\n\n\"Yes, please, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you afraid to\ncome so lonely a road?\"\n\n\"Oh no, sir, it's never late; I always set out by eight o'clock, and\nit's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if I\ndidn't get home before nine.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?\"\n\nA deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. \"I'm sure he doesn't;\nI'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him; I don't like him,\" she said\nhastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast that before she had\ndone speaking a bright drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she felt\nashamed to death that she was crying, and for one long instant her\nhappiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her,\nand a gentle voice said, \"Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn't mean\nto vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come,\ndon't cry; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me.\"\n\nArthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, and\nwas stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted\nher long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with a\nsweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three moments\nwere while their eyes met and his arms touched her! Love is such a\nsimple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a sweet girl\nof seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud first\nopening her heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such young\nunfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches that\ntouch softly and are at rest; they mingle as easily as two brooklets\nthat ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with\never-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur\ngazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to him\nwhat sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops and powder had been\nin fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then that\nHetty wanted those signs of high breeding.\n\nBut they started asunder with beating hearts: something had fallen on\nthe ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty's basket; all her little\nworkwoman's matters were scattered on the path, some of them showing\na capability of rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done in\npicking up, and not a word was spoken; but when Arthur hung the basket\nover her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his look\nand manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tone\nthat were almost chilling to her, \"I have been hindering you; I must not\nkeep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye.\"\n\nWithout waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurried\nback towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursue\nher way in a strange dream that seemed to have begun in bewildering\ndelight and was now passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would he\nmeet her again as she came home? Why had he spoken almost as if he were\ndispleased with her? And then run away so suddenly? She cried, hardly\nknowing why.\n\nArthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by a\nmore distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood in\nthe heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammed\nit after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant corner, and thrusting\nhis right hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up and\ndown the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself on\nthe ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish\nnot to abandon ourselves to feeling.\n\nHe was getting in love with Hetty--that was quite plain. He was ready\nto pitch everything else--no matter where--for the sake of surrendering\nhimself to this delicious feeling which had just disclosed itself. It\nwas no use blinking the fact now--they would get too fond of each other,\nif he went on taking notice of her--and what would come of it? He should\nhave to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would be\nmiserable. He MUST NOT see her alone again; he must keep out of her way.\nWhat a fool he was for coming back from Gawaine's!\n\nHe got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of the\nafternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round the\nHermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as he leaned out\nand looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolution\nsufficiently fixed: there was no need to debate with himself any longer.\nHe had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he might\ngive himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would be if\ncircumstances were different--how pleasant it would have been to meet\nher this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again and\nlook into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little thing were\nthinking of him too--twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes were\nwith the tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for a\nday with looking at them, and he MUST see her again--he must see her,\nsimply to remove any false impression from her mind about his manner\nto her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her--just to\nprevent her from going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes,\nthat would be the best thing to do after all.\n\nIt was a long while--more than an hour before Arthur had brought his\nmeditations to this point; but once arrived there, he could stay no\nlonger at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement until\nhe should see Hetty again. And it was already late enough to go and\ndress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six.\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\n\nEvening in the Wood\n\n\nIT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs.\nBest, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning--a fact which had two\nconsequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have\ntea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's maid\nwith so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best's conduct,\nand of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as an\ninterlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence\nof mind than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in an\noccasional \"yes\" or \"no.\" She would have wanted to put on her hat\nearlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she\nusually set out about eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD go to the Grove\nagain expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Her\nlittle butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious\nexpectation. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-faced\ntimepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reason\nfor its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret's\npreoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked like a\nnew flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before\nthe looking-glass.\n\n\"That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe,\" was her\ninward comment. \"The more's the pity. She'll get neither a place nor\na husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don't like such\npretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had been\nso very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teaching\nher something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. They\nalways told me I was good-natured--and that's the truth, and to my hurt\ntoo, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lord\nit over me in the housekeeper's room.\"\n\nHetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which she\nhad to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardly\nhave spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely under\nthe oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready to\nbe startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She thought\nnothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleys\nbetween the fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visible\nthan it had been in the overpowering flood of noon: she thought of\nnothing that was present. She only saw something that was possible: Mr.\nArthur Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove.\nThat was the foreground of Hetty's picture; behind it lay a bright hazy\nsomething--days that were not to be as the other days of her life had\nbeen. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might any\ntime take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was no\nknowing what would come, since this strange entrancing delight had come.\nIf a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some\nunknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot was\ngoing to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joy\nwould befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if she had ever seen\none, I think the words would have been too hard for her; how then could\nshe find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as the\nsweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past\nher as she walked by the gate.\n\nShe is at another gate now--that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She enters\nthe wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, the\nfear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how dreary\nit was--the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into the\nunsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turning\ntowards the Hermitage, walking slowly--he is not there. She hates the\nleveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is not what\nshe longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in\nthe road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: her\nheart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one great\nsob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down.\n\nShe doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that\nshe is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yards\nfrom her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the\nobject. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which has\nbeen growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not,\nof course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly\nfallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness\nwhich would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from\nrunning away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.\n\nIf Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it would\nhave been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely\nas he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end\nof the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling\ndown her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft,\nsoothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her\nfoot?\n\n\"Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the\nwood? Don't be frightened--I'll take care of you now.\"\n\nHetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or\nmiserable. To be crying again--what did gentlemen think of girls who\ncried in that way? She felt unable even to say \"no,\" but could only look\naway from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop\nhad fallen on her rose-coloured strings--she knew that quite well.\n\n\"Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter.\nCome, tell me.\"\n\nHetty turned her head towards him, whispered, \"I thought you wouldn't\ncome,\" and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was too\nmuch: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly\nin return.\n\n\"You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won't\ncry again, now I'm with you, will you?\"\n\nAh, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not what\nhe meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it is\ntightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the\nround cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a\nlong moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught\nhe knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be\nEros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche--it is all one.\n\nThere was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating\nhearts till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood.\nThen they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for\nin their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.\n\nBut already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the\nfountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his arm\nfrom Hetty's waist, and said, \"Here we are, almost at the end of the\nGrove. I wonder how late it is,\" he added, pulling out his watch.\n\"Twenty minutes past eight--but my watch is too fast. However, I'd\nbetter not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet,\nand get home safely. Good-bye.\"\n\nHe took her hand, and looked at her half-sadly, half with a constrained\nsmile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but he\npatted her cheek and said \"Good-bye\" again. She was obliged to turn away\nfrom him and go on.\n\nAs for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put\na wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage\nagain; he remembered how he had debated with himself there before\ndinner, and it had all come to nothing--worse than nothing. He walked\nright on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was\nhaunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes--there was\nsomething enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knotted\nold oaks had no bending languor in them--the sight of them would give\na man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in\nthe fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilight\ndeepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked\nblack as it darted across his path.\n\nHe was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it\nwas as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute\nhis mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He\nno sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way to\nthe emotions which had stolen over him to-day--of continuing to notice\nHetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as\nhe had been betrayed into already--than he refused to believe such a\nfuture possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very different\naffair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that was\nunderstood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious,\nthere was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spoken\nill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and then\nthose excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious\nas if they had the best blood in the land in their veins--he should hate\nhimself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be\nhis own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be\nrespected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own\nesteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches all\nthe rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position; it\nwas too odious, too unlike him.\n\nAnd even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of\neach other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting,\nafter all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece.\nThere must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish.\n\nAnd yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went to\nGawaine's; and while he was there something had taken hold of him and\nmade him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his own\nresolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm would\nget painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort\nit would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse\nmight seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there was\nnothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong day. What could\nhe do to secure himself from any more of this folly?\n\nThere was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine--tell him\neverything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; the\ntemptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one\nrepeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tell\nIrwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfast\nto-morrow.\n\nArthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think\nwhich of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither\nas he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tire\nhim, and there was no more need for him to think.\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\n\nThe Return Home\n\n\nWHILE that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the\ncottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining her\naged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the\nopposite slope.\n\n\"Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her,\" she said to Adam, as they turned\ninto the house again. \"I'd ha' been willin' t' ha' her about me till\nI died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it easier dyin'--she\nspakes so gentle an' moves about so still. I could be fast sure that\npictur' was drawed for her i' thy new Bible--th' angel a-sittin' on the\nbig stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in a daughter like that;\nbut nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught.\"\n\n\"Well, Mother, I hope thee WILT have her for a daughter; for Seth's got\na liking for her, and I hope she'll get a liking for Seth in time.\"\n\n\"Where's th' use o' talkin' a-that'n? She caresna for Seth. She's goin'\naway twenty mile aff. How's she to get a likin' for him, I'd like to\nknow? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out the leaven. Thy figurin'\nbooks might ha' tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee\nmightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother,\" said Adam, laughing, \"the figures tell us a fine deal,\nand we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't tell us about folks's\nfeelings. It's a nicer job to calculate THEM. But Seth's as good-hearted\na lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and good-looking too;\nand he's got the same way o' thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her,\nthough there's no denying she's a rare bit o' workmanship. You don't see\nsuch women turned off the wheel every day.\"\n\n\"Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just the\nsame, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays for halving\niverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with marryin', as is on'y\nthree-an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by sixpence. An' as\nfor his desarving her--she's two 'ear older nor Seth: she's pretty\nnear as old as thee. But that's the way; folks mun allays choose by\ncontrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork--a bit o' good meat\nwi' a bit o' offal.\"\n\nTo the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might be\nreceive a temporary charm from comparison with what is; and since Adam\ndid not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that\nscore--as peevish as she would have been if he HAD wanted to marry\nher, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership as\neffectually as by marrying Hetty.\n\nIt was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talking\nin this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached the\nturning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and\nSeth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them to\ncome up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their\nwalk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to\nSeth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and\nshook hands; Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone.\n\n\"Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear,\" she said, as she\nreached Hetty, \"but he's very full of trouble to-night.\"\n\nHetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what\nhad been said; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling\nself-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm pitying face, with\nits open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets\nof its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with all the world.\nHetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how was it\npossible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for\nher when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take\nTotty off her hands--little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of\nby every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinah\nhad never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during her\nwhole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great deal in a\nserious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for she never listened:\nwhatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's cheek after\nit, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her;\nHetty looked at her much in the same way as one might imagine a little\nperching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look at\nthe swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did not\ncare to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was\nmeant by the pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folio\nBible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday.\n\nDinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm.\n\n\"You look very happy to-night, dear child,\" she said. \"I shall think of\nyou often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is\nnow. It's a strange thing--sometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting in\nmy room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I've\nseen and known, if it's only been for a few days, are brought before me,\nand I hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer than\nI ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. And\nthen my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as if\nit was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and\nresting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel\nsure you will come before me.\"\n\nShe paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing.\n\n\"It has been a very precious time to me,\" Dinah went on, \"last night\nand to-day--seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so\ntender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling\nme what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his\nbrother; it's wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has,\nand how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And\nI'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among my\nown people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often the\ngentlest to the women and children; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying\nthe little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the\nbabies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be\nso with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while\nin the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was\nassenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would\nnot have been time to say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate.\n\nThe still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint\nstruggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a sound\nto be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was\nabout twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost,\nand the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with\nthe black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling-to of the gate\ndisturbed them and set them barking, like good officials, before they\nhad any distinct knowledge of the reason.\n\nThe barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty\napproached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddy\nblack-eyed face which bore in it the possibility of looking extremely\nacute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days, but had now a\npredominant after-supper expression of hearty good-nature. It is well\nknown that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in\ntheir criticism of other men's scholarship have yet been of a relenting\nand indulgent temper in private life; and I have heard of a learned man\nmeekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with\nhis right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who\nhad betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must\nbe forgiven--alas! they are not alien to us--but the man who takes the\nwrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated\nas the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixture\nin Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a disposition that he had been\nkinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he had made\na deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neighbours\nmore charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke\nBritton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't\nknow the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small share\nof judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hard\nand implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make a\nremark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint\nof that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his\nfarming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to\nhis mouth in the bar of the Royal George on market-day, and the mere\nsight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critical\nexpression into his black eyes, as different as possible from the\nfatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door.\nMr. Poyser had smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his\npockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up after the\nday's business is done.\n\n\"Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night,\" he said, when they reached\nthe little gate leading into the causeway. \"The mother's begun to fidget\nabout you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave the\nold woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He'd been but\na poor bargain to her this five year.\"\n\n\"She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him,\" said Dinah, \"but\nshe's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day,\nworking at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She's\nbeen talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart,\nthough she's sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer\ntrust to comfort her in her old age.\"\n\n\"Adam's sure enough,\" said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's wish.\n\"There's no fear but he'll yield well i' the threshing. He's not one\no' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as\nhe'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us\nsoon? But come in, come in,\" he added, making way for them; \"I hadn't\nneed keep y' out any longer.\"\n\nThe tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky,\nbut the large window let in abundant light to show every corner of the\nhouse-place.\n\nMrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of\nthe \"right-hand parlour,\" was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty\nwas not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raised\nherself up and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than\never now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap.\n\nIn the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat\nold Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly\nblack-haired son--his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows\npushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the\narm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as\nwas usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he sat\nwatching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old\nage, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out\npins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant\npurposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the\nsun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even\nthe hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the\ntick.\n\n\"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!\" said Mrs. Poyser.\n\"Look at the clock, do; why, it's going on for half-past nine, and I've\nsent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too; when they've\ngot to get up at half after four, and the mowers' bottles to fill, and\nthe baking; and here's this blessed child wi' the fever for what I know,\nand as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give\nher the physic but your uncle, and fine work there's been, and half of\nit spilt on her night-gown--it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ull\nmake her worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use\nhave allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be\ndone.\"\n\n\"I did set out before eight, aunt,\" said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with\na slight toss of her head. \"But this clock's so much before the clock at\nthe Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when I get here.\"\n\n\"What! You'd be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks's time, would you?\nAn' sit up burnin' candle, an' lie a-bed wi' the sun a-bakin' you like a\ncowcumber i' the frame? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the first\ntime to-day, I reckon.\"\n\nThe fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clocks\nwhen she told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at eight, and this,\nwith her lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later than\nusual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted from this tender\nsubject by Totty, who, perceiving at length that the arrival of\nher cousins was not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in\nparticular, began to cry, \"Munny, munny,\" in an explosive manner.\n\n\"Well, then, my pet, Mother's got her, Mother won't leave her; Totty be\na good dilling, and go to sleep now,\" said Mrs. Poyser, leaning back and\nrocking the chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her.\nBut Totty only cried louder, and said, \"Don't yock!\" So the mother, with\nthat wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest temperament, sat\nup again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap and kissed\nit, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer.\n\n\"Come, Hetty,\" said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, \"go and get\nyour supper i' the pantry, as the things are all put away; an' then you\ncan come and take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, for\nshe won't lie down in bed without her mother. An' I reckon YOU could eat\na bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a house down there.\"\n\n\"No, thank you, Uncle,\" said Dinah; \"I ate a good meal before I came\naway, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake for me.\"\n\n\"I don't want any supper,\" said Hetty, taking off her hat. \"I can hold\nTotty now, if Aunt wants me.\"\n\n\"Why, what nonsense that is to talk!\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"Do you think\nyou can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' red\nribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this minute, child; there's\na nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe--just what you're fond of.\"\n\nHetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyser\nwent on speaking to Dinah.\n\n\"Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to make\nyourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman was\nglad to see you, since you stayed so long.\"\n\n\"She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say she\ndoesn't like young women about her commonly; and I thought just at first\nshe was almost angry with me for going.\"\n\n\"Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould folks doesna like the young\nuns,\" said old Martin, bending his head down lower, and seeming to trace\nthe pattern of the quarries with his eye.\n\n\"Aye, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas,\"\nsaid Mrs. Poyser. \"We've all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be't\ngood luck or ill.\"\n\n\"But she must learn to 'commodate herself to young women,\" said Mr.\nPoyser, \"for it isn't to be counted on as Adam and Seth 'ull keep\nbachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud be\nunreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain\nall o' their own side. What's good for one's good all round i' the\nlong run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they know the\ndifference atween a crab an' a apple; but they may wait o'er long.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" said Mrs. Poyser; \"if you go past your dinner-time,\nthere'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi'\nyour fork, an' don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, an'\nthe faut's all i' your own stomach.\"\n\nHetty now came back from the pantry and said, \"I can take Totty now,\nAunt, if you like.\"\n\n\"Come, Rachel,\" said Mr. Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing\nthat Totty was at last nestling quietly, \"thee'dst better let Hetty\ncarry her upstairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It's\ntime thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the pain in thy side again.\"\n\n\"Well, she may hold her if the child 'ull go to her,\" said Mrs. Poyser.\n\nHetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual\nsmile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for her\naunt to give the child into her hands.\n\n\"Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go to\nbed? Then Totty shall go into Mother's bed, and sleep there all night.\"\n\nBefore her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in\nan unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teeth\nagainst her underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm with\nher utmost force. Then, without speaking, she nestled to her mother\nagain.\n\n\"Hey, hey,\" said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, \"not go\nto Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby. Totty's a little woman, an' not a\nbabby.\"\n\n\"It's no use trying to persuade her,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"She allays\ntakes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah.\"\n\nDinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly\nseated in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and\nwhat was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came forward, and,\nputting out her arms, said, \"Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her\nupstairs along with Mother: poor, poor Mother! she's so tired--she wants\nto go to bed.\"\n\nTotty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then\nlifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her from\nher mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill humour,\nand, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air of\nindifference, to see if she should be told to do anything else.\n\n\"You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick's been come in this long\nwhile,\" said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief from\nher low chair. \"Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the\nrushlight burning i' my room. Come, Father.\"\n\nThe heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin\nprepared to move, by gathering up his blue handkerchief, and reaching\nhis bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser then\nled the way out of the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah\nwith Totty in her arms--all going to bed by twilight, like the birds.\nMrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her two boys lay;\njust to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a\nmoment their light regular breathing.\n\n\"Come, Hetty, get to bed,\" said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing tone, as\nhe himself turned to go upstairs. \"You didna mean to be late, I'll\nbe bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench,\ngood-night.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XV\n\nThe Two Bed-Chambers\n\n\nHETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each\nother, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light,\nwhich was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of\nthe moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and\nundress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the\nold painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could\nsee the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see\na reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as\ndistinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair\nand put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an\nill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered\na handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the\nPoyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel\nhousehold furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for\nit: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firm\nmahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided\njerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners,\nwithout giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a\nbrass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic\nair to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous\ndim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove,\nand because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed\nin an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of\nher head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a\nlow chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no\ndressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most\nawkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass\nhandles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at\nall comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences\nto prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this\nevening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual.\n\nHaving taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the\nlarge pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of\nthe lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax\ncandle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the two\nbrass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the\ncandles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass,\nwithout blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look\nfirst after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her\nhead on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush\nand comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair,\nand make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia\nDonnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine\ncurves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling\nhair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate\nrings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form\na dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put\ndown her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before\nher, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help\nsending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays\nwere not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generally\nwear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture.\n\nOh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier\nthan anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she had\never seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies were\nrather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's\ndaughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at\nherself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever\nfelt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her\nlike morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over\nagain those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round\nher, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The\nvainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she\nis loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return.\n\nBut Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting,\nfor she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the\nlinen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer from\nwhich she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents,\nbut it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off the\nwhiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings\nshe had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her\nears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass\nand gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked\njust as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with\nthe large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round\nher shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettier\ndown to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, and\ndimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought with\nvexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that\nladies never did.\n\nCaptain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like\nto see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhaps\nwith silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one else\nhad ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want\nto marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shape\nthe thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr.\nJames, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody\never found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to\nbe angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing.\nShe didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire\ncould never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with\nawe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been\nearth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he\nhad been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whom\neverybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would\nbe! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and\ncould have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And\nnothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should be\na grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded\nsilk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like\nMiss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room\none evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby;\nonly she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same\nthickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a\ngreat many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes\nin a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge and\neverybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather,\nthey would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things\nhappening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this\nsplendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the\nlittle red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with\na bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision\nto care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace\nwith a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room,\nin her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf\nround her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears.\n\nHow pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the\neasiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such a\nsweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark\nrings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her great\ndark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an\nimprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them.\n\nAh, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the\nmen envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on\nhis arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round,\nsoft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just\nas free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes\nwrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he\nlikes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the little\ndarling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he\nwouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and\nmovements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise.\nEvery man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great\nphysiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she\nuses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the\nlanguage. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those\nexquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as\npetals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the\ndark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her\nchildren! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round\nthings will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and\nthe husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses,\nto withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet\nwife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage\nsuch as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and\nmajestic and the women all lovely and loving.\n\nIt was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about\nHetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she\nbehaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only\nbecause she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love,\nwhenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could\npossess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration,\npray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of\nany pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breaking\ndemonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has\nbewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of\nthe stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it.\n\nArthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so\nfar as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was a\ndear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering\ntremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and\nif he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself\nbeing virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly\nfond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenient\narrangement in case of sickness.\n\nAfter all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way\nsometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they\ndeserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but we\ndon't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty\nreading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning.\nLong dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find it\nimpossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with\na long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that\nthey may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, in\nthe reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has\nbeen a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length\nthat there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; or\nelse, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's\ngrandmother, which is on the whole less important to us.\n\nNo eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while she\nwalks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down on\nher shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to\nperfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that\nher narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of every\npicture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorne\nis very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her,\nand everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge,\nwhose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's\nresplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this\ndream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of the\nchildren she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any pet\nanimal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some\nplants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their native\nnook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot,\nand they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life\nbehind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had\nno feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's\nLadder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other\nflowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to\ncare about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--she\nhardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without\nbeing told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a\nbetter opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty\ndid not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people.\nAnd as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had\nbeen the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that will\ncome teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the\neldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children\nborn before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after\nthe other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on\nwet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were\nout of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than\neither of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about\nher. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty\nwould have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again;\nthey were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always\nbringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambs\nWERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys,\nHetty would have hated the very word \"hatching,\" if her aunt had not\nbribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds\nof one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under\ntheir mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was\nnot the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the\nprettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston\nFair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled,\nso charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the\nhen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to\nsuspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose\nand a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs.\nPoyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid\nface showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown\nearthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it.\n\nIt is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies\nhidden under the \"dear deceit\" of beauty, so it is not surprising that\nMrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation,\nshould have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected\nfrom Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had\nsometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband.\n\n\"She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and\nspread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was\ndying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even\nwhen we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear\ncherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an'\ncrying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never\nminded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child\never since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a\npebble.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them\nyoung gells are like the unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by,\nbut they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's\ngot a good husband and children of her own.\"\n\n\"I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her\nown, and can be useful enough when she likes and I should miss her wi'\nthe butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive\nto do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taught\nher everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often\nenough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin'\npain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd\nneed have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's\nlike having roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one,\nanother's burnin'.\"\n\nHetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal\nfrom her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a\nsacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery\nwhich Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with\nshame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door,\nand seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked\nin her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always\nbolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was\nwell: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart,\nrushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared\nnot stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and let\nit fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how\nit was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time\nand return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her\nmother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's.\n\nDinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that\ntall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of\nthe wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she\ncould place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her\nroom was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peaceful\nfields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow\nelms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying,\nand next to that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in\nsilvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be\nonly one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a\nlong time to come; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene,\nfor, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms. She thought of all\nthe dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful\nfields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for\never. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie\nbefore them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away\nfrom them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure\nof this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding\nstillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might\nfeel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more\ntender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's\nmode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feel\nherself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, her\nyearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm\nocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed\non her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten\nminutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something\nfalling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a\nstate of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud\nand startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted\nit rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she\nreflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting\ninto bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions\nof this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweet\nyoung thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn daily\nduties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all,\nbent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging\nits toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will\nhave to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a\ndouble care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his\nbrother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did not\nlove Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of\nany warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of\nher behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man\nshe would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature,\ninstead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper\npity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a\npure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent\ndivine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow\nwith which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more\ngrievous to behold than in a common pot-herb.\n\nBy the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling\nabout Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination had\ncreated a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor\nthing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and\nfinding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy\nacted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a\ndeep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender\nwarning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was\nalready asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some\nslight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still\nshe hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; the\nvoice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other\nvoice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an\nunseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately.\nDinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those\ninward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible,\nto discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She\nknew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she\nopened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It\nwas a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it\nsideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then\nopened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those\nat the top of the left-hand page: \"And they all wept sore, and fell on\nPaul's neck and kissed him.\" That was enough for Dinah; she had opened\non that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open\nhis heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer,\nbut, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know\nshe had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw\noff her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was opened\nimmediately. Dinah said, \"Will you let me come in, Hetty?\" and Hetty,\nwithout speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider\nand let her in.\n\nWhat a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that\nmingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes\nglistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare,\nher hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her\nears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of\nsubdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has\nreturned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were\nnearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she\nput her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead.\n\n\"I knew you were not in bed, my dear,\" she said, in her sweet clear\nvoice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish\nvexation like music with jangling chains, \"for I heard you moving; and I\nlonged to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that\nI shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us\napart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second\nchair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her\near-rings.\n\nDinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before\ntwisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which\nbelongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's\neyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details.\n\n\"Dear Hetty,\" she said, \"It has been borne in upon my mind to-night that\nyou may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all here\nbelow, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than\nthe things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you\nare in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love\nyou, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you\ncome to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the\nwords she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty, rather frightened. \"But why should you think I shall\nbe in trouble? Do you know of anything?\"\n\nHetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned\nforwards and took her hands as she answered, \"Because, dear, trouble\ncomes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn't\nGod's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we love\nare taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with\nus; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies;\nwe go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our\nfellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some\nof these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen\nto you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek\nfor strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support\nwhich will not fail you in the evil day.\"\n\nDinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her.\nHetty sat quite still; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's\nanxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn pathetic\ndistinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away\nalmost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seeking\nnature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and\nher tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of\na vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to\ncry.\n\nIt is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand\nthe higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But\nI think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn\nthe art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises\nand gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying\nour space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this\nway before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it\nwas the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and\nbegan to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that\nexcitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the\nfeelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she\nbecame irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently,\nand said, with a childish sobbing voice, \"Don't talk to me so, Dinah.\nWhy do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why\ncan't you let me be?\"\n\nPoor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said\nmildly, \"Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Make\nhaste and get into bed. Good-night.\"\n\nShe went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had\nbeen a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on\nher knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that\nfilled her heart.\n\nAs for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams being\nmerged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused.\n\n\n\nChapter XVI\n\nLinks\n\n\nARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you remember, is under an engagement with himself to\ngo and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing\nso early that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after.\nThe rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of\nthe family having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an early\nride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything best\nover a meal.\n\nThe progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner an\neasy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable\nceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father\nconfessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly\nconscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in\nan enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an\nappetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous\ntimes would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is\nquite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request for\na loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and third\nglasses of claret.\n\nStill, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they\ncommitted you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed:\nwhen you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall and\nare aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more\nlikely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if you\nwere seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany with\na companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothing\nparticular to say.\n\nHowever, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on\nhorseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to open\nhis heart to the rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he\npasses by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this honest\npurpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for\ngetting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and there\nis something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general and\nnot merely personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts on\nhis state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man\nabout town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to be\nfelt out of a child's story-book; but when you are among the fields\nand hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to\nsimple natural pleasures.\n\nArthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching the\nBroxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a\nfigure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to\nmistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey,\ntailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usual\nrapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he\nretained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity\nof chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow\ndid not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: our friend\nArthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his\nhandsome deeds recognized.\n\nAdam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse's\nheels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his head\nwith a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam\nwould have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man\nin the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lost\nthan the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it was\nArthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-haired\nlad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam's lessons in\ncarpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house with\ngifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a\npride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had\nonly become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into\nthe whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the\ninfluence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to\nevery one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher\nor a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever\ncarpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclined\nhim to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for\nquestioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights,\nbut he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with\nill-seasoned timber--by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for\nouthouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of\nthings--by slovenly joiners' work, and by hasty contracts that could\nnever be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for his\npart, to set his face against such doings. On these points he would\nhave maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor in\nLoamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these it would\nbe better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself.\nHe saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were\nmanaged, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old Squire\nDonnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would\nhave spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a\nrespectful demeanour towards a \"gentleman\" would have been strong within\nhim all the while. The word \"gentleman\" had a spell for Adam, and, as he\noften said, he \"couldn't abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine\nby being coxy to's betters.\" I must remind you again that Adam had the\nblood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime\nhalf a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be\nobsolete.\n\nTowards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam's was\nassisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine that\nhe thought far more of Arthur's good qualities, and attached far more\nvalue to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities\nand actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be\na fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into\nthe estate--such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an\n\"uncommon\" notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was\nonly just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in\nthe smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode\nup.\n\n\"Well, Adam, how are you?\" said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never\nshook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. \"I\ncould swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back, only\nbroader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?\"\n\n\"Aye, sir, I remember. It 'ud be a poor look-out if folks didn't\nremember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no\nmore about old friends than we do about new uns, then.\"\n\n\"You're going to Broxton, I suppose?\" said Arthur, putting his horse\non at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. \"Are you going to the\nrectory?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I'm going to see about Bradwell's barn. They're afraid of the\nroof pushing the walls out, and I'm going to see what can be done with\nit before we send the stuff and the workmen.\"\n\n\"Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? I\nshould think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he's wise.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, I don't see as he'd be much the better off for that. A\nforeman, if he's got a conscience and delights in his work, will do his\nbusiness as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn't give a penny for\na man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he didn't get extra pay for\nit.\"\n\n\"I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you were\nworking for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now,\nand could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man must\ngive up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he'll want a\nson-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his\nown, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into the\nbusiness. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some\nmoney in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I'm\nsure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off\nin a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age; and\nwhen I've paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me.\"\n\n\"You're very good to say so, sir, and I'm not unthankful. But\"--Adam\ncontinued, in a decided tone--\"I shouldn't like to make any offers\nto Mr. Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to a\npartnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that 'ud\nbe a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest\nthen, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time.\"\n\n\"Very well, Adam,\" said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had said\nabout a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge,\n\"we'll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be\nburied?\"\n\n\"On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine's coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad\nwhen it's over, for I think my mother 'ull perhaps get easier then. It\ncuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working\nit off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered\ntree.\"\n\n\"Ah, you've had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam.\nI don't think you've ever been hare-brained and light-hearted, like\nother youngsters. You've always had some care on your mind.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, sir; but that's nothing to make a fuss about. If we're men\nand have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can't\nbe like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got their\nwings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lot\nevery year. I've had enough to be thankful for: I've allays had health\nand strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it\na great thing as I've had Bartle Massey's night-school to go to. He's\nhelped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by myself.\"\n\n\"What a rare fellow you are, Adam!\" said Arthur, after a pause, in which\nhe had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. \"I could\nhit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you would\nknock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you.\"\n\n\"God forbid I should ever do that, sir,\" said Adam, looking round at\nArthur and smiling. \"I used to fight for fun, but I've never done that\nsince I was the cause o' poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight.\nI'll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel.\nIf you get hold of a chap that's got no shame nor conscience to stop\nhim, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up.\"\n\nArthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that\nmade him say presently, \"I should think now, Adam, you never have any\nstruggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had\nmade up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you\nwould knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean,\nyou are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won't do\na thing, and then doing it after all?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Adam, slowly, after a moment's hesitation, \"no. I don't\nremember ever being see-saw in that way, when I'd made my mind up, as\nyou say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o' my mouth for\nthings, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after 'em. I've\nseen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never\ndo what's wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever\nsee. It's like a bit o' bad workmanship--you never see th' end o' the\nmischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to\nmake your fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better. But there's a\ndifference between the things folks call wrong. I'm not for making a\nsin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be let\ninto, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether\nit isn't worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun.\nBut it isn't my way to be see-saw about anything: I think my fault lies\nth' other way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hard\nfor me to go back.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's just what I expected of you,\" said Arthur. \"You've got an\niron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolution\nmay be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may\ndetermine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our\npockets, but we can't prevent our mouths from watering.\"\n\n\"That's true, sir, but there's nothing like settling with ourselves as\nthere's a deal we must do without i' this life. It's no use looking on\nlife as if it was Treddles'on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and\nget fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where's the use\no' me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do.\"\n\n\"I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had four or five years of\nexperience more than I've had, and I think your life has been a better\nschool to you than college has been to me.\"\n\n\"Why, sir, you seem to think o' college something like what Bartle\nMassey does. He says college mostly makes people like bladders--just\ngood for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he's\ngot a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has--it never touches anything\nbut it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as\nyou're going to the rectory.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.\"\n\nArthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked along\nthe gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the\nrector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left\nhand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room,\nbelonging to the old part of the house--dark with the sombre covers of\nthe books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this morning\nas Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant on\nthe great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola\npillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by the\nside of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room\nenticing. In the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with that\nradiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morning\ntoilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno's\nbrown curly back; and close to Juno's tail, which was wagging with calm\nmatronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an\necstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat\nPug, with the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities\nas animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of\nobserving. On the table, at Mr. Irwine's elbow, lay the first volume of\nthe Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silver\ncoffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam\nwhich completed the delights of a bachelor breakfast.\n\n\"Hallo, Arthur, that's a good fellow! You're just in time,\" said Mr.\nIrwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill.\n\"Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven't you got some\ncold fowl for us to eat with that ham? Why, this is like old days,\nArthur; you haven't been to breakfast with me these five years.\"\n\n\"It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast,\" said Arthur;\n\"and I used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading with\nyou. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at\nany other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn't agree with\nhim.\"\n\nArthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose.\nHe had no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine's presence than the\nconfidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared\nthe most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of\nshaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make\nIrwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenes\nin the wood; and how could he tell them without looking like a fool?\nAnd then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine's, and doing the very\nopposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a shilly-shally\nfellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way;\nthe conversation might lead up to it.\n\n\"I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day,\" said\nMr. Irwine. \"No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a\nclear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by\nme at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that\nregularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become\nstudious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has\nkilled a hare, and when I've got through my 'justicing,' as Carroll\ncalls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back\nI meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a\nmutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I'm always the\nsame lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the\nstimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D'Oyley left\nTreddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should\nhave had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn't run in\nyour family blood.\"\n\n\"No indeed. It's well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to\nadorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. 'Cras\ningens iterabimus aequor,' and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps\nstick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them.\nBut I don't think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to\na country gentleman; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a\nknowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's books\nlately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out some\nof his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their\nland; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same\ndark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather\nwill never let me have any power while he lives, but there's nothing\nI should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the\nestate--it's in a dismal condition--and set improvements on foot, and\ngallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I should like\nto know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats to me with a\nlook of goodwill.\"\n\n\"Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn't\nmake a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing\nthe quantity of food to maintain scholars--and rectors who appreciate\nscholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may\nI be there to see. You'll want a portly rector to complete the picture,\nand take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard\nwork. Only don't set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to\nget in consequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those who\ntry to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the\nwhole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make\nit quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old\nboy--popularity or usefulness--else you may happen to miss both.\"\n\n\"Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn't make himself personally\nagreeable to his tenants. I don't believe there's anything you can't\nprevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live in\na neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved. And it's very\npleasant to go among the tenants here--they seem all so well inclined\nto me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a little\nlad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances\nwere made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade\nthem to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.\"\n\n\"Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don't get a wife who\nwill drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. My\nmother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says, 'I'll\nnever risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls\nin love with.' She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules\nthe tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know,\nand I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don't\ndisgrace my judgment.\"\n\nArthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine's opinion\nabout him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be\nsure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and\ngetting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this\npoint in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination\nto tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and\nlived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerning\nhimself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate\nfriend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such\nserious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own\nbelief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a\nthing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he\ncould not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg's\nlameness--go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the\nold hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the\nnext minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how\nthoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He\nwould not be vacillating again--he WOULD do what he had meant to do,\nthis time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the\nconversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics,\nhis difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause\nfor this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, \"But I think\nit is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of character\nthat he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution\ndoesn't insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable\ndiseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a\nsort of witchery from a woman.\"\n\n\"Yes; but there's this difference between love and smallpox, or\nbewitchment either--that if you detect the disease at an early stage and\ntry change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any\nfurther development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative doses\nwhich a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences\nbefore his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through which\nyou may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline;\nthough I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing just\nat the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified\nwith a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent\nmarriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the\nPrometheus.\"\n\nThe smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and instead\nof following Mr. Irwine's playful lead, he said, quite seriously--\"Yes,\nthat's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that after\nall one's reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by\nmoods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I don't think a man ought\nto be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in\nspite of his resolutions.\"\n\n\"Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his\nreflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with\nhis own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional\naction; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any\nparticular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we\ncarry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.\"\n\n\"Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of\ncircumstances, which one might never have done otherwise.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, a man can't very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-note\nlies within convenient reach; but he won't make us think him an honest\nman because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way.\"\n\n\"But surely you don't think a man who struggles against a temptation\ninto which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles at\nall?\"\n\n\"No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they\nforeshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis.\nConsequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences,\nquite apart from any fluctuations that went before--consequences that\nare hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds\non that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of\nexcuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion,\nArthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are considering in this\nphilosophical, general way?\"\n\nIn asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself\nback in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspected\nthat Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing\nthe way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken. Brought\nsuddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank\nback and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had\ntaken a more serious tone than he had intended--it would quite mislead\nIrwine--he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there\nwas no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his\nboyishness.\n\n\"Oh no, no danger,\" he said as indifferently as he could. \"I don't know\nthat I am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there are\nlittle incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might\nhappen in the future.\"\n\nWas there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur's\nwhich had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Our\nmental business is carried on much in the same way as the business\nof the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not\nacknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a\nsmall unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of\nthe large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agent\nsecretly busy in Arthur's mind at this moment--possibly it was the fear\nlest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the\nrector a serious annoyance, in case he should NOT be able quite to carry\nout his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. The\nhuman soul is a very complex thing.\n\nThe idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine's mind as he looked\ninquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmed\nthe thought which had quickly followed--that there could be nothing\nserious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw\nher except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser;\nand the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more\nserious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the\nlittle chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her\nlife. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away: no, there\ncould be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur's character had not\nbeen a strong security against it. His honest, patronizing pride in\nthe good-will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even\nagainst foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly.\nIf there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in the previous\nconversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details,\nand Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He\nperceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said, \"By the way,\nArthur, at your colonel's birthday fete there were some transparencies\nthat made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the\nLoamshire Militia, and, above all, the 'generous youth,' the hero of\nthe day. Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort to\nastonish our weak minds?\"\n\nThe opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to\nwhich he might have clung had drifted away--he must trust now to his own\nswimming.\n\nIn ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business,\nand Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense\nof dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set off\nfor Eagledale without an hour's delay.\n\n\n\n\nBook Two\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII\n\nIn Which the Story Pauses a Little\n\n\n\"THIS Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!\" I hear one of my\nreaders exclaim. \"How much more edifying it would have been if you had\nmade him give Arthur some truly spiritual advice! You might have put\ninto his mouth the most beautiful things--quite as good as reading a\nsermon.\"\n\nCertainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the novelist\nto represent things as they never have been and never will be. Then,\nof course, I might refashion life and character entirely after my own\nliking; I might select the most unexceptionable type of clergyman and\nput my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all occasions. But it\nhappens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such\narbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and things\nas they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is doubtless\ndefective, the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection\nfaint or confused; but I feel as much bound to tell you as precisely\nas I can what that reflection is, as if I were in the witness-box,\nnarrating my experience on oath.\n\nSixty years ago--it is a long time, so no wonder things have\nchanged--all clergymen were not zealous; indeed, there is reason to\nbelieve that the number of zealous clergymen was small, and it is\nprobable that if one among the small minority had owned the livings\nof Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would have liked him no\nbetter than you like Mr. Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him\na tasteless, indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that\nfacts hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions and\nrefined taste! Perhaps you will say, \"Do improve the facts a little,\nthen; make them more accordant with those correct views which it is our\nprivilege to possess. The world is not just what we like; do touch it\nup with a tasteful pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixed\nentangled affair. Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act\nunexceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on the wrong\nside, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we shall see at a glance\nwhom we are to condemn and whom we are to approve. Then we shall be able\nto admire, without the slightest disturbance of our prepossessions: we\nshall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs to\nundoubting confidence.\"\n\nBut, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow-parishioner\nwho opposes your husband in the vestry? With your newly appointed vicar,\nwhose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regretted\npredecessor? With the honest servant who worries your soul with her one\nfailing? With your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you\nin your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things about you\nsince your convalescence? Nay, with your excellent husband himself, who\nhas other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? These\nfellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are: you can neither\nstraighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their\ndispositions; and it is these people--amongst whom your life is\npassed--that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is\nthese more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements of\ngoodness you should be able to admire--for whom you should cherish all\npossible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I had\nthe choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much\nbetter than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily\nwork, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the\ndusty streets and the common green fields--on the real breathing men\nand women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by your\nprejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling,\nyour forbearance, your outspoken, brave justice.\n\nSo I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things\nseem better than they were; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity,\nwhich, in spite of one's best efforts, there is reason to dread.\nFalsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a\ndelightful facility in drawing a griffin--the longer the claws, and\nthe larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility which\nwe mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real\nunexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even\nwhen you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the\nexact truth, even about your own immediate feelings--much harder than to\nsay something fine about them which is NOT the exact truth.\n\nIt is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in\nmany Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source\nof delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous\nhomely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my\nfellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic\nsuffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from\ncloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an\nold woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner,\nwhile the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves, falls\non her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and\nher stone jug, and all those cheap common things which are the precious\nnecessaries of life to her--or I turn to that village wedding, kept\nbetween four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance\nwith a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged\nfriends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably\nwith quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakable\ncontentment and goodwill. \"Foh!\" says my idealistic friend, \"what vulgar\ndetails! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact\nlikeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life! What clumsy,\nugly people!\"\n\nBut bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I\nhope? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have\nnot been ugly, and even among those \"lords of their kind,\" the British,\nsquat figures, ill-shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are not\nstartling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongst\nus. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the\nApollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yet\nto my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and their\nminiatures--flattering, but still not lovely--are kissed in secret by\nmotherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could have\nnever in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of\nyellow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered\nkisses on her sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of\nyoung heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite\nsure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, and\nyet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife who\nwaddles. Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers that\nbless the earth: it does not wait for beauty--it flows with resistless\nforce and brings beauty with it.\n\nAll honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate\nit to the utmost in men, women, and children--in our gardens and in our\nhouses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret\nof proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an\nangel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the\ncelestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face\nupward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not\nimpose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of\nArt those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those\nheavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs\nand stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done\nthe rough work of the world--those homes with their tin pans, their\nbrown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In\nthis world there are so many of these common coarse people, who have\nno picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful we should\nremember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of\nour religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fit\na world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them;\ntherefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a\nlife to the faithful representing of commonplace things--men who see\nbeauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly\nthe light of heaven falls on them. There are few prophets in the world;\nfew sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't afford to give all\nmy love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those\nfeelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the\nforeground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I\ntouch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are\npicturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as your\ncommon labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly but\ncreditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should\nhave a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who\nweighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with\nthe handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers--more needful that\nmy heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentle\ngoodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in\nthe clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent and\nin other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds\nof heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest\nabstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able\nnovelist.\n\nAnd so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you to be in\nperfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your demands on the\nclerical character. Perhaps you think he was not--as he ought to have\nbeen--a living demonstration of the benefits attached to a national\nchurch? But I am not sure of that; at least I know that the people\nin Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their\nclergyman, and that most faces brightened at his approach; and until it\ncan be proved that hatred is a better thing for the soul than love,\nI must believe that Mr. Irwine's influence in his parish was a more\nwholesome one than that of the zealous Mr. Ryde, who came there twenty\nyears afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been gathered to his fathers. It\nis true, Mr. Ryde insisted strongly on the doctrines of the Reformation,\nvisited his flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severe\nin rebuking the aberrations of the flesh--put a stop, indeed, to the\nChristmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunkenness and\ntoo light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, to\nwhom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen could\nbe less successful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr.\nRyde. They learned a great many notions about doctrine from him, so\nthat almost every church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as well\nbetween the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely up to that\nstandard, as if he had been born and bred a Dissenter; and for some time\nafter his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that\nquiet rural district. \"But,\" said Adam, \"I've seen pretty clear, ever\nsince I was a young un, as religion's something else besides notions. It\nisn't notions sets people doing the right thing--it's feelings. It's the\nsame with the notions in religion as it is with math'matics--a man may\nbe able to work problems straight off in's head as he sits by the fire\nand smokes his pipe, but if he has to make a machine or a building, he\nmust have a will and a resolution and love something else better than\nhis own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to fall off, and people\nbegan to speak light o' Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant right at bottom;\nbut, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beating down prices\nwith the people as worked for him; and his preaching wouldn't go down\nwell with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i' the\nparish, punishing folks for doing wrong; and he scolded 'em from\nthe pulpit as if he'd been a Ranter, and yet he couldn't abide the\nDissenters, and was a deal more set against 'em than Mr. Irwine was. And\nthen he didn't keep within his income, for he seemed to think at first\ngo-off that six hundred a-year was to make him as big a man as Mr.\nDonnithorne. That's a sore mischief I've often seen with the poor\ncurates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr. Ryde was a\ndeal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as for\nmath'matics and the natur o' things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He\nwas very knowing about doctrines, and used to call 'em the bulwarks of\nthe Reformation; but I've always mistrusted that sort o' learning as\nleaves folks foolish and unreasonable about business. Now Mester Irwine\nwas as different as could be: as quick!--he understood what you meant in\na minute, and he knew all about building, and could see when you'd made\na good job. And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the farmers, and\nth' old women, and the labourers, as he did to the gentry. You never saw\nHIM interfering and scolding, and trying to play th' emperor. Ah, he was\na fine man as ever you set eyes on; and so kind to's mother and sisters.\nThat poor sickly Miss Anne--he seemed to think more of her than of\nanybody else in the world. There wasn't a soul in the parish had a word\nto say against him; and his servants stayed with him till they were so\nold and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"that was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays;\nbut I daresay, if your old friend Mr. Irwine were to come to life again,\nand get into the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he\ndidn't preach better after all your praise of him.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back in\nhis chair, as if he were ready to meet all inferences, \"nobody has ever\nheard me say Mr. Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn't go into deep\nsperitial experience; and I know there s a deal in a man's inward life\nas you can't measure by the square, and say, 'Do this and that 'll\nfollow,' and, 'Do that and this 'll follow.' There's things go on in the\nsoul, and times when feelings come into you like a rushing mighty wind,\nas the Scripture says, and part your life in two a'most, so you look\nback on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you\ncan't bottle up in a 'do this' and 'do that'; and I'll go so far with\nthe strongest Methodist ever you'll find. That shows me there's deep\nsperitial things in religion. You can't make much out wi' talking about\nit, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine didn't go into those things--he preached\nshort moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much\nup to what he said; he didn't set up for being so different from other\nfolks one day, and then be as like 'em as two peas the next. And he\nmade folks love him and respect him, and that was better nor stirring\nup their gall wi' being overbusy. Mrs. Poyser used to say--you know she\nwould have her word about everything--she said, Mr. Irwine was like a\ngood meal o' victual, you were the better for him without thinking on\nit, and Mr. Ryde was like a dose o' physic, he gripped you and worreted\nyou, and after all he left you much the same.\"\n\n\"But didn't Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that spiritual part\nof religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn't you get more out of his\nsermons than out of Mr. Irwine's?\"\n\n\"Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But I've seen pretty\nclear, ever since I was a young un, as religion's something else besides\ndoctrines and notions. I look at it as if the doctrines was like finding\nnames for your feelings, so as you can talk of 'em when you've never\nknown 'em, just as a man may talk o' tools when he knows their names,\nthough he's never so much as seen 'em, still less handled 'em. I've\nheard a deal o' doctrine i' my time, for I used to go after the\nDissenting preachers along wi' Seth, when I was a lad o' seventeen, and\ngot puzzling myself a deal about th' Arminians and the Calvinists. The\nWesleyans, you know, are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could never\nabide anything harsh and was always for hoping the best, held fast by\nthe Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a hole or\ntwo in their notions, and I got disputing wi' one o' the class leaders\ndown at Treddles'on, and harassed him so, first o' this side and then\no' that, till at last he said, 'Young man, it's the devil making use o'\nyour pride and conceit as a weapon to war against the simplicity o'\nthe truth.' I couldn't help laughing then, but as I was going home, I\nthought the man wasn't far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing\nand sifting what this text means and that text means, and whether folks\nare saved all by God's grace, or whether there goes an ounce o' their\nown will to't, was no part o' real religion at all. You may talk o'\nthese things for hours on end, and you'll only be all the more coxy and\nconceited for't. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hearing\nnobody but Mr. Irwine, for he said nothing but what was good and what\nyou'd be the wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soul\nto be humble before the mysteries o' God's dealings, and not be making\na clatter about what I could never understand. And they're poor foolish\nquestions after all; for what have we got either inside or outside of us\nbut what comes from God? If we've got a resolution to do right, He gave\nit us, I reckon, first or last; but I see plain enough we shall never do\nit without a resolution, and that's enough for me.\"\n\nAdam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr.\nIrwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the people we have known\nfamiliarly. Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that lofty\norder of minds who pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general\nsense that their emotions are of too exquisite a character to find fit\nobjects among their everyday fellowmen. I have often been favoured with\nthe confidence of these select natures, and find them to concur in\nthe experience that great men are overestimated and small men are\ninsupportable; that if you would love a woman without ever looking back\non your love as a folly, she must die while you are courting her; and if\nyou would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never\nmake a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunk\nfrom confessing to these accomplished and acute gentlemen what my own\nexperience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical\nassent, and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our\nillusions, which any one moderately acquainted with French literature\ncan command at a moment's notice. Human converse, I think some wise\nman has remarked, is not rigidly sincere. But I herewith discharge my\nconscience, and declare that I have had quite enthusiastic movements of\nadmiration towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English, who were\noccasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never moved in a\nhigher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer; and that\nthe way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is\nlovable--the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime\nmysteries--has been by living a great deal among people more or less\ncommonplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear nothing very\nsurprising if you were to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods where\nthey dwelt. Ten to one most of the small shopkeepers in their vicinity\nsaw nothing at all in them. For I have observed this remarkable\ncoincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ideal, and\nfind nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their\nreverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and\npettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the landlord of\nthe Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours in\nthe village of Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his own\nparish--and they were all the people he knew--in these emphatic words:\n\"Aye, sir, I've said it often, and I'll say it again, they're a poor lot\ni' this parish--a poor lot, sir, big and little.\" I think he had a\ndim idea that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he might find\nneighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequently transfer\nhimself to the Saracen's Head, which was doing a thriving business in\nthe back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he has\nfound the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as the\ninhabitants of Shepperton--\"a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them\nas comes for a go o' gin are no better than them as comes for a pint o'\ntwopenny--a poor lot.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII\n\nChurch\n\n\n\"HETTY, Hetty, don't you know church begins at two, and it's gone half\nafter one a'ready? Have you got nothing better to think on this good\nSunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and him\ndrownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's back\nrun cold, but you must be 'dizening yourself as if there was a wedding\ni'stid of a funeral?\"\n\n\"Well, Aunt,\" said Hetty, \"I can't be ready so soon as everybody else,\nwhen I've got Totty's things to put on. And I'd ever such work to make\nher stand still.\"\n\nHetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet and\nshawl, was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been made\nof roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat\nwas trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a\nwhite ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, except\nin her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyser\nwas provoked at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as any\nmortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So she\nturned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door,\nfollowed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some\none she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the ground she\ntrod on.\n\nAnd now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suit\nof drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat and a green watch-ribbon having\na large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from that\npromontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a\nyellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitted\nby Mrs. Poyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr.\nPoyser had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that the\ngrowing abuse of top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise the\nnether limbs had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human\ncalf. Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face,\nwhich was good humour itself as he said, \"Come, Hetty--come, little\nuns!\" and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causeway\ngate into the yard.\n\nThe \"little uns\" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven,\nin little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosy\ncheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very small\nelephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind\ncame patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the yard\nand over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having speedily\nrecovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to church\nto-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside her\ntippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over this\nafternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though now\nthe clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on the\nhorizon.\n\nYou might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the\nfarmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooning\nsubdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he would\nhave been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed\nto call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself on\nthe moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling together\nwith their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow\nstretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found an\nexcellent spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd,\nin his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting,\nhalf-standing on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church,\nlike other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who\nhad the weather and the ewes on his mind. \"Church! Nay--I'n gotten\nsummat else to think on,\" was an answer which he often uttered in a tone\nof bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure\nAlick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of a\nspeculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed going\nto church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and \"Whissuntide.\" But he had\na general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies,\nlike other non-productive employments, were intended for people who had\nleisure.\n\n\"There's Father a-standing at the yard-gate,\" said Martin Poyser. \"I\nreckon he wants to watch us down the field. It's wonderful what sight he\nhas, and him turned seventy-five.\"\n\n\"Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies,\"\nsaid Mrs. Poyser; \"they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they're\nlooking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore\nthey go to sleep.\"\n\nOld Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching,\nand held it wide open, leaning on his stick--pleased to do this bit\nof work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he\nliked to feel that he was still useful--that there was a better crop of\nonions in the garden because he was by at the sowing--and that the cows\nwould be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon\nto look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not very\nregularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of\nrheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead.\n\n\"They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the\nchurchyard,\" he said, as his son came up. \"It 'ud ha' been better luck\nif they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin';\nthere's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boat\nthere, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather--there's a many as\nis false but that's sure.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said the son, \"I'm in hopes it'll hold up now.\"\n\n\"Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads,\" said\nGrandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of\na marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling,\na little, secretly, during the sermon.\n\n\"Dood-bye, Dandad,\" said Totty. \"Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklace\non. Dive me a peppermint.\"\n\nGrandad, shaking with laughter at this \"deep little wench,\" slowly\ntransferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and\nslowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had\nfixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation.\n\nAnd when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again,\nwatching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the\nfar gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For the\nhedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the better-managed\nfarms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink\nwreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale\nhoneysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and\nover all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow across\nthe path.\n\nThere were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let\nthem pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of\ncows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that\ntheir large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was the\nmare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured\nfoal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still much\nembarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirely\nthrough Mr. Poyser's own fields till they reached the main road leading\nto the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops\nas they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a running\ncommentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large share\nin making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on\nstock and their \"keep\"--an exercise which strengthens her understanding\nso much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on most\nother subjects.\n\n\"There's that shorthorned Sally,\" she said, as they entered the Home\nClose, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud\nand looking at her with a sleepy eye. \"I begin to hate the sight o' the\ncow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of\nher the better, for there's that little yallow cow as doesn't give half\nthe milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her.\"\n\n\"Why, thee't not like the women in general,\" said Mr. Poyser; \"they like\nthe shorthorns, as give such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wants\nhim to buy no other sort.\"\n\n\"What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' no\nmore head-piece nor a sparrow. She'd take a big cullender to strain\nher lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's run through. I've\nseen enough of her to know as I'll niver take a servant from her house\nagain--all hugger-mugger--and you'd niver know, when you went in,\nwhether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' the\nweek; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in\na tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, as\nthere's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i'\ntheir boots.\"\n\n\"Well, Chowne's been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if\nthee lik'st,\" said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife's superior\npower of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-days\nhe had more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter of\nshorthorns. \"Aye, them as choose a soft for a wife may's well buy up\nthe shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs may's\nwell go after it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you,\" Mrs. Poyser\ncontinued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry, toddled\non in front of her father and mother. \"There's shapes! An' she's got\nsuch a long foot, she'll be her father's own child.\"\n\n\"Aye, she'll be welly such a one as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she's\ngot THY coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i' my family; my\nmother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty's.\"\n\n\"The child 'ull be none the worse for having summat as isn't like Hetty.\nAn' I'm none for having her so overpretty. Though for the matter o'\nthat, there's people wi' light hair an' blue eyes as pretty as them wi'\nblack. If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in her cheeks, an' didn't stick\nthat Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks 'ud\nthink her as pretty as Hetty.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, \"thee\ndostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver run after Dinah as\nthey would after Hetty.\"\n\n\"What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice the\nmost of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives you\nsee, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour's\ngone.\"\n\n\"Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice\nwhen I married thee,\" said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled little\nconjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; \"and thee wast twice as\nbuxom as Dinah ten year ago.\"\n\n\"I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a\nhouse. There's Chowne's wife ugly enough to turn the milk an' save the\nrennet, but she'll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah,\npoor child, she's niver likely to be buxom as long as she'll make her\ndinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them as want. She\nprovoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went clean\nagain' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself';\n'but,' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better nor you do\nyourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinking\nhe might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where she\nis this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she'd\nset her heart on going to all of a sudden.\"\n\n\"Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when\nshe might ha' stayed wi' us all summer, and eaten twice as much as she\nwanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' house\nat all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and\nwas uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married,\ntheed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant.\"\n\n\"It's no use thinking o' that,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"You might as\nwell beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an' live here\ncomfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, I should ha'\nturned her, for I've talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded her\ntoo; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do what I can\nfor her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'good-bye' an'\ngot into the cart, an' looked back at me with her pale face, as is welly\nlike her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened to\nthink o' the set-downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimes\nas if she'd a way o' knowing the rights o' things more nor other folks\nhave. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no more\nnor a white calf's white 'cause it eats out o' the same bucket wi' a\nblack un.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as his\ngood-nature would allow; \"I'm no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'y\ntradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' them\nmaggots. There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't overclever at's\nwork, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as\nhas got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; he's a good\nChurchman, else I'd never encourage him for a sweetheart for Hetty.\"\n\n\"Why, goodness me,\" said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her\nhusband was speaking, \"look where Molly is with them lads! They're the\nfield's length behind us. How COULD you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybody\nmight as well set a pictur' to watch the children as you. Run back and\ntell 'em to come on.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they set\nTotty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshire\nstile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing with complacency, \"Dey\nnaughty, naughty boys--me dood.\"\n\nThe fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with\ngreat excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on\nin the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peeping\nthan if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite\nsure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while\nhe was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which had\nrun across the path and was described with much fervour by the junior\nTommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged, fluttering\nalong the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till it\nmanaged to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got\nto give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her ready\nsympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said\n\"Lawks!\" whenever she was expected to wonder.\n\nMolly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called to\nthem that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting,\n\"We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!\" with the instinctive\nconfidence that people who bring good news are never in fault.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this\npleasant surprise, \"that's a good lad; why, where is it?\"\n\n\"Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking\nafter the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest.\"\n\n\"You didn't frighten her, I hope,\" said the mother, \"else she'll forsake\nit.\"\n\n\"No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly--didn't I,\nMolly?\"\n\n\"Well, well, now come on,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"and walk before Father and\nMother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight on\nnow. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday.\"\n\n\"But, Mother,\" said Marty, \"you said you'd give half-a-crown to find\nthe speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into my\nmoney-box?\"\n\n\"We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy.\"\n\nThe father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at\ntheir eldest-born's acuteness; but on Tommy's round face there was a\ncloud.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, half-crying, \"Marty's got ever so much more money in\nhis box nor I've got in mine.\"\n\n\"Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots,\" said Totty.\n\n\"Hush, hush, hush,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"did ever anybody hear such\nnaughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if\nthey don't make haste and go on to church.\"\n\nThis dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two\nremaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any\nserious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles,\nalias \"bullheads,\" which the lads looked at wistfully.\n\nThe damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was\nnot a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest had\noften some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no\ntemptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however\nearly in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a\npair of oxen \"sweltered\" while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That was\na demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and with\nwickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have\nnothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.\n\n\"It a'most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines\nso,\" he observed, as they passed through the \"Big Meadow.\" \"But it's\npoor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience.\nThere's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield,'\nused to do the same of a Sunday as o' weekdays, and took no heed to\nright or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's he\ncome to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi'\noranges in't.\"\n\n\"Ah, to be sure,\" said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, \"you make but a poor\ntrap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as is\ngot so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leave\nour lads a sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as for\nthe weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't: it's\nnothing of a plague to what the wenches are.\"\n\nNotwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit\nwhich Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking time by the forelock had secured\ntheir arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to two,\nthough almost every one who meant to go to church was already within the\nchurchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, like\nTimothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feeling\nas women feel in that position--that nothing else can be expected of\nthem.\n\nIt was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people were\nstanding about the churchyard so long before service began; that was\ntheir common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church at\nonce, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, over\nthe tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor's\nstuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, as\nfar preferable--about the servants, and their growing exorbitance as to\nwages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to year,\nand there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you could\nsee her--about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was\ngiving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to\nhis solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman,\nand they were all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime the\nmen lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who had\na humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the church\nuntil Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that premature\nentrance--what could they do in church if they were there before service\nbegan?--and they did not conceive that any power in the universe\ncould take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about\n\"bus'ness.\"\n\nChad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has got\nhis clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cry\nat him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him at\nonce as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with\nwhich the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the\nfarmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must hold\na candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himself\non weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was,\nafter all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had\nhorses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher\nsort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn,\nwhere the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the\nfarm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, as\nfellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position,\nsometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the\nconversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door,\nand were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into the\nchurch. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord of\nthe Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude--that is to say,\nwith the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his\nwaistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very\nmuch on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a\nmono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience\ndiscern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast with\nold Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward,\ncoughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that\ncould not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than\nusual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine's voice reading\nthe final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their word\nof pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject of\ntheir own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, who\nplayed the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr.\nDonnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receive\nhis own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject of\nconversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell\nhimself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church door.\nAnd soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine's voice had ceased,\nand the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the\nchurch.\n\nThey all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine\npassed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them;\nfor Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not\nyet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause\nbefore the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to look\nagain towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earth\nunder the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any\nday since her husband's death. Along with all her grief there was mixed\nan unusual sense of her own importance in having a \"burial,\" and in Mr.\nIrwine's reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she\nknew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt this\ncounter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with\nher sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods\nof their fellow-parishioners.\n\nThe mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the\nloiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr.\nDonnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhaps\nhelping to make them feel that there was no need for haste.\n\nBut presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth;\nthe evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every\none must now enter and take his place.\n\nI cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for\nanything except for the grey age of its oaken pews--great square pews\nmostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed,\nfrom the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to\nthemselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short\nprocess for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass,\nand return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk,\ngrey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading into\nthe chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. Donnithorne's\nfamily and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the\nbuff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior,\nand agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats.\nAnd there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, for\nthe pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crimson cloth\ncushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth,\nembroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's own hand.\n\nBut even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm and\ncheering when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, looking benignly round on\nthat simple congregation--on the hardy old men, with bent knees and\nshoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clipping and\nthatching; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces of\nthe stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers,\nwith their apple-cheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostly\nfarm-labourers' wives, with their bit of snow-white cap-border under\ntheir black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow,\nfolded passively over their chests. For none of the old people held\nbooks--why should they? Not one of them could read. But they knew a\nfew \"good words\" by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved\nsilently, following the service without any very clear comprehension\nindeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm and\nbring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standing\nup--the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the grey\npews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one of\nthose lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation of\nrectors and choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of\nPan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not in\nhis usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his mother\nand Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absent\ntoo--all the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass\nnotes with unusual complacency and threw an extra ray of severity into\nthe glances he sent over his spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery.\n\nI beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in his\nample white surplice that became him so well, with his powdered hair\nthrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril and\nupper lip; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keen\ncountenance as there is in all human faces from which a generous soul\nbeams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through the\nold windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, that\nthrew pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall.\n\nI think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instant\nlonger than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and his\nfamily. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible\nnot to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But\nHetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances--she was absorbed\nin the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church,\nfor the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by this time. She\nhad never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursday\nevening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on just\nthe same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then\nhad brought no changes after them; they were already like a dream. When\nshe heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared not\nlook up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself.\nThat must be old Mr. Donnithorne--he always came first, the wrinkled\nsmall old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing\nand curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing,\nand though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little\ncoal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't\nmind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies--no, he was not come;\nshe felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew door but the\nhouse-keeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hat\nthat had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of the\nbutler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look now--she\nmight be mistaken--for, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted\nup her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in the\nchancel--there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacles\nwith his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged\nprayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt\nherself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what\nSHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she was\ncrying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderful\nhothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It was\ndreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she could\nkneel down. Two great drops WOULD fall then, but no one saw them except\ngood-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backs\ntowards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in church\nexcept faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drew\nout of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle, and after\nmuch labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against\nHetty's nostrils. \"It donna smell,\" she whispered, thinking this was a\ngreat advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you good\nwithout biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but this\nlittle flash of temper did what the salts could not have done--it roused\nher to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her might\nnot to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain little\nnature: she would have borne anything rather than be laughed at, or\npointed at with any other feeling than admiration; she would have\npressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people should\nknow a secret she did not want them to know.\n\nWhat fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, while\nMr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn \"Absolution\" in her deaf ears, and\nthrough all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close to\ndisappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures her\nsmall ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on the\nsupposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her\nagain. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because all\nthe rest were rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even with\na heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches to\nherself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her this pain--she would\nlike him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on in\nher soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelids\nwith their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so,\nas he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees.\n\nBut Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; they\nrather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the church\nservice was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousness\nof our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all our\nmoments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the\nbest channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, and\nresignation; its interchange of beseeching cries for help with outbursts\nof faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm of\nits collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship could\nhave done; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from their\nchildhood upwards in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must have\nseemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the\nstreets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but\nin its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder the secret escapes\nthe unsympathizing observer, who might as well put on his spectacles to\ndiscern odours.\n\nBut there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the\nservice in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other village\nnooks in the kingdom--a reason of which I am sure you have not the\nslightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where\nthat good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a mystery\neven to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got it\nchiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest\nconceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow souls\nbefore his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical\near; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed to\ninspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses.\nThe way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence,\nsubsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance,\nlike the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare to\nnothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the\nwind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking\nabout the reading of a parish clerk--a man in rusty spectacles, with\nstubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is\nNature's way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and\npoetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him the\nslightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed fellow,\ntrolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to his\nintervals as a bird.\n\nJoshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and it\nwas always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from the\ndesk to the choir. Still more to-day: it was a special occasion, for an\nold man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death--not in his\nbed, a circumstance the most painful to the mind of the peasant--and\nnow the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden departure.\nMoreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance in\nthe choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang.\nThe old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, and the words--\n\n     Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood;\n     We vanish hence like dreams--\n\nseemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poor\nThias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings.\nLisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; it\nwas part of that decent burial which she would have thought it a greater\nwrong to withhold from him than to have caused him many unhappy days\nwhile he was living. The more there was said about her husband, the\nmore there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poor\nLisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and pity are a ground of\nfaith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, and\ntried to recall, as he had done continually since his father's death,\nall that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment of\nconsciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement;\nfor was it not written in the very psalm they were singing that the\nDivine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam had\nnever been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty of\ntrouble and vexation since he had been a lad, but this was the first\nsorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow\nbecause the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for ever\ngone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father's\nhand before their parting, and say, \"Father, you know it was all right\nbetween us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgive\nme if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!\" Adam thought but\nlittle to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his\nfather: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feelings had\nbeen in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head before\nthe rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissive\nsilence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own\ngenerosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our anger\nhas gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the\nlast time in the meekness of death!\n\n\"Ah! I was always too hard,\" Adam said to himself. \"It's a sore fault in\nme as I'm so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong, and\nmy heart gets shut up against 'em, so as I can't bring myself to forgive\n'em. I see clear enough there's more pride nor love in my soul, for I\ncould sooner make a thousand strokes with th' hammer for my father than\nbring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' pride\nand temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having his finger in\nwhat we call our duties as well as our sins. Mayhap the best thing I\never did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It's\nallays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough\njob for me 'ud be to master my own will and temper and go right against\nmy own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at home\nto-night, I should behave different; but there's no knowing--perhaps\nnothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's well we\nshould feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there's\nno real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong\nsubtraction by doing your addition right.\"\n\nThis was the key-note to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returned\nsince his father's death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm\nwas only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger\nemphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference\nto Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, \"In the\nmidst of life we are in death\"--how the present moment is all we can\ncall our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family\ntenderness. All very old truths--but what we thought the oldest truth\nbecomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the\ndead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want\nto impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do\nthey not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure\nits intensity by remembering the former dimness?\n\nThen came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublime\nwords, \"The peace of God, which passeth all understanding,\" seemed to\nblend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of\nthe congregation; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the\nbonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the\nfathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the\nold archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk,\ntheir simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for on a Sunday\nevery one was ready to receive a guest--it was the day when all must be\nin their best clothes and their best humour.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they were\nwaiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to go away without\nsaying a kind word to the widow and her sons.\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Bede,\" said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, \"you\nmust keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they've\nlived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mr. Poyser; \"they wonna have long to wait for one\nanother then, anyhow. And ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i'\nth' country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a\nbroad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why\nyou're straighter i' the back nor half the young women now.\"\n\n\"Eh,\" said Lisbeth, \"it's poor luck for the platter to wear well when\nit's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under the thorn the better. I'm\nno good to nobody now.\"\n\nAdam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints; but Seth\nsaid, \"Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 'ull never get another\nmother.\"\n\n\"That's true, lad, that's true,\" said Mr. Poyser; \"and it's wrong on us\nto give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it's like the children cryin' when\nthe fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knows\nbetter nor us.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"an' it's poor work allays settin' the dead\nabove the livin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon--it 'ud\nbe better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin'\nwhen we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last\nyear's crop.\"\n\n\"Well, Adam,\" said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were,\nas usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well to\nchange the subject, \"you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna\nhad a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you to\nsee what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it's got broke,\nand it'll be a nice job to mend it--there'll want a bit o' turning.\nYou'll come as soon as you can now, will you?\"\n\nMr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see\nwhere Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was not\nwithout a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about\nher than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white\nhot-house plant, with a very long name--a Scotch name, she supposed,\nsince people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the\nopportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of\nhim that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression\non Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in her\nsecret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps\nlearn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she\ncared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be\ngiven spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fond\nof giving information.\n\nMr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were\nreceived coldly, for to shift one's point of view beyond certain limits\nis impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of\nus aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble\nunderstanding--it is possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover,\nMr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth\nyear of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and\nbachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little\nheated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty\nthat the \"lass was well enough,\" and that \"a man might do worse\"; but on\nconvivial occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly.\n\nMartin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who \"knew his business\"\nand who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he was\nless of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said in\nconfidence to her husband, \"You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for my\npart, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose\nto hear him crow.\" For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener,\nand was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He\nhad also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forward\na little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. I\nthink it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch,\nand not his \"bringing up\"; for except that he had a stronger burr in\nhis accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people\nabout him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Poyser,\" he said, before the good slow farmer had time to\nspeak, \"ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. The\nglass sticks at 'change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more\ndownfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud\nthere upo' the 'rizon--ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the land\nand sky seems to meet?\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, I see the cloud,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"'rizon or no 'rizon. It's\nright o'er Mike Holdsworth's fallow, and a foul fallow it is.\"\n\n\"Well, you mark my words, as that cloud 'ull spread o'er the sky pretty\nnigh as quick as you'd spread a tarpaulin over one o' your hay-ricks.\nIt's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord bless\nyou! Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's a\npretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to, if they'd just come\nto me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser?--thinking o' getherin' the red\ncurrants soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they're\no'erripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to. How do ye\ndo, Mistress Bede?\" Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the\nway to Adam and Seth. \"I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries\nas I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables while ye're\nin trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not giving\nother folks' things away, for when I've supplied the house, the garden's\nmy own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old squire could get\nas 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd be\nwilling I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make\nsure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to see\nsome o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their\nnoses as I've got to do every year as comes.\"\n\n\"They look pretty fur, though,\" said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one\nside and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. \"Why, what could\ncome truer nor that pictur o' the cock wi' the big spurs, as has got its\nhead knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th' firin', an' the ships behind?\nWhy, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it's come as true\nas th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelson--an' they\ntold us that beforehand.\"\n\n\"Pee--ee-eh!\" said Mr. Craig. \"A man doesna want to see fur to know as\nth' English 'ull beat the French. Why, I know upo' good authority as\nit's a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an' they live upo'\nspoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge\no' the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to\ndo against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it\n'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor a\nFrenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi' stays;\nand it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides.\"\n\n\"Where IS the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?\" said Adam. \"I was\ntalking to him o' Friday, and he said nothing about his going away.\"\n\n\"Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll be\nback again afore many days are o'er, for he's to be at all th' arranging\nand preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July.\nBut he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' old\nsquire fit one another like frost and flowers.\"\n\nMr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation,\nbut the subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached the\nturning in the road where Adam and his companions must say \"good-bye.\"\nThe gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction if\nhe had not accepted Mr. Poyser's invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly\nseconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace not\nto make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikes\nmust not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig had\nalways been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs.\nPoyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had \"nothing to say again'\nhim, on'y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatched\ndifferent.\"\n\nSo Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down\nto the valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory had\ntaken the place of a long, long anxiety--where Adam would never have to\nask again as he entered, \"Where's Father?\"\n\nAnd the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back to\nthe pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm--all with quiet minds,\nexcept Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only the\nmore puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite\nvoluntary; he need not have gone--he would not have gone if he had\nwanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever\nbe pleasant to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to be\nfulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment and\ndoubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again,\nof meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words with that eager\nyearning which one may call the \"growing pain\" of passion.\n\n\n\nChapter XIX\n\nAdam on a Working Day\n\n\nNOTWITHSTANDING Mr. Craig's prophecy, the dark-blue cloud dispersed\nitself without having produced the threatened consequences. \"The\nweather\"--as he observed the next morning--\"the weather, you see, 's\na ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't sometimes when a wise man\nmisses; that's why the almanecks get so much credit. It's one o' them\nchancy things as fools thrive on.\"\n\nThis unreasonable behaviour of the weather, however, could displease no\none else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All hands were to be out in\nthe meadows this morning as soon as the dew had risen; the wives and\ndaughters did double work in every farmhouse, that the maids might give\ntheir help in tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along the\nlanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the sound\nof jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the hedges. The jocose\ntalk of hay-makers is best at a distance; like those clumsy bells round\nthe cows' necks, it has rather a coarse sound when it comes close,\nand may even grate on your ears painfully; but heard from far off, it\nmingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men's\nmuscles move better when their souls are making merry music, though\ntheir merriment is of a poor blundering sort, not at all like the\nmerriment of birds.\n\nAnd perhaps there is no time in a summer's day more cheering than when\nthe warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshness\nof the morning--when there is just a lingering hint of early coolness\nto keep off languor under the delicious influence of warmth. The reason\nAdam was walking along the lanes at this time was because his work for\nthe rest of the day lay at a country-house about three miles off, which\nwas being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and he\nhad been busy since early morning with the packing of panels, doors,\nand chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on before him, while\nJonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its\narrival and direct the workmen.\n\nThis little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under\nthe charm of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he saw\nHetty in the sunshine--a sunshine without glare, with slanting rays\nthat tremble between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought,\nyesterday when he put out his hand to her as they came out of church,\nthat there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, such as he\nhad not seen before, and he took it as a sign that she had some sympathy\nwith his family trouble. Poor fellow! That touch of melancholy came from\nquite another source, but how was he to know? We look at the one little\nwoman's face we love as we look at the face of our mother earth, and see\nall sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Adam\nnot to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the\nprospect of marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the\ndanger that some other man might step in and get possession of Hetty's\nheart and hand, while he himself was still in a position that made him\nshrink from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong hope\nthat she was fond of him--and his hope was far from being strong--he\nhad been too heavily burdened with other claims to provide a home for\nhimself and Hetty--a home such as he could expect her to be content with\nafter the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, Adam\nhad confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; he\nfelt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family\nand make a good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head not\nto estimate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the\ntime would be so long! And there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple\nhanging over the orchard wall, within sight of everybody, and everybody\nmust long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she would be\ncontent to wait for him: but DID she love him? His hopes had never risen\nso high that he had dared to ask her. He was clear-sighted enough to be\naware that her uncle and aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, and\nindeed, without this encouragement he would never have persevered in\ngoing to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but fluctuating\nconclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and had the\nsame distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that\ncame near her.\n\nBut now he could not help saying to himself that the heaviest part of\nhis burden was removed, and that even before the end of another year\nhis circumstances might be brought into a shape that would allow him to\nthink of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother,\nhe knew: she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had\nset her mind especially against Hetty--perhaps for no other reason than\nthat she suspected Hetty to be the woman he HAD chosen. It would never\ndo, he feared, for his mother to live in the same house with him when\nhe was married; and yet how hard she would think it if he asked her to\nleave him! Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with\nhis mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel that his\nwill was strong--it would be better for her in the end. For himself,\nhe would have liked that they should all live together till Seth was\nmarried, and they might have built a bit themselves to the old house,\nand made more room. He did not like \"to part wi' th' lad\": they had\nhardly every been separated for more than a day since they were born.\n\nBut Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in this\nway--making arrangements for an uncertain future--than he checked\nhimself. \"A pretty building I'm making, without either bricks or\ntimber. I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much as dug the\nfoundation.\" Whenever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposition, it\ntook the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge to be acted\non, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps here lay\nthe secret of the hardness he had accused himself of: he had too\nlittle fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen\nconsequences. Without this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough\npatience and charity towards our stumbling, falling companions in the\nlong and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong\ndetermined soul can learn it--by getting his heart-strings bound\nround the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the outward\nconsequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is a long\nand hard lesson, and Adam had at present only learned the alphabet of it\nin his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant all\nthat had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought\nand memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness.\n\nBut it was Adam's strength, not its correlative hardness, that\ninfluenced his meditations this morning. He had long made up his mind\nthat it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry a blooming\nyoung girl, so long as he had no other prospect than that of growing\npoverty with a growing family. And his savings had been so constantly\ndrawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's substitute\nin the militia) that he had not enough money beforehand to furnish even\na small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy day. He\nhad good hope that he should be \"firmer on his legs\" by and by; but he\ncould not be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he\nmust have definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership\nwith Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at present--there were\nthings implicitly tacked to it that he could not accept; but Adam\nthought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for themselves\nin addition to their journeyman's work, by buying a small stock of\nsuperior wood and making articles of household furniture, for which Adam\nhad no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at separate\njobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's work, and Adam,\nin his overhours, could do all the \"nice\" work that required peculiar\nskill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he received\nas foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the world,\nso sparingly as they would all live now. No sooner had this little\nplan shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact\ncalculations about the wood to be bought and the particular article of\nfurniture that should be undertaken first--a kitchen cupboard of his\nown contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of sliding-doors and\nbolts, such convenient nooks for stowing household provender, and such\na symmetrical result to the eye, that every good housewife would be\nin raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of melancholy\nlonging till her husband promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured to\nhimself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye and trying in vain to\nfind out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty,\nand Adam was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into\ndreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening--it was so\nlong since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go\nto the night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church\nyesterday, for he feared his old friend was ill; but, unless he could\nmanage both visits, this last must be put off till to-morrow--the desire\nto be near Hetty and to speak to her again was too strong.\n\nAs he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end of\nhis walk, within the sound of the hammers at work on the refitting of\nthe old house. The sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his work\nis like the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who\nhas to bear his part in the overture: the strong fibres begin their\naccustomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or\nambition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes strength\nwhen it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in the\nlabour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still,\ncreative activity of our thought. Look at Adam through the rest of the\nday, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in\nhis hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a\nfloor-joist or a window-frame is to be overcome; or as he pushes one of\nthe younger workmen aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight of\ntimber, saying, \"Let alone, lad! Thee'st got too much gristle i' thy\nbones yet\"; or as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of a\nworkman on the other side of the room and warns him that his distances\nare not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the bare muscular\narms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like trodden\nmeadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong\nbarytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn\npsalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet\npresently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought which\njars with the singing. Perhaps, if you had not been already in\nthe secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories what warm\naffection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic\nbody with the broken finger-nails--in this rough man, who knew no better\nlyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional\nhymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and for\nwhom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the\nchanges of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by\nfragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble and\nwork in overhours to know what he knew over and above the secrets of his\nhandicraft, and that acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the\nnature of the materials he worked with, which was made easy to him by\ninborn inherited faculty--to get the mastery of his pen, and write a\nplain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in fairness be\nattributed to the unreasonable character of orthography rather than to\nany deficiency in the speller, and, moreover, to learn his musical notes\nand part-singing. Besides all this, he had read his Bible, including\nthe apocryphal books; Poor Richard's Almanac, Taylor's Holy Living and\nDying, The Pilgrim's Progress, with Bunyan's Life and Holy War, a great\ndeal of Bailey's Dictionary, Valentine and Orson, and part of a History\nof Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many\nmore books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading \"the\ncommin print,\" as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in\nall the leisure moments which he did not fill up with extra carpentry.\n\nAdam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, nor, properly\nspeaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that his was an ordinary\ncharacter among workmen; and it would not be at all a safe conclusion\nthat the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of tools over\nhis shoulder and a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and\nthe strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of our\nfriend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared\nhere and there in every generation of our peasant artisans--with an\ninheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of common\nneed and common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trained\nin skilful courageous labour: they make their way upwards, rarely as\ngeniuses, most commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and\nconscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have\nno discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but you\nare almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building,\nsome application of mineral produce, some improvement in farming\npractice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their names are\nassociated by one or two generations after them. Their employers were\nthe richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the work\nof their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They went about\nin their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coal-dust\nor streaked with lime and red paint; in old age their white hairs are\nseen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they tell their\nwell-dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on\nwinter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their\ntwopence a-day. Others there are who die poor and never put off the\nworkman's coat on weekdays. They have not had the art of getting rich,\nbut they are men of trust, and when they die before the work is all out\nof them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine; the\nmaster who employed them says, \"Where shall I find their like?\"\n\n\n\nChapter XX\n\nAdam Visits the Hall Farm\n\n\nADAM came back from his work in the empty waggon--that was why he had\nchanged his clothes--and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when it\nstill wanted a quarter to seven.\n\n\"What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?\" said Lisbeth complainingly,\nas he came downstairs. \"Thee artna goin' to th' school i' thy best\ncoat?\"\n\n\"No, Mother,\" said Adam, quietly. \"I'm going to the Hall Farm, but\nmayhap I may go to the school after, so thee mustna wonder if I'm a\nbit late. Seth 'ull be at home in half an hour--he's only gone to the\nvillage; so thee wutna mind.\"\n\n\"Eh, an' what's thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th' Hall Farm?\nThe Poyser folks see'd thee in 'em yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean\nby turnin' worki'day into Sunday a-that'n? It's poor keepin' company wi'\nfolks as donna like to see thee i' thy workin' jacket.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, mother, I can't stay,\" said Adam, putting on his hat and\ngoing out.\n\nBut he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbeth\nbecame uneasy at the thought that she had vexed him. Of course, the\nsecret of her objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that they\nwere put on for Hetty's sake; but deeper than all her peevishness lay\nthe need that her son should love her. She hurried after him, and laid\nhold of his arm before he had got half-way down to the brook, and said,\n\"Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her got\nnought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Mother,\" said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put\nhis arm on her shoulder, \"I'm not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake,\nthee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to do.\nI'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a\nman has other feelings besides what he owes to's father and mother, and\nthee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must make\nup thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I\nlike. So let us have no more words about it.\"\n\n\"Eh,\" said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the real bearing\nof Adam's words, \"and' who likes to see thee i' thy best cloose better\nnor thy mother? An' when thee'st got thy face washed as clean as\nthe smooth white pibble, an' thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyes\na-sparklin'--what else is there as thy old mother should like to look at\nhalf so well? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik'st\nfor me--I'll ne'er plague thee no moor about'n.\"\n\n\"Well, well; good-bye, mother,\" said Adam, kissing her and hurrying\naway. He saw there was no other means of putting an end to the dialogue.\nLisbeth stood still on the spot, shading her eyes and looking after him\ntill he was quite out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning\nthat had lain in Adam's words, and, as she lost sight of him and turned\nback slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself--for it was her\nway to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her husband and\nsons were at their work--\"Eh, he'll be tellin' me as he's goin' to bring\nher home one o' these days; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I mun\nlook on, belike, while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks\n'em, mayhap, though there's ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' me\nbought 'em at the fair twenty 'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!\" she went\non, still louder, as she caught up her knitting from the table, \"but\nshe'll ne'er knit the lad's stockin's, nor foot 'em nayther, while I\nlive; an' when I'm gone, he'll bethink him as nobody 'ull ne'er fit's\nleg an' foot as his old mother did. She'll know nothin' o' narrowin' an'\nheelin', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as he canna get's boot\non. That's what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone thirty, an'\nth' feyther too, afore we war married; an' young enough too. She'll be\na poor dratchell by then SHE'S thirty, a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore her\nteeth's all come.\"\n\nAdam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. Martin\nPoyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow: every\none was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier--no one\nkept watch in the yard but the bull-dog; and when Adam reached the\nhouse-door, which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright\nclean house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one else\nwould be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the door and said in\nhis strong voice, \"Mrs. Poyser within?\"\n\n\"Come in, Mr. Bede, come in,\" Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She\nalways gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house.\n\"You may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the\ncheese.\"\n\nAdam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushing\nthe first evening cheese.\n\n\"Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house,\" said Mrs. Poyser,\nas he stood in the open doorway; \"they're all i' the meadow; but\nMartin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cocked\nto-night, ready for carrying first thing to-morrow. I've been forced\nt' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether the red currants\nto-night; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand's\nwanted. An' there's no trustin' the children to gether it, for they put\nmore into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as well set\nthe wasps to gether the fruit.\"\n\nAdam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. Poyser came in,\nbut he was not quite courageous enough, so he said, \"I could be looking\nat your spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it\nstands in the house, where I can find it?\"\n\n\"No, I've put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be till\nI can fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now if you'd go into the\ngarden and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The child 'ull run in if she's\ntold, an' I know Hetty's lettin' her eat too many currants. I'll be much\nobliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you'll go and send her in; an' there's the\nYork and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden now--you'll like to see\n'em. But you'd like a drink o' whey first, p'r'aps; I know you're fond\no' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,\" said Adam; \"a drink o' whey's allays a treat\nto me. I'd rather have it than beer any day.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on\nthe shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, \"the smell o' bread's\nsweet t' everybody but the baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, 'Oh, Mrs.\nPoyser, I envy you your dairy; and I envy you your chickens; and what\na beautiful thing a farm-house is, to be sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; a\nfarm-house is a fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know the\nliftin', an' the stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside as belongs\nto't.'\"\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn't like to live anywhere else but in a\nfarm-house, so well as you manage it,\" said Adam, taking the basin;\n\"and there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow,\nstanding up to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in the\npail, and the fresh butter ready for market, and the calves, and the\npoultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have strength to look\nafter your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' wives in the\ncountry.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a\ncompliment, but a quiet complacency over-spread her face like a stealing\nsunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her blue-grey eyes,\nas she looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey\nnow--with a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from\nan odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imagination\nwith a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey\nis in my ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wire\nnetwork window--the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall\nGuelder roses.\n\n\"Have a little more, Mr. Bede?\" said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the\nbasin.\n\n\"No, thank you; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the little\nlass.\"\n\n\"Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.\"\n\nAdam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to\nthe little wooden gate leading into the garden--once the well-tended\nkitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome brick wall\nwith stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhouse\ngarden, with hardy perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen\nvegetables growing together in careless, half-neglected abundance. In\nthat leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden\nwas like playing at \"hide-and-seek.\" There were the tall hollyhocks\nbeginning to flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and\nyellow; there were the syringas and Guelder roses, all large and\ndisorderly for want of trimming; there were leafy walls of scarlet beans\nand late peas; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction,\nand in another a huge apple-tree making a barren circle under its\nlow-spreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two? The\ngarden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beans--it\ntook nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end of the uncut grass\nwalk that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, there\nwas so much more room than was necessary for them that in the rotation\nof crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrence\non one spot or other. The very rose-trees at which Adam stopped to pluck\none looked as if they grew wild; they were all huddled together in bushy\nmasses, now flaunting with wide-open petals, almost all of them of the\nstreaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless dated from the union\nof the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose a\ncompact Provence rose that peeped out half-smothered by its flaunting\nscentless neighbours, and held it in his hand--he thought he should be\nmore at ease holding something in his hand--as he walked on to the far\nend of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest row of\ncurrant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour.\n\nBut he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the\nshaking of a bough, and a boy's voice saying, \"Now, then, Totty, hold\nout your pinny--there's a duck.\"\n\nThe voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where Adam had\nno difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in a\ncommodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was\nbelow, behind the screen of peas. Yes--with her bonnet hanging down her\nback, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up\ntowards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth\nand her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I am\nsorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow\ninstead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets,\nand she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, \"There\nnow, Totty, you've got your cherries. Run into the house with 'em to\nMother--she wants you--she's in the dairy. Run in this minute--there's a\ngood little girl.\"\n\nHe lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke,\na ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to\ncherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted off quite silently\ntowards the house, sucking her cherries as she went along.\n\n\"Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving bird,\"\nsaid Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees.\n\nHe could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty would\nnot be far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking at him. Yet\nwhen he turned the corner she was standing with her back towards him,\nand stooping to gather the low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had\nnot heard him coming! Perhaps it was because she was making the\nleaves rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one was\nnear--started so violently that she dropped the basin with the currants\nin it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deep\nred. That blush made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had\nnever blushed at seeing him before.\n\n\"I frightened you,\" he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't\nsignify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did; \"let\nME pick the currants up.\"\n\nThat was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the\ngrass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, looked\nstraight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to the\nfirst moments of hopeful love.\n\nHetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she met\nhis glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because it was so\nunlike anything he had seen in her before.\n\n\"There's not many more currants to get,\" she said; \"I shall soon ha'\ndone now.\"\n\n\"I'll help you,\" said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was\nnearly full of currants, and set it close to them.\n\nNot a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's heart\nwas too full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that was in it. She\nwas not indifferent to his presence after all; she had blushed when she\nsaw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about her which must\nsurely mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which\nhad often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at her\ncontinually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeams\nstole through the thick apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheek\nand neck as if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time\nthat a man can least forget in after-life, the time when he believes\nthat the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something--a\nword, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid--that she is\nat least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it\nis scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye--he could describe it to no\none--it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed his\nwhole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious\nunconsciousness of everything but the present moment. So much of our\nearly gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the\njoy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our\nfather's back in childhood. Doubtless that joy is wrought up into our\nnature, as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft\nmellowness of the apricot, but it is gone for ever from our imagination,\nand we can only BELIEVE in the joy of childhood. But the first glad\nmoment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to the last,\nand brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as the\nrecurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hour\nof happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to\ntenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the last\nkeenness to the agony of despair.\n\nHetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen\nof apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotion\nas he looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and that\nthere was no need for them to talk--Adam remembered it all to the last\nmoment of his life.\n\nAnd Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Like\nmany other men, he thought the signs of love for another were signs of\nlove towards himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her, she was\nabsorbed as usual in thinking and wondering about Arthur's possible\nreturn. The sound of any man's footstep would have affected her just in\nthe same way--she would have FELT it might be Arthur before she had time\nto see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of that\nmomentary feeling would have rushed back again at the sight of any one\nelse just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking\nthat a change had come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first\npassion, with which she was trembling, had become stronger than vanity,\nhad given her for the first time that sense of helpless dependence on\nanother's feeling which awakens the clinging deprecating womanhood even\nin the shallowest girl that can ever experience it, and creates in her a\nsensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first\ntime Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam's timid\nyet manly tenderness. She wanted to be treated lovingly--oh, it was\nvery hard to bear this blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference,\nafter those moments of glowing love! She was not afraid that Adam\nwould tease her with love-making and flattering speeches like her other\nadmirers; he had always been so reserved to her; she could enjoy without\nany fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was near\nher. It never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too--that\nAdam too must suffer one day.\n\nHetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently\nto the man who loved her in vain because she had herself begun to love\nanother. It was a very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so he\ndrank in the sweet delusion.\n\n\"That'll do,\" said Hetty, after a little while. \"Aunt wants me to leave\nsome on the trees. I'll take 'em in now.\"\n\n\"It's very well I came to carry the basket,\" said Adam \"for it 'ud ha'\nbeen too heavy for your little arms.\"\n\n\"No; I could ha' carried it with both hands.\"\n\n\"Oh, I daresay,\" said Adam, smiling, \"and been as long getting into the\nhouse as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen those\ntiny fellows carrying things four times as big as themselves?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of\nant life.\n\n\"Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can\ncarry the basket with one arm, as if it was an empty nutshell, and give\nyou th' other arm to lean on. Won't you? Such big arms as mine were made\nfor little arms like yours to lean on.\"\n\nHetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at\nher, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner of the\ngarden.\n\n\"Have you ever been to Eagledale?\" she said, as they walked slowly\nalong.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about himself. \"Ten\nyears ago, when I was a lad, I went with father to see about some work\nthere. It's a wonderful sight--rocks and caves such as you never saw in\nyour life. I never had a right notion o' rocks till I went there.\"\n\n\"How long did it take to get there?\"\n\n\"Why, it took us the best part o' two days' walking. But it's nothing of\na day's journey for anybody as has got a first-rate nag. The captain 'ud\nget there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And I\nshouldn't wonder if he's back again to-morrow; he's too active to rest\nlong in that lonely place, all by himself, for there's nothing but a\nbit of a inn i' that part where he's gone to fish. I wish he'd got th'\nestate in his hands; that 'ud be the right thing for him, for it 'ud\ngive him plenty to do, and he'd do't well too, for all he's so young;\nhe's got better notions o' things than many a man twice his age. He\nspoke very handsome to me th' other day about lending me money to set up\ni' business; and if things came round that way, I'd rather be beholding\nto him nor to any man i' the world.\"\n\nPoor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he thought Hetty\nwould be pleased to know that the young squire was so ready to befriend\nhim; the fact entered into his future prospects, which he would like to\nseem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an\ninterest which brought a new light into her eyes and a half-smile upon\nher lips.\n\n\"How pretty the roses are now!\" Adam continued, pausing to look at them.\n\"See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I think\nthese as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, are\nprettier than the striped uns, don't you?\"\n\nHe set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole.\n\n\"It smells very sweet,\" he said; \"those striped uns have no smell. Stick\nit in your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It 'ud be a\npity to let it fade.\"\n\nHetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that\nArthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope and\nhappiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what\nshe had very often done before--stuck the rose in her hair a little\nabove the left ear. The tender admiration in Adam's face was slightly\nshadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just the\nthing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked it\nas much as it was possible for him to dislike anything that belonged to\nher.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"that's like the ladies in the pictures at the Chase;\nthey've mostly got flowers or feathers or gold things i' their hair,\nbut somehow I don't like to see 'em; they allays put me i' mind o' the\npainted women outside the shows at Treddles'on Fair. What can a woman\nhave to set her off better than her own hair, when it curls so, like\nyours? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks\nall the better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks very\nnice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It seems to me as a\nwoman's face doesna want flowers; it's almost like a flower itself. I'm\nsure yours is.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the rose\nout of her hair. \"I'll put one o' Dinah's caps on when we go in, and\nyou'll see if I look better in it. She left one behind, so I can take\nthe pattern.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I\ndaresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here as\nit was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people; but I never\nrightly noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I\nthought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow as th 'acorn-cup fits th'\nacorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without it. But you've\ngot another sort o' face; I'd have you just as you are now, without\nanything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's\nsinging a good tune--you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and\ninterfering wi' the sound.\"\n\nHe took her arm and put it within his again, looking down on her fondly.\nHe was afraid she should think he had lectured her, imagining, as we\nare apt to do, that she had perceived all the thoughts he had only\nhalf-expressed. And the thing he dreaded most was lest any cloud should\ncome over this evening's happiness. For the world he would not have\nspoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards\nhim should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagination he\nsaw long years of his future life stretching before him, blest with the\nright to call Hetty his own: he could be content with very little at\npresent. So he took up the basket of currants once more, and they went\non towards the house.\n\nThe scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in the\ngarden. The yard was full of life now: Marty was letting the screaming\ngeese through the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing at\nhim; the granary-door was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after\ndealing out the corn; the horses were being led out to watering,\namidst much barking of all the three dogs and many \"whups\" from Tim the\nploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek, intelligent\nheads, and lifted their shaggy feet so deliberately, were likely to rush\nwildly in every direction but the right. Everybody was come back from\nthe meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr. Poyser\nwas seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the\nlarge arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the\nsupper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth\nherself--a cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered\npattern on it, and of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as all\nsensible housewives like to see--none of your bleached \"shop-rag\" that\nwould wear into holes in no time, but good homespun that would last\nfor two generations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed\nchine might well look tempting to hungry men who had dined at half-past\ntwelve o'clock. On the large deal table against the wall there were\nbright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and his\ncompanions; for the master and servants ate their supper not far off\neach other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a remark about\nto-morrow morning's work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand to\nhear it.\n\n\"Well, Adam, I'm glad to see ye,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"What! ye've been\nhelping Hetty to gether the curran's, eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye\ndown. Why, it's pretty near a three-week since y' had your supper with\nus; and the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I'm glad\nye're come.\"\n\n\"Hetty,\" said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currants\nto see if the fruit was fine, \"run upstairs and send Molly down. She's\nputting Totty to bed, and I want her to draw th' ale, for Nancy's busy\nyet i' the dairy. You can see to the child. But whativer did you let her\nrun away from you along wi' Tommy for, and stuff herself wi' fruit as\nshe can't eat a bit o' good victual?\"\n\nThis was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talking\nto Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence to her own rules of\npropriety, and she considered that a young girl was not to be treated\nsharply in the presence of a respectable man who was courting her. That\nwould not be fair-play: every woman was young in her turn, and had her\nchances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women not\nto spoil--just as one market-woman who has sold her own eggs must not\ntry to balk another of a customer.\n\nHetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer to\nher aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser went out to see after Marty and\nTommy and bring them in to supper.\n\nSoon they were all seated--the two rosy lads, one on each side, by the\npale mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle.\nAlick too was come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating cold\nbroad beans out of a large dish with his pocket-knife, and finding\na flavour in them which he would not have exchanged for the finest\npineapple.\n\n\"What a time that gell is drawing th' ale, to be sure!\" said Mrs.\nPoyser, when she was dispensing her slices of stuffed chine. \"I think\nshe sets the jug under and forgets to turn the tap, as there's nothing\nyou can't believe o' them wenches: they'll set the empty kettle o' the\nfire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils.\"\n\n\"She's drawin' for the men too,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"Thee shouldst ha'\ntold her to bring our jug up first.\"\n\n\"Told her?\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"Yes, I might spend all the wind i' my\nbody, an' take the bellows too, if I was to tell them gells everything\nas their own sharpness wonna tell 'em. Mr. Bede, will you take some\nvinegar with your lettuce? Aye you're i' the right not. It spoils the\nflavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor eating where the flavour\no' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter and\ntrusten to the salt t' hide it.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser's attention was here diverted by the appearance of Molly,\ncarrying a large jug, two small mugs, and four drinking-cans, all full\nof ale or small beer--an interesting example of the prehensile power\npossessed by the human hand. Poor Molly's mouth was rather wider open\nthan usual, as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double\ncluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in her\nmistress's eye.\n\n\"Molly, I niver knew your equils--to think o' your poor mother as is\na widow, an' I took you wi' as good as no character, an' the times an'\ntimes I've told you....\"\n\nMolly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook her nerves the\nmore for the want of that preparation. With a vague alarmed sense that\nshe must somehow comport herself differently, she hastened her step\na little towards the far deal table, where she might set down her\ncans--caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell\nwith a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering\nexplosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious \"Ello!\" from Mr. Poyser,\nwho saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred.\n\n\"There you go!\" resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose and\nwent towards the cupboard while Molly began dolefully to pick up the\nfragments of pottery. \"It's what I told you 'ud come, over and over\nagain; and there's your month's wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug\nas I've had i' the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to't\nbefore; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' house you've been\n'ud make a parson swear--God forgi' me for saying so--an' if it had been\nboiling wort out o' the copper, it 'ud ha' been the same, and you'd ha'\nbeen scalded and very like lamed for life, as there's no knowing but\nwhat you will be some day if you go on; for anybody 'ud think you'd got\nthe St. Vitus's Dance, to see the things you've throwed down. It's\na pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it's\nneither seeing nor hearing as 'ull make much odds to you--anybody 'ud\nthink you war case-hardened.\"\n\nPoor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her\ndesperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick's\nlegs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser,\nopening the cupboard, turned a blighting eye upon her.\n\n\"Ah,\" she went on, \"you'll do no good wi' crying an' making more wet to\nwipe up. It's all your own wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobody\nno call to break anything if they'll only go the right way to work. But\nwooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle. And here must I take\nthe brown-and-white jug, as it's niver been used three times this year,\nand go down i' the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, and be laid\nup wi' inflammation....\"\n\nMrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown-and-white\njug in her hand, when she caught sight of something at the other end\nof the kitchen; perhaps it was because she was already trembling and\nnervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on her; perhaps\njug-breaking, like other crimes, has a contagious influence. However\nit was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious\nbrown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout\nand handle.\n\n\"Did ever anybody see the like?\" she said, with a suddenly lowered\ntone, after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. \"The jugs are\nbewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles--they slip o'er the\nfinger like a snail.\"\n\n\"Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face,\" said her husband, who\nhad now joined in the laugh of the young ones.\n\n\"It's all very fine to look on and grin,\" rejoined Mrs. Poyser; \"but\nthere's times when the crockery seems alive an' flies out o' your hand\nlike a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands.\nWhat is to be broke WILL be broke, for I never dropped a thing i' my\nlife for want o' holding it, else I should never ha' kept the crockery\nall these 'ears as I bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad?\nWhativer do you mean by coming down i' that way, and making one think as\nthere's a ghost a-walking i' th' house?\"\n\nA new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speaking, was caused,\nless by her sudden conversion to a fatalistic view of jug-breaking than\nby that strange appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The\nlittle minx had found a black gown of her aunt's, and pinned it close\nround her neck to look like Dinah's, had made her hair as flat as she\ncould, and had tied on one of Dinah's high-crowned borderless net caps.\nThe thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the\nsight of the gown and cap brought with it, made it a laughable surprise\nenough to see them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettish\ndark eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping\ntheir hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked up\nfrom his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the back\nkitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure,\nwhich had some chance of being free from bewitchment.\n\n\"Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?\" said Mr. Poyser, with\nthat comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh which one only sees in stout\npeople. \"You must pull your face a deal longer before you'll do for one;\nmustna she, Adam? How come you put them things on, eh?\"\n\n\"Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes,\" said\nHetty, sitting down demurely. \"He says folks looks better in ugly\nclothes.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Adam, looking at her admiringly; \"I only said they\nseemed to suit Dinah. But if I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I should\nha' said nothing but what was true.\"\n\n\"Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?\" said Mr. Poyser to\nhis wife, who now came back and took her seat again. \"Thee look'dst as\nscared as scared.\"\n\n\"It little sinnifies how I looked,\" said Mrs. Poyser; \"looks 'ull mend\nno jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, I'm sorry you've to\nwait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute. Make yourself at\nhome wi' th' cold potatoes: I know you like 'em. Tommy, I'll send you to\nbed this minute, if you don't give over laughing. What is there to laugh\nat, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o' that\npoor thing's cap; and there's them as 'ud be better if they could make\ntheirselves like her i' more ways nor putting on her cap. It little\nbecomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' her\njust gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her. An' I\nknow one thing, as if trouble was to come, an' I was to be laid up i'\nmy bed, an' the children was to die--as there's no knowing but what they\nwill--an' the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everything\nwent to rack an' ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah's\ncap again, wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's one\no' them things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the\nbest when you're most i' need on't.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so likely\nto expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was of a susceptible\ndisposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten so\nmany cherries as to have his feelings less under command than usual, was\nso affected by the dreadful picture she had made of the possible future\nthat he began to cry; and the good-natured father, indulgent to all\nweaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, \"You'd better\ntake the things off again, my lass; it hurts your aunt to see 'em.\"\n\nHetty went upstairs again, and the arrival of the ale made an agreeable\ndiversion; for Adam had to give his opinion of the new tap, which could\nnot be otherwise than complimentary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followed\na discussion on the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in\n\"hopping,\" and the doubtful economy of a farmer's making his own malt.\nMrs. Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself with\nweight on these subjects that by the time supper was ended, the ale-jug\nrefilled, and Mr. Poyser's pipe alight she was once more in high good\nhumour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheel\nfor his inspection.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Adam, looking at it carefully, \"here's a nice bit o' turning\nwanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in\nthe village and do it there, for I've no convenence for turning at home.\nIf you'll send it to Mr. Burge's shop i' the morning, I'll get it\ndone for you by Wednesday. I've been turning it over in my mind,\" he\ncontinued, looking at Mr. Poyser, \"to make a bit more convenence at home\nfor nice jobs o' cabinet-making. I've always done a deal at such\nlittle things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's more\nworkmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little\nbusiness for ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ull\ntake as many things as we should make, besides what we could get orders\nfor round about.\"\n\nMr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step\ntowards Adam's becoming a \"master-man,\" and Mrs. Poyser gave her\napprobation to the scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was to\nbe capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen in\nthe utmost compactness without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own\ndress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warm\nevening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could\nsee her quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up\nto go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at\nthis busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at\nfive o'clock in the morning.\n\n\"I shall take a step farther,\" said Adam, \"and go on to see Mester\nMassey, for he wasn't at church yesterday, and I've not seen him for a\nweek past. I've never hardly known him to miss church before.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"we've heared nothing about him, for it's the\nboys' hollodays now, so we can give you no account.\"\n\n\"But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night?\" said\nMrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting.\n\n\"Oh, Mester Massey sits up late,\" said Adam. \"An' the night-school's not\nover yet. Some o' the men don't come till late--they've got so far to\nwalk. And Bartle himself's never in bed till it's gone eleven.\"\n\n\"I wouldna have him to live wi' me, then,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"a-dropping\ncandle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor the\nfirst thing i' the morning.\"\n\n\"Aye, eleven o'clock's late--it's late,\" said old Martin. \"I ne'er sot\nup so i' MY life, not to say as it warna a marr'in', or a christenin',\nor a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late.\"\n\n\"Why, I sit up till after twelve often,\" said Adam, laughing, \"but\nit isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs.\nPoyser; good-night, Hetty.\"\n\nHetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp\nwith currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the large\npalm that was held out to them, and said, \"Come again, come again!\"\n\n\"Aye, think o' that now,\" said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was out of on the\ncauseway. \"Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work! Ye'll not find\nmany men o' six-an' twenty as 'ull do to put i' the shafts wi' him.\nIf you can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own\nspring-cart some day, I'll be your warrant.\"\n\nHetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did\nnot see the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ride\nin a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now.\n\n\n\nChapter XXI\n\nThe Night-School and the Schoolmaster\n\n\nBartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of a\ncommon, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached it\nin a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had his\nhand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window,\nthat there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by\nthin dips.\n\nWhen he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Massey\nmerely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He had\nnot come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too full\nof personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed in\nHetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school was\nover; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. It\nwas a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; he\nknew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of Bartle\nMassey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way of\nkeeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs\nof all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall above\nthe pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out\nof the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long\nago exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to think\nhow the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native\nelement; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the\nold map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had\nturned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasoned\nmeerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the\nscene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, and even\nin his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the\nold fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen\nor pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through their\nreading lesson.\n\nThe reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster's\ndesk consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have known\nit only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles,\nwhich he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for\npresent purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzled\nbushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionate\nkindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lower\nlip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllable\nin a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because the\nschoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side,\nhad rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that\npeculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen\nimpatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under the\ntransparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened by no\ntendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an\ninch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever.\n\n\"Nay, Bill, nay,\" Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to\nAdam, \"begin that again, and then perhaps, it'll come to you what d-r-y\nspells. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know.\"\n\n\"Bill\" was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent\nstone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of his\nyears; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder\nmatter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The\nletters, he complained, were so \"uncommon alike, there was no tellin'\n'em one from another,\" the sawyer's business not being concerned with\nminute differences such as exist between a letter with its tail\nturned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm\ndetermination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two\nreasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything \"right\noff,\" whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letter\nfrom twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and had\ngot an overlooker's place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with\nhim, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could be\ndone by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could\nbe done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay if\ncircumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big finger\ntowards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that he\nmight keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to be\ndiscriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey\nmust possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imagination\nrecoiled before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that the\nschoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regular\nreturn of daylight and the changes in the weather.\n\nThe man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was a\nMethodist brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life in\nperfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately \"got religion,\" and\nalong with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learning\nwas a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered as\nusual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard\ntask with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul--that he might\nhave a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evil\nmemories and the temptations of old habit--or, in brief language,\nthe devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was\nsuspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being the\nman who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that\nmight be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to,\nwhich was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacher\nat Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; and\nthough he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of\n\"Brimstone,\" there was nothing he held in so much horror as any further\ntransactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chested\nfellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in imbibing\nreligious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human\nknowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken\nin his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the\nletter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that\nBrimstone was too eager for the knowledge that puffeth up.\n\nThe third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall but\nthin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face and\nhands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping\nhomespun wool and old women's petticoats had got fired with the ambition\nto learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He had\nalready a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was\nbent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense\nof crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given him a\nnotion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense if\nhe could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to\nthe night-school, resolving that his \"little chap\" should lose no time\nin coming to Mr. Massey's day-school as soon as he was old enough.\n\nIt was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard\nlabour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfully\nmaking out, \"The grass is green,\" \"The sticks are dry,\" \"The corn is\nripe\"--a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single words\nall alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three rough\nanimals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human.\nAnd it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for such\nfull-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he had\nno severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an\nimperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patience\ncould never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glances\nover his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his\nhead on one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the letters\nd-r-y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light.\n\nAfter the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came up\nwith the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out on\ntheir slates and were now required to calculate \"off-hand\"--a test which\nthey stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes\nhad been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for some\nminutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing\nbetween every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which\nrested between his legs.\n\n\"Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did a\nfortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's the reason. You want to learn\naccounts--that's well and good. But you think all you need do to learn\naccounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or three\ntimes a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out of\ndoors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You\ngo whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking of\nthan if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through that\nhappened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em,\nit's pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be got\ncheap--you'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he'll make\nyou clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge\nisn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you're to know\nfigures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep your thoughts\nfixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there's\nnothing but what's got number in it--even a fool. You may say to\nyourselves, 'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighed\nfour pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, how\nmany pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack's?' A man that had\ngot his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work\n'em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitches\nby fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, and\nthen see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himself\nhow much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten\nworkmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that\nrate--and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if\nhe left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the\nshort of it is--I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't strive\nto learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get\nout of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away because\nhe's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd not\nrefuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on people\nwho think they can get it by the sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with\n'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you\ncan't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead of\nthinking that you can pay for mine to work for you. That's the last word\nI've got to say to you.\"\n\nWith this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever\nwith his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with a\nsulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing-books to\nshow, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round text; and\nmere pen-strokes, however perverse, were less exasperating to Bartle\nthan false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob\nStorey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with their\ntops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right\n\"somehow.\" But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never\nwanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there \"to finish off th'\nalphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha' done as well, for what he\ncould see.\"\n\nAt last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their\n\"Good-nights,\" and Adam, knowing his old master's habits, rose and said,\n\"Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?\"\n\n\"Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house; and\njust lock the outer door, now you're near it,\" said Bartle, getting his\nstick in the fitting angle to help him in descending from his stool.\nHe was no sooner on the ground than it became obvious why the stick\nwas necessary--the left leg was much shorter than the right. But the\nschool-master was so active with his lameness that it was hardly thought\nof as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along the\nschoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhaps\nhave understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might\nbe indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them\neven in their swiftest run.\n\nThe moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his\nhand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and a\nbrown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legs\nand long body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, came\ncreeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating at every\nother step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the\nhamper in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave\nwithout a greeting.\n\n\"Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?\" said the schoolmaster,\nmaking haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle over\nthe low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their heads\ntowards the light from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even\nsee her master look at them without painful excitement: she got into the\nhamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true feminine\nfolly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a large\nold-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs.\n\n\"Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?\" said Adam, smiling, as\nhe came into the kitchen. \"How's that? I thought it was against the law\nhere.\"\n\n\"Law? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let a\nwoman into his house?\" said Bartle, turning away from the hamper with\nsome bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost\nall consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. \"If I'd known\nVixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys from drowning her; but\nwhen I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now you\nsee what she's brought me to--the sly, hypocritical wench\"--Bartle spoke\nthese last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who\npoked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keen\nsense of opprobrium--\"and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday at\nchurch-time. I've wished again and again I'd been a bloody minded man,\nthat I could have strangled the mother and the brats with one cord.\"\n\n\"I'm glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church,\" said Adam. \"I\nwas afraid you must be ill for the first time i' your life. And I was\nparticularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday.\"\n\n\"Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why,\" said Bartle kindly, going up to\nAdam and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a level\nwith his own head. \"You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since I\nsaw you--a rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better times\ncoming for you. I've got some news to tell you. But I must get my supper\nfirst, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down.\"\n\nBartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent\nhome-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear times\nto eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified it by\nobserving, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake ran\ntoo much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and a\nquart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on the\nround deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in the\nchimney-corner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a window-shelf\nwith a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean as\nif Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered apron; so was\nthe quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs,\nwhich in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratic\nhouses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle\nhad got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could be\nat the end of a summer's day.\n\n\"Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business till\nwe've had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But,\" said\nBartle, rising from his chair again, \"I must give Vixen her supper\ntoo, confound her! Though she'll do nothing with it but nourish those\nunnecessary babbies. That's the way with these women--they've got no\nhead-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or to\nbrats.\"\n\nHe brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixed\nher eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmost\ndispatch.\n\n\"I've had my supper, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam, \"so I'll look on while you\neat yours. I've been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supper\nbetimes, you know: they don't keep your late hours.\"\n\n\"I know little about their hours,\" said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread\nand not shrinking from the crust. \"It's a house I seldom go into, though\nI'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's too\nmany women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women's voices;\nthey're always either a-buzz or a-squeak--always either a-buzz or\na-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; and\nas for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know what\nthey'll turn to--stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my\nboy: it's been drawn for you--it's been drawn for you.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam, who took his old friend's whim more\nseriously than usual to-night, \"don't be so hard on the creaturs God has\nmade to be companions for us. A working-man 'ud be badly off without\na wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean and\ncomfortable.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed,\nto say a woman makes a house comfortable. It's a story got up because\nthe women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tell\nyou there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but\nwhat a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, and\nthey do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha' been left to\nthe men--it had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a woman\n'ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come to see that\nthe hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull make\nyour porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuring\nthe proportion between the meal and the milk--a little more or less,\nshe'll think, doesn't signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now and\nthen: if it's wrong, it's summat in the meal, or it's summat in the\nmilk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, and\nthere's no difference between one batch and another from year's end to\nyear's end; but if I'd got any other woman besides Vixen in the house,\nI must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread\nturned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than any\nother house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. Will\nBaker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaning\ndone in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three,\nand all the while be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and let\nthe fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o' the floor half the\nday for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't tell me about God\nhaving made such creatures to be companions for us! I don't say but\nHe might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise--there was no\ncooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make\nmischief, though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd an\nopportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman's\na blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, and\nfoxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils that\nbelong to this state o' probation, which it's lawful for a man to keep\nas clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for ever\nin another--hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another.\"\n\nBartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective\nthat he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for the\npurpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, the\nraps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that\nVixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and bark\nvaguely.\n\n\"Quiet, Vixen!\" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. \"You're like the\nrest o' the women--always putting in your word before you know why.\"\n\nVixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her master\ncontinued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to\ninterrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had\nhad his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in\nthis way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to know\nwhether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that\npoint Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived\nprevious to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants and\nartisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their\nonly schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this\nsubject, Bartle always replied, \"Oh, I've seen many places--I've been a\ndeal in the south,\" and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of\nasking for a particular town or village in Africa as in \"the south.\"\n\n\"Now then, my boy,\" said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his\nsecond mug of ale and lighted his pipe, \"now then, we'll have a little\ntalk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news to-day?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adam, \"not as I remember.\"\n\n\"Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But I\nfound it out by chance; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, else\nI'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid.\"\n\nHere Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly\nthe while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion of\nkeeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting\nit go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he\nsaid, \"Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the lad\nthey sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock this\nmorning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if he gets\nover it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Adam, \"I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow\nin the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing,\nmischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so much\nharm to as to th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is to\nblame--making a stupid fellow like that a sort o' man-of-all-work, just\nto save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate.\nAnd he's lost more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than\n'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be hoped\nhe'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make\nany difference to me.\"\n\n\"But I see it, but I see it,\" said Bartle, \"and others besides me. The\ncaptain's coming of age now--you know that as well as I do--and it's to\nbe expected he'll have a little more voice in things. And I know, and\nyou know too, what 'ud be the captain's wish about the woods, if there\nwas a fair opportunity for making a change. He's said in plenty of\npeople's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods to-morrow, if\nhe'd the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine's butler, heard him say so to\nthe parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smoking\nour pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; and\nwhenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to back\nit, that I'll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell\nyou, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you; for if\ndonkeys set to work to sing, you're pretty sure what the tune'll be.\"\n\n\"Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?\" said Adam; \"or wasn't he\nthere o' Saturday?\"\n\n\"Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson--he's always for\nsetting other folks right, you know--would have it Burge was the man to\nhave the management of the woods. 'A substantial man,' says he, 'with\npretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud be all very well\nfor Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed the squire\n'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders and\nbetters at hand!' But I said, 'That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson.\nWhy, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put the woods into his\nhands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave your\ncustomers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that's\nworth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who's\nthe backbone of Jonathan Burge's business.'\"\n\n\"I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam. \"But, for\nall that, Casson was partly i' the right for once. There's not much\nlikelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me. I offended\nhim about two years ago, and he's never forgiven me.\"\n\n\"Why, how was that? You never told me about it,\" said Bartle.\n\n\"Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen for\nMiss Lyddy--she's allays making something with her worsted-work, you\nknow--and she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and there\nwas as much talking and measuring as if we'd been planning a house.\nHowever, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked doing it for her. But,\nyou know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I only\nworked at it in overhours--often late at night--and I had to go to\nTreddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass nails and\nsuch gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th'\nopen work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon\npleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy\nsent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me\ndirections about fastening on the work--very fine needlework, Jacob and\nRachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture--and th'\nold squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was\nmighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she\nwas to give me. I didn't speak at random--you know it's not my way; I'd\ncalculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a bill, and I said,\n'One pound thirty.' That was paying for the mater'als and paying me, but\nnone too much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this, and peered\nin his way at the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcrack\nlike that! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things,\nwhy don't you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price for\nclumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam.\nGive him a guinea, and no more.' Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed\nwhat he told her, and she's not overfond o' parting with the money\nherself--she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought up\nunder his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as\nred as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, 'No, thank you, madam;\nI'll make you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've charged\nthe regular price for my work, and I know it's done well; and I know,\nbegging His Honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen at\nRosseter under two guineas. I'm willing to give you my work--it's been\ndone in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do with it but me; but\nif I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price than I asked, because that\n'ud be like saying I'd asked more than was just. With your leave, madam,\nI'll bid you good-morning.' I made my bow and went out before she'd\ntime to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking\nalmost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite\nas I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out as\nI'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me\nthe one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen pretty\nclear as th' old squire can't abide me.\"\n\n\"That's likely enough, that's likely enough,\" said Bartle meditatively.\n\"The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his\nown interest, and that the captain may do--that the captain may do.\"\n\n\"Nay, I don't know,\" said Adam; \"the squire's 'cute enough but it takes\nsomething else besides 'cuteness to make folks see what'll be their\ninterest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right\nand wrong, I see that pretty clear. You'd hardly ever bring round th'\nold squire to believe he'd gain as much in a straightfor'ard way as by\ntricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him:\nI don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old\ngentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If the\ncaptain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got a\nconscience and a will to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor for\nany man living.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you put\nyour head out at window and tell it to be gone about its business,\nthat's all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well\nas in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you\npommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling\nbefore you knew whether he was in jest or earnest--you're overhasty and\nproud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to your\nnotions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed--I'm an\nold schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. But\nwhere's the use of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing and\nmapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world and\nshow folks there's some advantage in having a head on your shoulders,\ninstead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every\nopportunity because it's got a bit of a smell about it that nobody finds\nout but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wife\nis to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and\nnonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simple\naddition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and in\nsix years' time six fools more--they're all of the same denomination,\nbig and little's nothing to do with the sum!\"\n\nDuring this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the\npipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking\na light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing\nhis eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh.\n\n\"There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr. Massey,\" Adam began,\nas soon as he felt quite serious, \"as there always is. But you'll give\nin that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that may\nnever happen. What I've got to do is to work as well as I can with the\ntools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me,\nI'll think o' what you've been saying; but till then, I've got nothing\nto do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm turning\nover a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bit\nby ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's getting\nlate now--it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother may\nhappen to lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid you\ngood-night.\"\n\n\"Well, well, we'll go to the gate with you--it's a fine night,\" said\nBartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without\nfurther words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of\nBartle's potato-beds, to the little gate.\n\n\"Come to the music o' Friday night, if you can, my boy,\" said the old\nman, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road.\nHe was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys,\njust visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone\nimages--as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little\nfarther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed into\nthe darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice\nrun back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, \"there you\ngo, stalking along--stalking along; but you wouldn't have been what you\nare if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest\ncalf must have something to suck at. There's plenty of these big,\nlumbering fellows 'ud never have known their A B C if it hadn't been for\nBartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is\nit? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my own\nany more. And those pups--what do you think I'm to do with 'em, when\nthey're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was that\nhulking bull-terrier of Will Baker's--wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussy?\"\n\n(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into the\nhouse. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female will\nignore.)\n\n\"But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?\" continued\nBartle. \"She's got no conscience--no conscience; it's all run to milk.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Three\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII\n\nGoing to the Birthday Feast\n\n\nTHE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm\ndays which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No\nrain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was\nperfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on\nthe dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the\nroadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll\non it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple,\nhigh, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor\nJuly merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in.\nNature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers\nare gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and\nyet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at\nthe possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment\nof its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the\nwaggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their\nsweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are\noften a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour\nof red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their\ninnocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows.\nBut it is a time of leisure on the farm--that pause between hay-and\ncorn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton\nthought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could\ngive their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which\nhad been brewed the autumn after \"the heir\" was born, and was to be\ntapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the\nringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made\nhaste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be\ntime to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.\n\nThe midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no\nblind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at\nherself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had\nin which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging\nglass she had fetched out of the next room--the room that had been\nDinah's--would show her nothing below her little chin; and that\nbeautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into\nanother roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she\nthought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this\nevening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy\nyesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the\nsleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she\nwas to be in the evening, with a tucker made of \"real\" lace, which her\naunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments\nbesides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she wore\nevery day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before\nshe put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in\nthe day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private\ntreasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer\nbefore, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the\nold ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to\nput the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she\nhas got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in\na pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking\nout that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason about\nit, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must\nhave known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments\nor not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could not\npossibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the\nessence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced\non others; you will never understand women's natures if you are so\nexcessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational\nprejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary\nbird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she\nturns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings\nnestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the\nperson who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to\nthe moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she\nhave cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that\nshe had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could\nimagine.\n\n\"Little, little ears!\" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one\nevening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. \"I wish I\nhad some pretty ear-rings!\" she said in a moment, almost before she knew\nwhat she was saying--the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter\npast them at the slightest breath. And the next day--it was only last\nweek--Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That\nlittle wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of\nchildishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had\nwrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty\nunwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back\ntheir new delight into his.\n\nNo, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the\near-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them\nto her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one moment, to\nsee how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against\nthe wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a\nlistening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings\nas one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be\nmade for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the\ntiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps\nwater-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little\nround holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty\nmust be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman,\nwith a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance a\nlight web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and\npress upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once\nher fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human\nanguish.\n\nBut she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle\nand aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them\nup. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes,\nand already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes,\nshimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at the\nChase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on\nher arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But\nshe has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day,\nbecause she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has\nbeen used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at\nthe end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown\nberries--her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was\nnot quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was\na handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a\nbeautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown\nslightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings.\nShe must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty\nhad another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery,\nand that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in\nher bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter\nher aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped\nit on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round\nher neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang\na little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do\nbut to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and\nher straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which\nhad become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of\nbitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new--everybody\nwould see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon--and Mary\nBurge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for\nconsolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were very\nnice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them.\nHetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in\nthe present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would\nnever care about looking at other people, but then those other people\ndidn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby\nand insignificant in their eyes even for a short space.\n\nThe whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down,\nall of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so\nthis morning in honour of the captain's twenty-first birthday, and the\nwork had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite\neasy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going\nto church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once\nsuggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care\nof itself; \"for,\" said he, \"there's no danger of anybody's breaking\nin--everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house\nup, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives.\"\nBut Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: \"I never left the house to\ntake care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been\nill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off\nevery ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together,\nthem tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and\nmurdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when\nwe'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the\ntramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry\nwants any work done, you may be sure he'll find the means.\"\n\n\"Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,\" said Mr. Poyser; \"I've got a\ngun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if a\nmouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick\ncan stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back\ntow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler\nloose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too,\nready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar\nand bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting,\nNancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place,\nalthough the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and\nthe dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a\nburglarious attempt.\n\nThe covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole\nfamily except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat\non the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and\nchildren; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting\nwould not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an\nexcellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more\nthan a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as\npossible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and\nremarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking\nthe paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits\nof movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that\nnodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief\nwith ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton\nand all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour\nof \"th' heir\"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down\nthis side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from\nBroxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's\nsuggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last tune,\nbefore the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the\nfestival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard\napproaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing\nMr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the\nBenefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--that is to say, in\nbright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with\nthe motto, \"Let brotherly love continue,\" encircling a picture of a\nstone-pit.\n\nThe carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get\ndown at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.\n\n\"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready,\" said Mrs. Poyser, as she got\ndown from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks,\nand the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles\nsurmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the\nsuccessful climbers. \"I should ha' thought there wasna so many people\ni' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come\nhere, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They\nmight ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I\nshall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down.\"\n\n\"Stop a bit, stop a bit,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"There's th' waggin coming\nwi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight as wonna come o'er again,\nto see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You remember some on\n'em i' their prime, eh, Father?\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge\nporch, from which he could see the aged party descend. \"I remember Jacob\nTaft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back\nfrom Stoniton.\"\n\nHe felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he\nsaw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon\nand walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two\nsticks.\n\n\"Well, Mester Taft,\" shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his\nvoice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit\nthe propriety of a greeting--\"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen\nto-day, for-all you're ninety an' better.\"\n\n\"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,\" said Feyther Taft in a treble\ntone, perceiving that he was in company.\n\nThe aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and\ngrey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house,\nwhere a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party\nwisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees,\nbut not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and\nflower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn,\nstanding at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the\nopen green space where the games were to be played. The house would have\nbeen nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for\nthe remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much\nthe same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and\nprim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant\nstood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the\nsun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all\ndown, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite\nsad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the\ngrand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and\nshe should not see him for a long, long while--not till after dinner,\nwhen they said he was to come up and make a speech.\n\nBut Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was\ncome except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early,\nand Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the\nrector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long\ntables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants.\nA very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a\nbright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode--his arm no longer in a sling.\nSo open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets,\nand secrets leave no lines in young faces.\n\n\"Upon my word,\" he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, \"I think\nthe cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful\ndining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine,\nabout the dinners--to let them be as orderly and comfortable as\npossible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited\nsum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he\ncouldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.\"\n\n\"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way,\" said Mr.\nIrwine. \"In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding\nliberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so\nmany sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked\nto come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an\nenjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity\nof ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games\nas the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much\ntowards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than\ndrunkenness and daylight.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston\npeople away by having a feast for them in the town; and I've got Casson\nand Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of\nale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, let\nus go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants.\"\n\nThey went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery\nabove the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old\npictures had been banished for the last three generations--mouldy\nportraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye\nknocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius\nCaesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his\nCommentaries in his hand.\n\n\"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old\nabbey!\" said Arthur. \"If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the gallery\nin first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a third as large\nas this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs.\nBest said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children\nto be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a\nregular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those little\nlads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much\nfiner young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women\nand children below as well. But you will see them all--you will come up\nwith me after dinner, I hope?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure,\" said Mr. Irwine. \"I wouldn't miss your maiden speech\nto the tenantry.\"\n\n\"And there will be something else you'll like to hear,\" said Arthur.\n\"Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about it while my\ngrandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will\nsurprise you,\" he continued, as they sat down. \"My grandfather has come\nround after all.\"\n\n\"What, about Adam?\"\n\n\"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so\nbusy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with\nhim--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning he asked me to\ncome in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that\nhe had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence\nof old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to\nemploy Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week,\nand the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is,\nhe saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some\nparticular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that I\npropose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There's\nthe most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to\nleave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut\noff poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only\nfive hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I\nsometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believe\nif I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune\nthat could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my\nlife a series of petty annoyances.\"\n\n\"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words\nomitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving love' in\nthe world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted\nthe post? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his\npresent work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time\non his own hands.\n\n\"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to\nhesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be\nable to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour\nto me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he\nreally liked the employment and would not be giving up anything that\nwas more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all\nthings--it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it\nwould enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working\nfor Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little\nbusiness of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps\nbe able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have\narranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to\nannounce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health.\nIt's a little drama I've got up in honour of my friend Adam. He's a fine\nfellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think\nso.\"\n\n\"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part\nto play,\" said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he\nwent on relentingly, \"My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy\nwho sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit\nthat I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play\nthe amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of\nAdam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to\nhave a respectable man as steward?\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience\nand walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. \"He's got\nsome project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for\na supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about\nit--it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the business\nhimself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what\nenergy he has, though.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll go to the ladies now,\" said Mr. Irwine, rising too. \"I want\nto tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her under\nthe marquee.\"\n\n\"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too,\" said Arthur. \"It must be\ntwo o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants'\ndinners.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII\n\nDinner-Time\n\nWHEN Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he\nfelt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way above\nhis mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But\nMr. Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given\nparticular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not\nthere.\n\nAdam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off.\n\"Seth, lad,\" he said, \"the captain has sent to say I'm to dine\nupstairs--he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud\nbe behaving ill for me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above thee\nand mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee't not\ntake it unkind, I hope?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, lad,\" said Seth, \"thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'st\nrespect, thee'st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee\nabove me, the better, so long as thee feel'st like a brother to me.\nIt's because o' thy being appointed over the woods, and it's nothing but\nwhat's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a common workman\nnow.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Adam, \"but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given\nnotice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybody\nelse about it before he knows, for he'll be a good bit hurt, I doubt.\nPeople 'ull be wondering to see me there, and they'll like enough be\nguessing the reason and asking questions, for there's been so much talk\nup and down about my having the place, this last three weeks.\"\n\n\"Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the\nreason. That's the truth. And mother 'ull be fine and joyful about it.\nLet's go and tell her.\"\n\nAdam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds\nthan the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other people\nin the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than\nfrom their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was\nrather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind when\nthe bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend;\nfor he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public\noccasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turn\nup in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that for\nhe disliked any risk of being \"joked\" about Hetty--the big, outspoken,\nfearless man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making.\n\n\"Well, Mester Massey,\" said Adam, as Bartle came up \"I'm going to dine\nupstairs with you to-day: the captain's sent me orders.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. \"Then there's\nsomething in the wind--there's something in the wind. Have you heard\nanything about what the old squire means to do?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Adam; \"I'll tell you what I know, because I believe you\ncan keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you'll\nnot let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasons\nagainst its being known.\"\n\n\"Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out of\nme and then run out and cackle it in everybody's hearing. If you trust a\nman, let him be a bachelor--let him be a bachelor.\"\n\n\"Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I'm to take the\nmanagement o' the woods. The captain sent for me t' offer it me, when\nI was seeing to the poles and things here and I've agreed to't. But if\nanybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn\nthe talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you. Now, let us go\non, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think.\"\n\n\"I know what to do, never fear,\" said Bartle, moving on. \"The news will\nbe good sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back\nyou for an eye at measuring and a head-piece for figures, against\nany man in this county and you've had good teaching--you've had good\nteaching.\"\n\nWhen they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as\nto who was to be president, and who vice, was still under discussion, so\nthat Adam's entrance passed without remark.\n\n\"It stands to sense,\" Mr. Casson was saying, \"as old Mr. Poyser, as is\nth' oldest man i' the room, should sit at top o' the table. I wasn't\nbutler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about\ndinner.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said old Martin, \"I'n gi'en up to my son; I'm no tenant now:\nlet my son take my place. Th' ould foulks ha' had their turn: they mun\nmake way for the young uns.\"\n\n\"I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor\nth' oldest,\" said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr.\nPoyser; \"there's Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th'\nestate.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"suppose we say the man wi' the foulest land\nshall sit at top; then whoever gets th' honour, there'll be no envying\non him.\"\n\n\"Eh, here's Mester Massey,\" said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the\ndispute, had no interest but in conciliation; \"the schoolmaster ought to\nbe able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr.\nMassey?\"\n\n\"Why, the broadest man,\" said Bartle; \"and then he won't take up other\nfolks' room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom.\"\n\nThis happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter--a\nsmaller joke would have sufficed for that Mr. Casson, however, did not\nfeel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to join\nin the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second\nbroadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be\npresident, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice.\n\nOwing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the\ntable, fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too much\noccupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed his\nentrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam \"rather lifted up\nand peppery-like\": he thought the gentry made more fuss about this\nyoung carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson,\nalthough he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace,\" he said,\nwhen Adam sat down. \"You've niver dined here before, as I remember.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Casson,\" said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard\nalong the table; \"I've never dined here before, but I come by Captain\nDonnithorne's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said several voices at once, \"we're glad ye're come. Who's\ngot anything to say again' it?\"\n\n\"And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna\nye?\" said Mr. Chowne. \"That's a song I'm uncommon fond on.\"\n\n\"Peeh!\" said Mr. Craig; \"it's not to be named by side o' the Scotch\ntunes. I've never cared about singing myself; I've had something better\nto do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna\nlikely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o'\nmine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He'd\ngot nothing else to think on.\"\n\n\"The Scotch tunes!\" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; \"I've heard\nenough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit for\nnothing but to frighten the birds with--that's to say, the English\nbirds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the\nlads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the corn 'll\nbe safe.\"\n\n\"Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know\nbut little about,\" said Mr. Craig.\n\n\"Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman,\" Bartle\nwent on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig's remark. \"They go on with\nthe same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end.\nAnybody 'ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of\nsomebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer yet.\"\n\nAdam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position\nenabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table.\nHetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was\ngiving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on\nto the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty\nmarks on Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat\nlegs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busy\nin staring at the large dishes to see where the plum pudding was for\nher to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of\npatience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she\nsaid, \"Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty; she keeps putting her\nlegs up so, and messing my frock.\"\n\n\"What's the matter wi' the child? She can niver please you,\" said the\nmother. \"Let her come by the side o' me, then. I can put up wi' her.\"\n\nAdam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark\neyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary\nBurge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that Adam's\neyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be\nreflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad.\nMary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings, but she\nsaid to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adam\nshould know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had been plain, she\nwould have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one's\nmoral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But\nreally there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it looked\nso much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe Adam\nfelt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity,\nas if he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a little bird with\nits feathers ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but it\nwas impossible to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest\nthing in the world, and that if he could have his way, nothing should\never vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caught\nhis eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as she\nnodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation--she knew Mary Burge was\nlooking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam.\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV\n\nThe Health-Drinking\n\n\nWHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of\nbirthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at\nthe side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had\nbeen settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young\nsquire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a\nstate of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite,\nand his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his\nbreeches pockets.\n\nWhen the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one\nstood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He\nliked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great\ndeal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinking that\nthey had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in\nhis face as he said, \"My grandfather and I hope all our friends here\nhave enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine\nand I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like\nanything the better that the rector shares with us.\"\n\nAll eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy\nin his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock.\n\"Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, for\nwhere folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score.\nAnd though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many\nthings--one man lays down his land one way an' another another--an' I'll\nnot take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own--this I'll\nsay, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh\nall on us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver known\nanything on you but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an'\ny' act fair, an' we're joyful when we look forrard to your being our\nlandlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ull\nmake no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I\nmean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's said what he means,\nhe'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'. An'\nI'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till\nwe'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there's\nanybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as\nfor the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the\nparish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live\nto see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your\nHonour a family man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time,\nan' so we'll drink our young squire's health--three times three.\"\n\nHereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a\nshouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest\nmusic in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur\nhad felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it was\ntoo feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not\ndeserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something in\nhis conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why,\nno man's conduct will bear too close an inspection; and Poyser was not\nlikely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too\nfar, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have\nacted much worse; and no harm would come--no harm should come, for the\nnext time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must\nnot think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary\nto Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable\nthoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can\nbe formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become\neasy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished, and when it was\ntime for him to speak he was quite light-hearted.\n\n\"I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours,\" Arthur said, \"for the\ngood opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser\nhas been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be\nmy heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect\nthat, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, it\nis on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me\nto celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward to\nthis position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for myself, but\nas a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man\nas I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much\nolder, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a good\ndeal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities\nhave allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in\nmy hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the\nencouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and\ntrying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish\nto be looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and\nnothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on\nthe estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place\nat present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopes\nconcerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them--that\nwhat you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr.\nPoyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better\nstop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would\nnot be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has\nfilled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you\nhave joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to\nappear among you as the future representative of his name and family.\"\n\nPerhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly\nunderstood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing his\ngrandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew well\nenough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, \"he'd\nbetter not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth.\" The bucolic mind does\nnot readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could\nnot be rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur said, \"I thank you,\nboth for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one more thing I\nwish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope\nand believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not a\nrespect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my\nfriend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood\nthat there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his; that\nwhatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the\ninterests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that\nI was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lost\nmy old feeling for him--I think that shows that I know a good fellow\nwhen I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the\nmanagement of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable,\nnot only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has\nthe knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy\nto tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settled\nthat Adam shall manage the woods--a change which I am sure will be very\nmuch for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join\nme in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life\nthat he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam\nBede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sure\nyou will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health until\nwe have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of\nhis parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and\nlet us drink to our excellent rector--three times three!\"\n\nThis toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the\nlast, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when\nMr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned\ntowards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more striking\nthan that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people round\nthem. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of\nhis new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste\nin costume than Mr. Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-worn\nblack, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he\nhad the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat.\n\n\"This is not the first time, by a great many,\" he said, \"that I have\nhad to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but\nneighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious\nthe older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that\nwhen what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason\nfor rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners\ncame of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I\nfirst came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here,\nas well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as\npleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to see them\nlooking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say that among all\nthose young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my\nfriend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your\nregard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and\nhave naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot\nhave occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some pride as\nwell as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning\nhim, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will\nmake him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take\nthat important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on\nwhich a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young\nman of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which\nI share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity of\nsaying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. People\nin a high station are of course more thought of and talked about and\nhave their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in\nhumble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that\nhumble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be\ndone well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feeling\nthat when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character\nwhich would make him an example in any station, his merit should be\nacknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends\nshould delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well--I know what he is\nas a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother--and I am saying\nthe simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respect\nany man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some of\nyou are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who\ndoes not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health.\"\n\nAs Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, \"A\nbumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever\nas himself!\"\n\nNo hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as\nMr. Poyser. \"Tough work\" as his first speech had been, he would have\nstarted up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity\nof such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in\ndrinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing\nof his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others\nfelt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look\ncontented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently\nunanimous.\n\nAdam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He\nwas a good deal moved by this public tribute--very naturally, for he was\nin the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him\nhonour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled\nwith small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward nor\nembarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head\nthrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough\ndignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen,\nwho are never wondering what is their business in the world.\n\n\"I'm quite taken by surprise,\" he said. \"I didn't expect anything o'\nthis sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the more\nreason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to\nall my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'ud\nbe nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion you\nhave of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me\nall these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o'\nthe truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll\ndo it well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamed\nto stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's\na man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty\nclear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what we\nwill, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the powers that ha' been\ngiven to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe\nme, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to\nthis new employment I've taken in hand, I'll only say that I took it\nat Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his\nexpectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and\nto know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his\nint'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the\nright thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which\nit's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether\nhe sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does\nthe work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more\nabout what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my\nlife in my actions.\"\n\nThere were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the women\nwhispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed to\nspeak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that\nnobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a\nchap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about,\nmingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a\nbailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen\nhad risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and\nchildren sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but\nwine and dessert--sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good\nsherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and\nTotty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a\nwine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.\n\n\"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?\" said Arthur. \"Weren't you pleased to hear\nyour husband make such a good speech to-day?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly to\nguess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs.\"\n\n\"What! you think you could have made it better for him?\" said Mr.\nIrwine, laughing.\n\n\"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say\nit in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he's\na man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to.\"\n\n\"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this,\" Arthur said, looking\nround at the apple-cheeked children. \"My aunt and the Miss Irwines will\ncome up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the\ntoasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table.\"\n\nHe walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while\nMr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a\ndistance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young\nsquire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty,\nbut merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The\nfoolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman\nwas ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be\nthe mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable\nday she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality\ncame across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few\nhours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession\nis separated from a small outsider in the crowd.\n\n\n\nChapter XXV\n\nThe Games\n\n\nTHE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any lads\nand lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was\nmusic always at hand--for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable\nof playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this,\nthere was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful\nwind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful\nshow to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's\nfiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided\nhimself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to\nprefer dancing to a solo on that instrument.\n\nMeantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of\nthe house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles\nto be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women,\nraces to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men,\nand a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as that\nof walking as many yards possible on one leg--feats in which it was\ngenerally remarked that Wiry Ben, being \"the lissom'st, springest fellow\ni' the country,\" was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to\nbe a donkey-race--that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand\nsocialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and\nthe sorriest donkey winning.\n\nAnd soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask\nsatin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the\nwhole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where\nshe was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia\nhad requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and\nArthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's\ntaste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean,\nfinely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of\npunctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking\nneutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came\nlast with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides\nMr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for\nthe neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were\nrequired for the entertainment of the tenants.\n\nThere was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from\nthe park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the\nvictors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there\non benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white\nmarquees up to the sunk fence.\n\n\"Upon my word it's a pretty sight,\" said the old lady, in her deep\nvoice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with\nits dark-green background; \"and it's the last fete-day I'm likely to\nsee, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you\nget a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her.\"\n\n\"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother,\" said Arthur, \"I'm afraid I\nshould never satisfy you with my choice.\"\n\n\"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put off\nwith amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the\nexistence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never\ndo, because you'll want managing, and a silly woman can't manage you.\nWho is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing\nwithout his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side\nof him--his mother, of course. I like to see that.\"\n\n\"What, don't you know him, Mother?\" said Mr. Irwine. \"That is Seth\nBede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth\nhas looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his\nfather's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to\nmarry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month\nago, and I suppose she refused him.\"\n\n\"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here\nthat I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since I used to\ngo about.\"\n\n\"What excellent sight you have!\" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was\nholding a double glass up to his eyes, \"to see the expression of that\nyoung man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred\nspot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look\nclose. I can read small print without spectacles.\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those\nnear-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles to\nread with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at\na distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be\nblind to everything that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a man\nwho stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars.\"\n\n\"See,\" said Arthur, \"the old women are ready to set out on their race\nnow. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?\"\n\n\"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, and\nthen the little wiry one may win.\"\n\n\"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,\" said\nMiss Irwine. \"Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her.\"\n\n\"To be sure I will,\" said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs.\nPoyser. \"A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to\nbe neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her\nknee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?\"\n\n\"That is Hetty Sorrel,\" said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, \"Martin Poyser's\nniece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has\ntaught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very\nrespectably indeed--very respectably.\"\n\n\"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you\nmust have seen her,\" said Miss Irwine.\n\n\"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now,\" said Mrs.\nIrwine, continuing to look at Hetty. \"Well-looking, indeed! She's a\nperfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days.\nWhat a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers,\nwhen it's wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune!\nI daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just as\npretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.\"\n\nArthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was\nspeaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with\nsomething on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without\nlooking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty\npraised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climate\nto Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and\ngrew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in his\nplace would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all,\nas he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always look\nback upon with pride.\n\n\"No, Mother,\" and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; \"I can't\nagree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you\nimagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling,\nis conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a\ncoarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man may\nbe no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refined\nbeauty has on him, but he feels it.\"\n\n\"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?\"\n\n\"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than\nmarried men, because they have time for more general contemplation.\nYour fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by calling\none woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty\nMethodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preached\nto the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but the\nutmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is--though she doesn't\nknow it--that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about\nher. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the\ncoarsest fellow is not insensible to.\"\n\n\"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a\nprize, I suppose,\" said Mr. Gawaine. \"She must be one of the racers in\nthe sacks, who had set off before we came.\"\n\nThe \"bit of womanhood\" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise\nChad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergone\nan exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenly\nbody, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken\nto her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked\nout in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could have\nlooked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance\nbetween her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,\nperhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. But\nthen, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have been\ninclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty.\n\nBessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere\nhedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there\nwere to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached\nthe marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation\nsparkling in her round eyes.\n\n\"Here is the prize for the first sack-race,\" said Miss Lydia, taking a\nlarge parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it to\nMrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, \"an excellent grogram gown and a piece\nof flannel.\"\n\n\"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?\" said\nArthur. \"Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save that\ngrim-looking gown for one of the older women?\"\n\n\"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial,\" said Miss\nLydia, adjusting her own lace; \"I should not think of encouraging a love\nof finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that\nis for the old woman who wins.\"\n\nThis speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs.\nIrwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped a\nseries of curtsies.\n\n\"This is Bessy Cranage, mother,\" said Mr. Irwine, kindly, \"Chad\nCranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure,\" said Mrs. Irwine. \"Well, Bessy, here is your\nprize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had hard work\nto win them this warm day.\"\n\nBessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so hot and\ndisagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to\ncarry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a\ngrowing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turned\naway.\n\n\"Poor girl,\" said Arthur; \"I think she's disappointed. I wish it had\nbeen something more to her taste.\"\n\n\"She's a bold-looking young person,\" observed Miss Lydia. \"Not at all\none I should like to encourage.\"\n\nArthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money\nbefore the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind;\nbut she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of\nthe open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing\ndown the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry--very much tittered at\nthe while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her\ndiscreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just\ngiven the baby into her husband's charge.\n\n\"What's the matter wi' ye?\" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle\nand examining it. \"Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's\nrace. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as\nshould ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep\naway from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to make\nclothes for the lad--ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that\non ye.\"\n\n\"Ye may take it all, for what I care,\" said Bess the maiden, with a\npettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself.\n\n\"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't,\" said the\ndisinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad's\nBess should change her mind.\n\nBut that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits\nthat secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grand\nclimax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lost\nin the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey\nby hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the\nstrength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the\narguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental\nforce as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved the\nfirst-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill\njust when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd,\nradiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate\nrider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the\nmidst of its triumph.\n\nArthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made\nhappy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimlets\nenough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned\nfrom the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be\nunderstood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before\nthe gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous\nperformance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless\nborrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and\ncomplex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality.\nWiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an accomplishment productive of great\neffect at the yearly Wake--had needed only slightly elevating by an\nextra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would be\nvery much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had been\ndecidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it\nwas nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, in\nreturn for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised\nat this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had\nrequested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite\nsure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music would\nmake up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees,\nwhere the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not make a\nfool of himself--a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: he\nwas not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his nose\nat it.\n\n\"What's this, what's this?\" said old Mr. Donnithorne. \"Is it something\nyou've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a\nsmart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Arthur; \"I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to\ndance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this moment.\"\n\n\"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him,\" said Mr. Irwine; \"rather\na loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too\nmuch for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may\nrest till dinner.\"\n\nMiss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while\nJoshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the \"White Cockade,\" from\nwhich he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of\ntransitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some\nskill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known\nit, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben's\ndancing for any one to give much heed to the music.\n\nHave you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps\nyou have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in\ncrockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements\nof the head. That is as much like the real thing as the \"Bird Waltz\" is\nlike the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as a\ndancing monkey--as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopher\nascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties\nof angularity that could be given to the human limbs.\n\nTo make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur\nclapped his hands continually and cried \"Bravo!\" But Ben had one admirer\nwhose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled\nhis own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy\nbetween his legs.\n\n\"What dost think o' that?\" he said to his wife. \"He goes as pat to the\nmusic as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at\ndancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just to\nth' hair like that.\"\n\n\"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking,\" re-turned\nMrs. Poyser. \"He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver come\njigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry\nto look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can see.\"\n\n\"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em,\" said Mr. Poyser, who\ndid not easily take an irritable view of things. \"But they're going away\nnow, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a bit, shall we,\nand see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking and\nthings: I doubt he hasna had much fun.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI\n\nThe Dance\n\n\nARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely, for\nno other room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantage\nof the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance\ninto the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest\nto dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it was\nto enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those\nentrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like closets--with\nstucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and\ngreat medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with\nstatues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with\ngreen boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his\nhothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase\nwere covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were\nto stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids to see the dancing,\nand as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there was\nabundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in\ncoloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers'\nwives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more\nsplendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and\nqueen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins\nand acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how\nthings went on in the great world. The lamps were already lit, though\nthe sun had not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in\nwhich we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.\n\nIt was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their families\nwere moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along the\nbroad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of\nmossy grass spread on each side, studded here and there with a dark\nflat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with\nits branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of\ncottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being\nattracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from the\nwindows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room,\nand some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly.\nOne of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial\nattention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing.\nIt had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been more\nconstantly present with him than in this scene, where everything was\nso unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at the\nthoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young women--just as\none feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured Madonna the more\nwhen it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a\nbonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear\nthe better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more\nquerulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange\nconflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her\ndarling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the\njealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her\nthat Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall.\nAdam was getting more and more out of her reach; she wished all the old\ntroubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother\nsaid and did.\n\n\"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin',\" she said, \"an' thy father not a five\nweek in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o' bein' left to\ntake up merrier folks's room above ground.\"\n\n\"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother,\" said Adam, who was\ndetermined to be gentle to her to-day. \"I don't mean to dance--I shall\nonly look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud look\nas if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay.\nAnd thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day.\"\n\n\"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right t'\nhinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st slipped away\nfrom her, like the ripe nut.\"\n\n\"Well, Mother,\" said Adam, \"I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy\nfeelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo' that account: he\nwon't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing.\" He said this with\nsome effort, for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening.\n\n\"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be angered.\nGo an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. I\nknow it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked on--an' who's to be\nprouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an'\ndoin' for thee all these 'ears?\"\n\n\"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when you get\nhome,\" said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds,\nwhere he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so\noccupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to\nHetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the\nright one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and he\nhastened on to meet them.\n\n\"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again,\" said Mr. Poyser, who was\ncarrying Totty on his arm. \"You're going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope,\nnow your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o'\npartners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi'\nyou, an' she says no.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night,\" said Adam, already tempted\nto change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Mr. Poyser. \"Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night,\nall but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us as\nMiss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young squire 'ull pick\nmy wife for his first partner, t' open the ball: so she'll be forced to\ndance, though she's laid by ever sin' the Christmas afore the little un\nwas born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine young\nfellow and can dance as well as anybody.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin's\nnonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, you\nwonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you mun\nswallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone.\"\n\n\"Then if Hetty 'ull dance with me,\" said Adam, yielding either to Mrs.\nPoyser's argument or to something else, \"I'll dance whichever dance\nshe's free.\"\n\n\"I've got no partner for the fourth dance,\" said Hetty; \"I'll dance that\nwith you, if you like.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else\nit'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to pick an'\nchoose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don't\nask 'em.\"\n\nAdam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do for\nhim to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that Jonathan\nBurge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary\nto dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner.\n\n\"There's the big clock strikin' eight,\" said Mr. Poyser; \"we must make\nhaste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore us, an'\nthat wouldna look well.\"\n\nWhen they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly's\ncharge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of the\ndrawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals,\nleading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-house\nplants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr.\nDonnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings\nand queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the\ntenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if it\nhad been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection\nto gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his\nfigure.\n\nThe old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the\ntenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; but\nthe farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was\none of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most\nelaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about\nher health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as\nhe did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with\ngreat self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her\nhusband, \"I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old\nHarry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'.\" Mr. Poyser had no time to\nanswer, for now Arthur came up and said, \"Mrs. Poyser, I'm come to\nrequest the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser,\nyou must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner.\"\n\nThe wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as\nArthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra\nglass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good\ndancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering\nhimself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in HER life who could\nlift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours\ngiven to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the\nlargest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr.\nIrwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery,\nas he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the\ncottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples\nhad taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig,\nand Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious\ncountry-dance, best of all dances, began.\n\nPity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick\nshoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that\ngracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand--where\ncan we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying\naside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not\naffecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their\nside--that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little\ncompliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come\nagain--those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their\npartners, having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to\nsee all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and\nscanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots\nsmiling with double meaning.\n\nThere was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance:\nit was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that\nslovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into\nhis eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite\nto him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person.\nSo he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.\n\nHow Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at\nher to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press it? Would he look\nat her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling.\nNow he was there--he had taken her hand--yes, he was pressing it. Hetty\nturned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes,\nbefore the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like\nthe beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance\nand smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her\nwhat he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he\nshould be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean\nso much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the\ndesire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the\ndesire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended her\nfeelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos\nnot belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but\nspeaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations--eyes that tell of\ndeep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with\nthese eyes--perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as\na national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that\nuse it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had\nsomething of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him\ntoo well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt\nhe would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of\nabandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty.\n\nThese were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser,\nwho was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge\nnor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest\nin the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come and\ntake it as they chose.\n\n\"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir,\"\nsaid the good innocent woman; \"for she's so thoughtless, she'd be like\nenough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to\npromise too many.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,\" said Arthur, not without a twinge. \"Now, sit\ndown in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what\nyou would like best.\"\n\nHe hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be\npaid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; and\nthe country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the\nwaving of the hands, went on joyously.\n\nAt last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the\nstrong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of\neighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love;\nand Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transient\ngreeting--had never danced with her but once before. His eyes had\nfollowed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in\ndeeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly;\nshe did not seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than usual; there\nwas almost a sweet sadness about her. \"God bless her!\" he said inwardly;\n\"I'd make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a\nheart to love her, could do it.\"\n\nAnd then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from\nwork, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly\npressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and the\ntread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of the\nwind, for what he knew.\n\nBut now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and\nclaim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase,\nwhispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her\narms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs.\nPoyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to give them\nsome cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly\nwas to follow as fast as possible.\n\n\"Let me hold her,\" said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; \"the children\nare so heavy when they're asleep.\"\n\nHetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing,\nwas not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had\nthe unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child\nof her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was\nin the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her\nown, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist\nat Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads\nround Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next\nmoment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket\nscattered wide on the floor.\n\n\"My locket, my locket!\" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam;\n\"never mind the beads.\"\n\nAdam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his\nglance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised wooden\ndais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked it\nup, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It\nhad fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it\nover on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back.\n\n\"It isn't hurt,\" he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to\ntake it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.\n\n\"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it,\" said Hetty, who had been\npale and was now red.\n\n\"Not matter?\" said Adam, gravely. \"You seemed very frightened about it.\nI'll hold it till you're ready to take it,\" he added, quietly closing\nhis hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it\nagain.\n\nBy this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she\nhad taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She took it\nwith an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexed\nand angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determined now that she\nwould show no more signs of agitation.\n\n\"See,\" she said, \"they're taking their places to dance; let us go.\"\n\nAdam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. Had\nHetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her relations, he was sure,\nwould give her a locket like that; and none of her admirers, with whom\nhe was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the\ngiver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility\nof finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel\nwith a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to\nhim; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would\ncome to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the\ndance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an\nuneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of nothing to say\nto her; and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They\nwere both glad when the dance was ended.\n\nAdam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no one\nwould notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of doors, he\nbegan to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowing\nwhy, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so full\nof honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when\nhe was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of\nreviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery out\nof a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might have bought the\nthing herself. It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the\nthings on white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam\nhad very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought\nit could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as\nmuch as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might\nhave been childish enough to spend it in that way; she was such a young\nthing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why had she been\nso frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards\npretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his\nseeing that she had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it\nwas wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam\ndisapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and\ndisliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards\nthat he was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be\nharsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly,\nchewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had\nbehaved in a way which might chill Hetty's feeling towards him. For this\nlast view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty have\nan accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her\nuncle's house for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that\ndid not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It\nwould be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover.\nThe little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could form\nno guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very\ndistinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or mother's, who had died\nwhen she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own along\nwith it.\n\nAnd so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious\nweb of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can place between\nhimself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream that\nhe was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to\nforgive him for being so cold and silent.\n\nAnd while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the dance\nand saying to her in low hurried tones, \"I shall be in the wood the day\nafter to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can.\" And Hetty's foolish\njoys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a\nmere nothing, now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real\nperil. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished\nthat dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the\nlast weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies with more\ndelicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has\npersuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow.\n\nBut Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind\nwas filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrow\nmorning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had\ndone her duty and danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poyser\nmust go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it was\nhalf-past ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part\nthat it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser\nwas resolute on the point, \"manners or no manners.\"\n\n\"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?\" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as she\ncame to curtsy and take leave; \"I thought we should not part with any of\nour guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think\nof sitting out the dance till then.\"\n\n\"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up\nby candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds. We're late enough\nas it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want to\nbe milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So, if you'll please t' excuse us,\nwe'll take our leave.\"\n\n\"Eh!\" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, \"I'd sooner\nha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin'\ndays. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not\nrightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i'\nsmilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna think\nyou civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if it\nisn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagree.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that\nhe had had a great day, \"a bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes.\nAn' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll back thee against all\nthe wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a great\nhonour for the young squire to ask thee first--I reckon it was because\nI sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty too--she\nnever had such a partner before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals.\nIt'll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you\ndanced wi' th' young squire the day he come o' age.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Four\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII\n\nA crisis\n\n\nIT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after the\nbirthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midland\ncounty of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retarded\nby the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damage\nthroughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope\nfarmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-watered\nvalleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such\nexceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their own,\nyou will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapid\nrise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering in\ntheir own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying\nwinds flattered this hope.\n\nThe eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine looked\nbrighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses of\ncloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind the\nChase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a\nmoment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves,\nstill green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around the\nfarmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the\norchards; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on\nthe common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind\nseemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A\nmerry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could\ntop the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in\ngood spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind had\nfallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of the\nhusk and scattered as untimely seed!\n\nAnd yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it\nbe true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentiment\nof one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindful\nunconscious of another? For there is no hour that has not its births\nof gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new\nsickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There\nare so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that\nNature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of\nour lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as such\nchildren do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to be\ncontent with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more.\n\nIt was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work,\nfor he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until some\nsatisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan was\nslow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for\nhis hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him\nsince the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all the\nmore kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgiven\nhis silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the\nlocket to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happier\nbecause he observed in her a more subdued air, something that he\ninterpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. \"Ah!\"\nhe thought, again and again, \"she's only seventeen; she'll be thoughtful\nenough after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at the\nwork. She'll make a wife as Mother'll have no occasion to grumble at,\nafter all.\" To be sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the\nbirthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to the\nHall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the Chase\nand had gone home with them--almost as if she were inclined to encourage\nMr. Craig. \"She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house\nkeeper's room,\" Mrs. Poyser remarked. \"For my part, I was never overfond\no' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies' fat\ndogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show.\"\nAnd another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things;\nthough, to his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at\na distance getting over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But,\nwhen he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in again\nwhen he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther\ninto the fields after coming from Treddleston because she didn't want to\ngo in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt always\nmade such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. \"Oh, do come in with\nme!\" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, and\nhe could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented\nwith only a slight remark on Hetty's being later than was expected;\nwhile Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, smiled and\ntalked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.\n\nThat was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure for\ngoing to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going to\nthe Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he would get as much work done\nas possible this evening, that the next might be clear.\n\nOne piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs\nat the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, as\nbailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going to\nlet to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it\none day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for the\nsquire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr.\nCasson's agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would take\nthe Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it.\nHowever that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with all\ndispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order\nwith his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere,\nhe had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the\nafternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had\ncalculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to\nbe done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and\nAdam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as\nto make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for\nimplements; and all without any great expense for materials. So, when\nthe workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, and\nbusied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of the\nexpenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set him\non persuading the squire to consent. To \"make a good job\" of anything,\nhowever small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block,\nwith his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and\nthen and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile of\ngratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he\nloved also to think, \"I did it!\" And I believe the only people who are\nfree from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own. It\nwas nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; and\non giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been working\nhere to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. \"Why, th' lad's\nforgot his tools,\" thought Adam, \"and he's got to work up at the shop\nto-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd leave\nhis head behind him, if it was loose. However, it's lucky I've seen 'em;\nI'll carry 'em home.\"\n\nThe buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase,\nat about ten minutes' walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had come\nthither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nag\non his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come\nto look at the captain's new horse, on which he was to ride away the day\nafter to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servants\nwere to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire\nluck as he rode out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase,\nand was striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the\nsun was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays\namong the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare patch of\nground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt upon\nthe grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze to\nstir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in the\nhouse all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite\nenough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought\nhimself that he might do so by striking across the Chase and going\nthrough the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on\nacross the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with\nGyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the\nlight--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence in a certain\ncalm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy working-day thoughts.\nHow could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and were more\ntimid.\n\nPresently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said about\nArthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changes\nthat might take place before he came back; then they travelled back\naffectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt\non Arthur's good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in\nthe virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, with\na great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of its\nhappiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had no\nideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in\nthe past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving\nadmiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant\nthoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his\nkeen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the\nold green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a\nkind word to him.\n\nAfter that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path\nthrough the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree of\nall things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam's\nperceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. He\nkept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks and\nknots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and had\noften calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he\nstood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get\non, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech which\nhe had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince\nhimself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the\nrest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examining\nthe beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where his\nyouth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. The\nbeech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of\nboughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the\ntree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twenty\nyards before him.\n\nHe remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The\ntwo figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped hands\nabout to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been\nrunning among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave\na sharp bark. They separated with a start--one hurried through the gate\nout of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with\na sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale,\nclutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools over\nhis shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in which\namazement was fast turning to fierceness.\n\nArthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make\nunpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine than\nusual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flattering\ninfluence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adam\nthan he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best person\nwho could have happened to see him and Hetty together--he was a sensible\nfellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur felt\nconfident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so\nhe sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, his\nevening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust into\nhis waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light which\nthe light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now shedding\ndown between the topmost branches above him.\n\nAdam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood\nit all now--the locket and everything else that had been doubtful to\nhim: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters that\nchanged the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must\ninevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting\nemotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he\nwould not give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing.\nHe stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his own\nstrong will.\n\n\"Well, Adam,\" said Arthur, \"you've been looking at the fine old beeches,\neh? They're not to be come near by the hatchet, though; this is a sacred\ngrove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my\nden--the Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late.\nSo I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains.\nBut I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly damp. Good-night,\nAdam. I shall see you to-morrow--to say good-bye, you know.\"\n\nArthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself to\nbe thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face. He did not look\ndirectly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and then\nlifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no\nmore--he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam's eyes--and as he\nspoke the last words, he walked on.\n\n\"Stop a bit, sir,\" said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without\nturning round. \"I've got a word to say to you.\"\n\nArthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected by\na change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the\nsusceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was still\nmore surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his\nback to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was\ngoing to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper\nrising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in the\nconfusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the feeling that a\nman to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position\nto criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels\nhimself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares\nfor. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation as\nanger in his voice when he said, \"What do you mean, Adam?\"\n\n\"I mean, sir\"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without\nturning round--\"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by your light\nwords. This is not the first time you've met Hetty Sorrel in this grove,\nand this is not the first time you've kissed her.\"\n\nArthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from\nknowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty,\nwhich prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened his\nirritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, \"Well, sir, what then?\"\n\n\"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man we've\nall believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a selfish\nlight-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it's to lead to\nwhen a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman like\nHetty, and gives her presents as she's frightened for other folks\nto see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfish\nlight-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'd\nrather ha' lost my right hand.\"\n\n\"Let me tell you, Adam,\" said Arthur, bridling his growing anger and\ntrying to recur to his careless tone, \"you're not only devilishly\nimpertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such\na fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty and\npays her a little attention, he must mean something particular. Every\nman likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to be\nflirted with. The wider the distance between them, the less harm there\nis, for then she's not likely to deceive herself.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by flirting,\" said Adam, \"but if you mean\nbehaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her all\nthe while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man, and what isn't\nhonest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and you're not a fool, and you\nknow better than what you're saying. You know it couldn't be made\npublic as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done without her losing her\ncharacter and bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. What\nif you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Other folks\nwon't believe as you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not\ndeceiving herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the\nthought of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never love\nanother man as 'ud make her a good husband.\"\n\nArthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceived\nthat Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was no\nirrevocable damage done by this evening's unfortunate rencontre. Adam\ncould still be deceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into a\nposition in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope allayed\nhis anger a little.\n\n\"Well, Adam,\" he said, in a tone of friendly concession, \"you're perhaps\nright. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking notice of the pretty\nlittle thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You're such a grave,\nsteady fellow, you don't understand the temptation to such trifling.\nI'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the good\nPoysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a little\ntoo seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan't\nmake any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night\"--Arthur\nhere turned round to walk on--\"and talk no more about the matter. The\nwhole thing will soon be forgotten.\"\n\n\"No, by God!\" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no\nlonger, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till he\nwas right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personal\ninjury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up\nand mastered him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharp\nagony, could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium of\ninflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebellion\nagainst pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreak\nour vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had\nbeen robbed of Hetty--robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had\ntrusted--and he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring\nat him, with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he\nhad hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a just\nindignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to shake him\nas he spoke.\n\n\"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me,\nwhen she might ha' loved me--it'll not soon be forgot as you've robbed\nme o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and a\nnoble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've been kissing\nher, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i' my\nlife--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. And\nyou make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage other\nfolks, so as you get your bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throw\nback your favours, for you're not the man I took you for. I'll never\ncount you my friend any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, and\nfight me where I stand--it's all th' amends you can make me.\"\n\nPoor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began to\nthrow off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice the\nchange that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur's\nlips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating violently. The\ndiscovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for the\nmoment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's\nsuffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error.\nThe words of hatred and contempt--the first he had ever heard in his\nlife--seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars\non him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while\nothers respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to face\nwith the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was\nonly twenty-one, and three months ago--nay, much later--he had thought\nproudly that no man should ever be able to reproach him justly. His\nfirst impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been to\nutter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his\ncoat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale and\nmotionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.\n\n\"What!\" he said, \"won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't strike\nyou while you stand so.\"\n\n\"Go away, Adam,\" said Arthur, \"I don't want to fight you.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adam, bitterly; \"you don't want to fight me--you think I'm a\ncommon man, as you can injure without answering for it.\"\n\n\"I never meant to injure you,\" said Arthur, with returning anger. \"I\ndidn't know you loved her.\"\n\n\"But you've made her love you,\" said Adam. \"You're a double-faced\nman--I'll never believe a word you say again.\"\n\n\"Go away, I tell you,\" said Arthur, angrily, \"or we shall both repent.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adam, with a convulsed voice, \"I swear I won't go away\nwithout fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you're\na coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you.\"\n\nThe colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his right\nhand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adam\nstaggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam's now, and\nthe two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, fought\nwith the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight\ndarkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for the\nworkman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him to\nprotract the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men the\nbattle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur\nmust sink under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken\nby an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying\nconcealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darkly\nclad body.\n\nHe stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise.\n\nThe blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all the\nforce of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it? What had he\ndone by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his own\nvengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past--there it was,\njust as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage.\n\nBut why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the time\nseemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adam\nshuddered at the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming of\nthis dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted his head from among\nthe fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. The\nhorror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced upon\nhim its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's\nface, and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement,\nbut knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death.\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII\n\nA Dilemma\n\n\nIT was only a few minutes measured by the clock--though Adam always\nthought it had been a long while--before he perceived a gleam of\nconsciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver through his frame.\nThe intense joy that flooded his soul brought back some of the old\naffection with it.\n\n\"Do you feel any pain, sir?\" he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur's\ncravat.\n\nArthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way to a\nslightly startled motion as if from the shock of returning memory. But\nhe only shivered again and said nothing.\n\n\"Do you feel any hurt, sir?\" Adam said again, with a trembling in his\nvoice.\n\nArthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had\nunbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. \"Lay my head down,\" he said,\nfaintly, \"and get me some water if you can.\"\n\nAdam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the tools\nout of the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the edge of the\nGrove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below the bank.\n\nWhen he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full, Arthur\nlooked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened consciousness.\n\n\"Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?\" said Adam, kneeling down\nagain to lift up Arthur's head.\n\n\"No,\" said Arthur, \"dip my cravat in and souse it on my head.\"\n\nThe water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself a\nlittle higher, resting on Adam's arm.\n\n\"Do you feel any hurt inside sir?\" Adam asked again\n\n\"No--no hurt,\" said Arthur, still faintly, \"but rather done up.\"\n\nAfter a while he said, \"I suppose I fainted away when you knocked me\ndown.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, thank God,\" said Adam. \"I thought it was worse.\"\n\n\"What! You thought you'd done for me, eh? Come help me on my legs.\"\n\n\"I feel terribly shaky and dizzy,\" Arthur said, as he stood leaning\non Adam's arm; \"that blow of yours must have come against me like a\nbattering-ram. I don't believe I can walk alone.\"\n\n\"Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along,\" said Adam. \"Or, will you sit down\na bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll prop y' up. You'll perhaps be\nbetter in a minute or two.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Arthur. \"I'll go to the Hermitage--I think I've got some\nbrandy there. There's a short road to it a little farther on, near the\ngate. If you'll just help me on.\"\n\nThey walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking again.\nIn both of them, the concentration in the present which had attended\nthe first moments of Arthur's revival had now given way to a vivid\nrecollection of the previous scene. It was nearly dark in the narrow\npath among the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round the\nHermitage there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at the\nwindows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of fir-needles,\nand the outward stillness seemed to heighten their inward consciousness,\nas Arthur took the key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand,\nfor him to open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur had\nfurnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and it\nwas a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room with\nall the signs of frequent habitation.\n\nArthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman. \"You'll see\nmy hunting-bottle somewhere,\" he said. \"A leather case with a bottle and\nglass in.\"\n\nAdam was not long in finding the case. \"There's very little brandy in\nit, sir,\" he said, turning it downwards over the glass, as he held it\nbefore the window; \"hardly this little glassful.\"\n\n\"Well, give me that,\" said Arthur, with the peevishness of physical\ndepression. When he had taken some sips, Adam said, \"Hadn't I better\nrun to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy? I can be there and\nback pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home for you, if you don't have\nsomething to revive you.\"\n\n\"Yes--go. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to get\nit from Mills, and not to say I'm at the Hermitage. Get some water too.\"\n\nAdam was relieved to have an active task--both of them were relieved to\nbe apart from each other for a short time. But Adam's swift pace could\nnot still the eager pain of thinking--of living again with concentrated\nsuffering through the last wretched hour, and looking out from it over\nall the new sad future.\n\nArthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presently\nhe rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly in the broken\nmoonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of wax candle that\nstood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials. There was\nmore searching for the means of lighting the candle, and when that was\ndone, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himself\nof the presence or absence of something. At last he had found a slight\nthing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought,\ntook out again and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was a\nwoman's little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table,\nand threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the effort.\n\nWhen Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from a\ndoze.\n\n\"That's right,\" Arthur said; \"I'm tremendously in want of some\nbrandy-vigour.\"\n\n\"I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir,\" said Adam. \"I've been\nthinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn.\"\n\n\"No, no; the candle will last long enough--I shall soon be up to walking\nhome now.\"\n\n\"I can't go before I've seen you safe home, sir,\" said Adam,\nhesitatingly.\n\n\"No: it will be better for you to stay--sit down.\"\n\nAdam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy\nsilence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visibly\nrenovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position, and\nlooked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations. Adam was\nkeenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety about Arthur's\ncondition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience which\nevery one knows who has had his just indignation suspended by the\nphysical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his mind to be\ndone before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what had\nbeen unjust in his own words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make\nthis confession, that his indignation might be free again; and as he saw\nthe signs of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to\nhis lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be better\nto leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they were silent they did\nnot look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam that if they\nbegan to speak as though they remembered the past--if they looked at\neach other with full recognition--they must take fire again. So they sat\nin silence till the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket, the\nsilence all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had just\npoured out some more brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind his\nhead and drew up one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was an\nirresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind.\n\n\"You begin to feel more yourself again, sir,\" he said, as the candle\nwent out and they were half-hidden from each other in the faint\nmoonlight.\n\n\"Yes: I don't feel good for much--very lazy, and not inclined to move;\nbut I'll go home when I've taken this dose.\"\n\nThere was a slight pause before Adam said, \"My temper got the better of\nme, and I said things as wasn't true. I'd no right to speak as if you'd\nknown you was doing me an injury: you'd no grounds for knowing it; I've\nalways kept what I felt for her as secret as I could.\"\n\nHe paused again before he went on.\n\n\"And perhaps I judged you too harsh--I'm apt to be harsh--and you may\nhave acted out o' thoughtlessness more than I should ha' believed was\npossible for a man with a heart and a conscience. We're not all put\ntogether alike, and we may misjudge one another. God knows, it's all the\njoy I could have now, to think the best of you.\"\n\nArthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too painfully\nembarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to wish for any\nfurther explanation to-night. And yet it was a relief to him that Adam\nreopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer.\nArthur was in the wretched position of an open, generous man who has\ncommitted an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The native\nimpulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frank\nconfession, must be suppressed, and duty was becoming a question of\ntactics. His deed was reacting upon him--was already governing him\ntyrannously and forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitual\nfeelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive\nAdam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved.\nAnd when he heard the words of honest retractation--when he heard the\nsad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice in\nthe remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer\nimmediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful.\n\n\"Say no more about our anger, Adam,\" he said, at last, very languidly,\nfor the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; \"I forgive your momentary\ninjustice--it was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions you had in\nyour mind. We shall be none the worse friends in future, I hope, because\nwe've fought. You had the best of it, and that was as it should be, for\nI believe I've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shake\nhands.\"\n\nArthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still.\n\n\"I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir,\" he said, \"but I can't shake\nhands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I spoke as\nif you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong in what I said\nbefore, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't shake hands with you\nas if I held you my friend the same as ever till you've cleared that up\nbetter.\"\n\nArthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand.\nHe was silent for some moments, and then said, as indifferently as he\ncould, \"I don't know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I've told you\nalready that you think too seriously of a little flirtation. But if\nyou are right in supposing there is any danger in it--I'm going away on\nSaturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pain it has given\nyou, I'm heartily sorry for it. I can say no more.\"\n\nAdam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face\ntowards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of the\nmoonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but the\nconflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not to speak\ntill to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it was several minutes\nbefore he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and\nlooking down on him as he lay.\n\n\"It'll be better for me to speak plain,\" he said, with evident effort,\n\"though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle to me,\nwhatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go making love\nfirst to one woman and then t' another, and don't think it much odds\nwhich of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a different sort o' love,\nsuch as I believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it and God\nas has given it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to me, all but\nmy conscience and my good name. And if it's true what you've been saying\nall along--and if it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it,\nas 'll be put an end to by your going away--why, then, I'd wait, and\nhope her heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speak\nfalse to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look.\"\n\n\"You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it,\" said\nArthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving away.\nBut he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly,\n\"You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputations\nupon her.\"\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were\nhalf-relieved--for he was too straightforward to make a distinction\nbetween a direct falsehood and an indirect one--\"Nay, sir, things don't\nlie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your eyes open,\nwhatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in her mind? She's\nall but a child--as any man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound\nto take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbed\nher mind. I know she's been fixing her heart on you, for there's a many\nthings clear to me now as I didn't understand before. But you seem to\nmake light o' what she may feel--you don't think o' that.\"\n\n\"Good God, Adam, let me alone!\" Arthur burst out impetuously; \"I feel it\nenough without your worrying me.\"\n\nHe was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped him.\n\n\"Well, then, if you feel it,\" Adam rejoined, eagerly; \"if you feel as\nyou may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her believe as\nyou loved her, when all the while you meant nothing, I've this demand\nto make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t'\nundeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't going away for ever, and if\nyou leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your feeling about her\nthe same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, and the\nmischief may get worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save her\npain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeing\nas she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for\nbehaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't your equal.\nI speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody can\ntake care o' Hetty in this thing but me.\"\n\n\"I can do what I think needful in the matter,\" said Arthur, more and\nmore irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, \"without giving\npromises to you. I shall take what measures I think proper.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, \"that won't do. I must know\nwhat ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've put an end to what\nought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget what's owing to you as a\ngentleman, but in this thing we're man and man, and I can't give up.\"\n\nThere was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, \"I'll see you\nto-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill.\" He rose as he spoke, and\nreached his cap, as if intending to go.\n\n\"You won't see her again!\" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurring\nanger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing his back\nagainst it. \"Either tell me she can never be my wife--tell me you've\nbeen lying--or else promise me what I've said.\"\n\nAdam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before\nArthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped, faint,\nshaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of them--that\ninward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, \"I promise; let me\ngo.\"\n\nAdam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached the\nstep, he stopped again and leaned against the door-post.\n\n\"You're not well enough to walk alone, sir,\" said Adam. \"Take my arm\nagain.\"\n\nArthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But,\nafter a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, \"I believe I\nmust trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may be an alarm set\nup about me at home.\"\n\nAdam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till they\ncame where the basket and the tools lay.\n\n\"I must pick up the tools, sir,\" Adam said. \"They're my brother's. I\ndoubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a minute.\"\n\nArthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed between\nthem till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get in\nwithout being seen by any one. He said then, \"Thank you; I needn't\ntrouble you any further.\"\n\n\"What time will it be conven'ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?\" said\nAdam.\n\n\"You may send me word that you're here at five o'clock,\" said Arthur;\n\"not before.\"\n\n\"Good-night, sir,\" said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned\ninto the house.\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX\n\nThe Next Morning\n\n\nARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleep\ncomes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary enough. But at\nseven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going to\nget up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.\n\n\"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my\ngrandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am gone for\na ride.\"\n\nHe had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our\nyesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it\nbe but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some\nresistance to the past--sensations which assert themselves against\ntyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averages\nof feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting\nseasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter on\ncountry gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he\nshould be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting\non him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after the\nscenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion,\nthe loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment which\nsuffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes--as\na sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous woman afraid\neven to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense of\ndanger.\n\nArthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as\neasy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknesses\nand good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn't like to\nwitness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the\ngiver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down an\nold gardener's pitcher of broth, from no motive but a kicking impulse,\nnot reflecting that it was the old man's dinner; but on learning that\nsad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife\nout of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the same\nArthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits.\nIf there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself\nagainst the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the\ntime was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment,\nArthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at discovering that\nAdam's happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there had\nbeen a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends--if deeds of gift, or\nany other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment and regard for\nhim as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them without\nhesitation, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam,\nand would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam could\nreceive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and\naffection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He\nstood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure could\navail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing in--the\nirrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal\nto shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last conversation\nin the Hermitage--above all, the sense of having been knocked down, to\nwhich a man does not very well reconcile himself, even under the most\nheroic circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which was\nstronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himself\nthat he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he\ncould have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge a\nsword for herself out of our consciences--out of the suffering we feel\nin the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough there\nto make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good\nsociety and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person gives\nrough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. And\nso it was with Arthur: Adam's judgment of him, Adam's grating words,\ndisturbed his self-soothing arguments.\n\nNot that Arthur had been at ease before Adam's discovery. Struggles and\nresolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He was\ndistressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed for his own, that he\nmust leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breaking\nresolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedily\nend in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not\nto suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled with\nuneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living--that she\nwas to be a lady in silks and satins--and when he had first talked to\nher about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go\nwith him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had\ngiven the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had said no\nword with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all spun by her\nown childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to himself that it was\nspun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on this\nlast evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had been\nobliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw\nher into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the\nsorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker\nanxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future.\nThat was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he\ncould evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret;\nthe Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew\nanything of what had passed--no one else was likely to know; for Arthur\nhad impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word or\nlook, that there had been the least intimacy between them; and Adam, who\nknew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betray\nit. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use in\nmaking it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings\nof evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was\nthe worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad\nconsequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty might\nhave had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps\nhereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to her\nfor all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the advantage\nof his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had incurred now.\nSo good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things!\n\nAre you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two\nmonths ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour which\nshrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate any\nmore positive offence as possible for it?--who thought that his own\nself-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The same,\nI assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us,\nas much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or\nwill be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, which\nconstitutes a man's critical actions, it will be better not to think\nourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in\nour deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and then\nreconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second wrong\npresents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The\naction which before commission has been seen with that blended common\nsense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the\nsoul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity,\nthrough which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to\nbe made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a\n_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character--until the placid\nadjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.\n\nNo man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own\nsentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because of\nthat very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still at\nease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful to\nhim--he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not been\nvery much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity he\nwas under of deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honesty\nof his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.\n\nWell, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in\nconsequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter that\nhe had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross\nbarbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her.\nAnd across all this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden\nimpulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carry\nHetty away, and all other considerations might go to....\n\nIn this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable\nprison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all the\ncrowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which\nwould fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up\nhis mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg's back, in\nthe fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the\nsituation.\n\nThe pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the\ngravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, and\npatted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing tone than usual.\nHe loved her the better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But\nMeg was quite as well acquainted with her master's mental state as many\nothers of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlemen\ntowards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectation.\n\nArthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the foot\nof a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Then\nhe threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepared to make up his mind.\n\nHetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur\nwent away--there was no possibility of their contriving another without\nexciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened child, unable to think\nof anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put\nher face up to have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing but\ncomfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a\ndreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam\nsaid--that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might be\nworse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfying\nAdam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have\nseen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a thorny hedge\nof hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet,\nif he COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him to\nsuffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it.\nAway from him she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control.\n\nA sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination--the dread\nlest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon that\ndread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them off\nwith the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the\nfuture in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthur\ntold himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. He\nhad never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved;\nhe had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicit\nconfidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom,\nProvidence would not treat him harshly.\n\nAt all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could do\nwas to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And he\npersuaded himself that that course was to make the way open between\nAdam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a\nwhile; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, since\nit was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam\nwas deceived--deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as a\ndeep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflection\nthat marred the consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in\nmingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in\nsuch a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure\nHetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told or\nacted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was\nto have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had\nexcuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses\nbut by actions!)\n\nWell, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised\na solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur's eyes as he\nthought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him\nto write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and this\nlast thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could never\ndeliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left\nhimself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up\nHetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.\n\nWhen once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set\noff home again in a canter. The letter should be written the first\nthing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business:\nhe should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine\nwere coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock the next day he should\nhave left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this\nconstant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to\nrush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that would\nundo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every\nslight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift\ngallop.\n\n\"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night,\" said\nsour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants' hall. \"He's\nbeen ridin' fit to split the mare i' two this forenoon.\"\n\n\"That's happen one o' the symptims, John,\" said the facetious coachman.\n\n\"Then I wish he war let blood for 't, that's all,\" said John, grimly.\n\nAdam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been\nrelieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learning\nthat he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was punctually there\nagain, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down\nwith a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the captain\nwas too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say.\nThe letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again before\nopening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the\ninside of the cover Adam read:\n\n\n\"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it\nto you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hetty\nor to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not taking\na measure which may pain her more than mere silence.\n\n\"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meet\nwith better feelings some months hence.\n\n\"A.D.\"\n\n\n\"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me,\" thought Adam. \"It's\nno use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use meeting to shake\nhands and say we're friends again. We're not friends, an' it's better\nnot to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man's duty, but, to my\nthinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all thoughts o' taking\nrevenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old feelings back\nagain, for that's not possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can't\nfeel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel the\nsame towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a\nfalse line, and had got it all to measure over again.\"\n\nBut the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed\nAdam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwing\nthe decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to\nhesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way--to ascertain\nas well as he could what was Hetty's state of mind before he decided on\ndelivering the letter.\n\n\n\nChapter XXX\n\nThe Delivery of the Letter\n\n\nTHE next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of church,\nhoping for an invitation to go home with them. He had the letter in\nhis pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hetty\nalone. He could not see her face at church, for she had changed her\nseat, and when he came up to her to shake hands, her manner was doubtful\nand constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she had\nmet him since she had been aware that he had seen her with Arthur in the\nGrove.\n\n\"Come, you'll go on with us, Adam,\" Mr. Poyser said when they reached\nthe turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam ventured to\noffer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity of\nlingering behind a little, and then Adam said:\n\n\"Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you this\nevening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I've something partic'lar to talk to\nyou about.\"\n\nHetty said, \"Very well.\" She was really as anxious as Adam was that she\nshould have some private talk with him. She wondered what he thought of\nher and Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she had\nno conception of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam.\nHer first feeling had been that Adam would be very angry with her, and\nperhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never entered her mind\nthat he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It was a\nrelief to her that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted to\nspeak to her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was going\nhome with them lest he should mean \"to tell.\" But, now he wanted to talk\nto her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he meant to\ndo. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not to\ndo anything she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make him\nbelieve that she didn't care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thought\nthere was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she liked,\nshe knew. Besides, she MUST go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest her\nuncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her of having some secret\nlover.\n\nHetty's little brain was busy with this combination as she hung on\nAdam's arm and said \"yes\" or \"no\" to some slight observations of his\nabout the many hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds this\nnext winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would hardly hold up till\nmorning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue her\nthoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a young\nman might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he would\nnevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about business the\nwhile; and, for his own part, he was curious to hear the most recent\nnews about the Chase Farm. So, through the rest of the walk, he claimed\nAdam's conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots and\nimagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked along\nby the hedgerows on honest Adam's arm, quite as well as if she had been\nan elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country beauty\nin clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is astonishing how\nclosely her mental processes may resemble those of a lady in society\nand crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the problem of\ncommitting indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps the\nresemblance was not much the less because Hetty felt very unhappy all\nthe while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to her--mingling\nwith the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fear\nthat the future might shape itself in some way quite unlike her dream.\nShe clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their\nlast meeting--\"I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see\nwhat can be done.\" She clung to the belief that he was so fond of\nher, he would never be happy without her; and she still hugged her\nsecret--that a great gentleman loved her--with gratified pride, as a\nsuperiority over all the girls she knew. But the uncertainty of the\nfuture, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began to\npress upon her like the invisible weight of air; she was alone on her\nlittle island of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown water\nwhere Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now by\nlooking forward, but only by looking backward to build confidence on\npast words and caresses. But occasionally, since Thursday evening, her\ndim anxieties had been almost lost behind the more definite fear that\nAdam might betray what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden\nproposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in a\nnew way. She was eager not to lose this evening's opportunity; and after\ntea, when the boys were going into the garden and Totty begged to go\nwith them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs. Poyser,\n\"I'll go with her, Aunt.\"\n\nIt did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too,\nand soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the walk by the\nfilbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the large\nunripe nuts to play at \"cob-nut\" with, and Totty was watching them with\na puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a short time--hardly two\nmonths--since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as he\nstood by Hetty's side in this garden. The remembrance of that scene had\noften been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight through\nthe apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It came\nimportunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, but\nhe tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more\nthan was needful for Hetty's sake.\n\n\"After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,\" he began, \"you won't think\nme making too free in what I'm going to say. If you was being courted by\nany man as 'ud make you his wife, and I'd known you was fond of him and\nmeant to have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about\nit; but when I see you're being made love to by a gentleman as can never\nmarry you, and doesna think o' marrying you, I feel bound t' interfere\nfor you. I can't speak about it to them as are i' the place o' your\nparents, for that might bring worse trouble than's needful.\"\n\nAdam's words relieved one of Hetty's fears, but they also carried a\nmeaning which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding. She was pale\nand trembling, and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if she\nhad dared to betray her feelings. But she was silent.\n\n\"You're so young, you know, Hetty,\" he went on, almost tenderly, \"and y'\nhaven't seen much o' what goes on in the world. It's right for me to\ndo what I can to save you from getting into trouble for want o' your\nknowing where you're being led to. If anybody besides me knew what I\nknow about your meeting a gentleman and having fine presents from him,\nthey'd speak light on you, and you'd lose your character. And besides\nthat, you'll have to suffer in your feelings, wi' giving your love to\na man as can never marry you, so as he might take care of you all your\nlife.\"\n\nAdam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from the\nfilbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand. Her little plans and\npreconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill-learnt lesson,\nunder the terrible agitation produced by Adam's words. There was a cruel\nforce in their calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush her\nflimsy hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them--she wanted to throw\nthem off with angry contradiction--but the determination to conceal what\nshe felt still governed her. It was nothing more than a blind prompting\nnow, for she was unable to calculate the effect of her words.\n\n\"You've no right to say as I love him,\" she said, faintly, but\nimpetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. She was very\nbeautiful in her paleness and agitation, with her dark childish eyes\ndilated and her breath shorter than usual. Adam's heart yearned over her\nas he looked at her. Ah, if he could but comfort her, and soothe her,\nand save her from this pain; if he had but some sort of strength that\nwould enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would have\nrescued her body in the face of all danger!\n\n\"I doubt it must be so, Hetty,\" he said, tenderly; \"for I canna believe\nyou'd let any man kiss you by yourselves, and give you a gold box with\nhis hair, and go a-walking i' the Grove to meet him, if you didna love\nhim. I'm not blaming you, for I know it 'ud begin by little and little,\ntill at last you'd not be able to throw it off. It's him I blame for\nstealing your love i' that way, when he knew he could never make you\nthe right amends. He's been trifling with you, and making a plaything of\nyou, and caring nothing about you as a man ought to care.\"\n\n\"Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you,\" Hetty burst out.\nEverything was forgotten but the pain and anger she felt at Adam's\nwords.\n\n\"Nay, Hetty,\" said Adam, \"if he'd cared for you rightly, he'd never\nha' behaved so. He told me himself he meant nothing by his kissing and\npresents, and he wanted to make me believe as you thought light of 'em\ntoo. But I know better nor that. I can't help thinking as you've been\ntrusting to his loving you well enough to marry you, for all he's a\ngentleman. And that's why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, for\nfear you should be deceiving yourself. It's never entered his head the\nthought o' marrying you.\"\n\n\"How do you know? How durst you say so?\" said Hetty, pausing in her walk\nand trembling. The terrible decision of Adam's tone shook her with fear.\nShe had no presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur would\nhave his reasons for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and look\nwere enough to determine Adam: he must give her the letter.\n\n\"Perhaps you can't believe me, Hetty, because you think too well of\nhim--because you think he loves you better than he does. But I've got\na letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give you. I've not\nread the letter, but he says he's told you the truth in it. But before\nI give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don't let it take too much\nhold on you. It wouldna ha' been good for you if he'd wanted to do such\na mad thing as marry you: it 'ud ha' led to no happiness i' th' end.\"\n\nHetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of a\nletter which Adam had not read. There would be something quite different\nin it from what he thought.\n\nAdam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while he\nsaid, in a tone of tender entreaty, \"Don't you bear me ill will, Hetty,\nbecause I'm the means o' bringing you this pain. God knows I'd ha' borne\na good deal worse for the sake o' sparing it you. And think--there's\nnobody but me knows about this, and I'll take care of you as if I was\nyour brother. You're the same as ever to me, for I don't believe you've\ndone any wrong knowingly.\"\n\nHetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it till\nhe had done speaking. She took no notice of what he said--she had not\nlistened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket,\nwithout opening it, and then began to walk more quickly, as if she\nwanted to go in.\n\n\"You're in the right not to read it just yet,\" said Adam. \"Read it when\nyou're by yourself. But stay out a little bit longer, and let us call\nthe children: you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice of\nit.\"\n\nHetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of rallying\nher native powers of concealment, which had half given way under the\nshock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in her pocket: she was\nsure there was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to find\nTotty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who was\nmaking a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe\napple that she had set her small teeth in.\n\n\"Hegh, Totty,\" said Adam, \"come and ride on my shoulder--ever so\nhigh--you'll touch the tops o' the trees.\"\n\nWhat little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense of\nbeing seized strongly and swung upward? I don't believe Ganymede cried\nwhen the eagle carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove's\nshoulder at the end. Totty smiled down complacently from her secure\nheight, and pleasant was the sight to the mother's eyes, as she stood at\nthe house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden.\n\n\"Bless your sweet face, my pet,\" she said, the mother's strong love\nfilling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty leaned forward and put\nout her arms. She had no eyes for Hetty at that moment, and only said,\nwithout looking at her, \"You go and draw some ale, Hetty; the gells are\nboth at the cheese.\"\n\nAfter the ale had been drawn and her uncle's pipe lighted, there was\nTotty to be taken to bed, and brought down again in her night-gown\nbecause she would cry instead of going to sleep. Then there was supper\nto be got ready, and Hetty must be continually in the way to give help.\nAdam stayed till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected him to go, engaging her\nand her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake of\nleaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he wanted to see her\nsafely through that evening, and he was delighted to find how much\nself-command she showed. He knew she had not had time to read the\nletter, but he did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the\nletter would contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for him\nto leave her--hard to think that he should not know for days how she was\nbearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and all he could do was\nto press her hand gently as he said \"Good-bye,\" and hope she would take\nthat as a sign that if his love could ever be a refuge for her, it was\nthere the same as ever. How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home,\nin devising pitying excuses for her folly, in referring all her weakness\nto the sweet lovingness of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less and\nless inclination to admit that his conduct might be extenuated too! His\nexasperation at Hetty's suffering--and also at the sense that she was\npossibly thrust for ever out of his own reach--deafened him to any\nplea for the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery. Adam was a\nclear-sighted, fair-minded man--a fine fellow, indeed, morally as well\nas physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever in love and jealous,\nhe was at that moment not perfectly magnanimous. And I cannot pretend\nthat Adam, in these painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignation\nand loving pity. He was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his love\nmade him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a vent\nin his feeling towards Arthur.\n\n\"Her head was allays likely to be turned,\" he thought, \"when a\ngentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, and his white hands,\nand that way o' talking gentlefolks have, came about her, making up to\nher in a bold way, as a man couldn't do that was only her equal; and\nit's much if she'll ever like a common man now.\" He could not help\ndrawing his own hands out of his pocket and looking at them--at the hard\npalms and the broken finger-nails. \"I'm a roughish fellow, altogether; I\ndon't know, now I come to think on't, what there is much for a woman to\nlike about me; and yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, if\nI hadn't set my heart on her. But it's little matter what other women\nthink about me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me, perhaps,\nas likely as any other man--there's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid of,\nif he hadn't come between us; but now I shall belike be hateful to her\nbecause I'm so different to him. And yet there's no telling--she may\nturn round the other way, when she finds he's made light of her all the\nwhile. She may come to feel the vally of a man as 'ud be thankful to be\nbound to her all his life. But I must put up with it whichever way it\nis--I've only to be thankful it's been no worse. I am not th' only man\nthat's got to do without much happiness i' this life. There's many a\ngood bit o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that's\nenough for us: we shouldn't know better how things ought to be than He\ndoes, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling. But it 'ud ha'\ngone near to spoil my work for me, if I'd seen her brought to sorrow and\nshame, and through the man as I've always been proud to think on. Since\nI've been spared that, I've no right to grumble. When a man's got his\nlimbs whole, he can bear a smart cut or two.\"\n\nAs Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections, he\nperceived a man walking along the field before him. He knew it was Seth,\nreturning from an evening preaching, and made haste to overtake him.\n\n\"I thought thee'dst be at home before me,\" he said, as Seth turned round\nto wait for him, \"for I'm later than usual to-night.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with John\nBarnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of perfection,\nand I'd a question to ask him about his experience. It's one o' them\nsubjects that lead you further than y' expect--they don't lie along the\nstraight road.\"\n\nThey walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam was not\ninclined to enter into the subtleties of religious experience, but he\nwas inclined to interchange a word or two of brotherly affection and\nconfidence with Seth. That was a rare impulse in him, much as the\nbrothers loved each other. They hardly ever spoke of personal matters,\nor uttered more than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam was\nby nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain\ntimidity towards his more practical brother.\n\n\"Seth, lad,\" Adam said, putting his arm on his brother's shoulder, \"hast\nheard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Seth. \"She told me I might write her word after a while, how\nwe went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to her\na fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment, and\nhow Mother was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at the\npost at Treddles'on, I found a letter from her. I think thee'dst perhaps\nlike to read it, but I didna say anything about it because thee'st\nseemed so full of other things. It's quite easy t' read--she writes\nwonderful for a woman.\"\n\nSeth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, who\nsaid, as he took it, \"Aye, lad, I've got a tough load to carry just\nnow--thee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit silenter and crustier nor\nusual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we shall\nstick together to the last.\"\n\n\"I take nought ill o' thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means if\nthee't a bit short wi' me now and then.\"\n\n\"There's Mother opening the door to look out for us,\" said Adam, as they\nmounted the slope. \"She's been sitting i' the dark as usual. Well, Gyp,\nwell, art glad to see me?\"\n\nLisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heard\nthe welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp's joyful\nbark.\n\n\"Eh, my lads! Th' hours war ne'er so long sin' I war born as they'n been\nthis blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha' been doin' till this\ntime?\"\n\n\"Thee shouldstna sit i' the dark, Mother,\" said Adam; \"that makes the\ntime seem longer.\"\n\n\"Eh, what am I to do wi' burnin' candle of a Sunday, when there's on'y\nme an' it's sin to do a bit o' knittin'? The daylight's long enough\nfor me to stare i' the booke as I canna read. It 'ud be a fine way o'\nshortenin' the time, to make it waste the good candle. But which on\nyou's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should\nthink, seein' what time o' night it is.\"\n\n\"I'm hungry, Mother,\" said Seth, seating himself at the little table,\nwhich had been spread ever since it was light.\n\n\"I've had my supper,\" said Adam. \"Here, Gyp,\" he added, taking some cold\npotato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked up\ntowards him.\n\n\"Thee needstna be gi'in' th' dog,\" said Lisbeth; \"I'n fed him well\na'ready. I'm not like to forget him, I reckon, when he's all o' thee I\ncan get sight on.\"\n\n\"Come, then, Gyp,\" said Adam, \"we'll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I'm\nvery tired.\"\n\n\"What ails him, dost know?\" Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone\nupstairs. \"He's like as if he was struck for death this day or two--he's\nso cast down. I found him i' the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast\ngone, a-sittin' an' doin' nothin'--not so much as a booke afore him.\"\n\n\"He's a deal o' work upon him just now, Mother,\" said Seth, \"and I think\nhe's a bit troubled in his mind. Don't you take notice of it, because it\nhurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don't\nsay anything to vex him.\"\n\n\"Eh, what dost talk o' my vexin' him? An' what am I like to be but kind?\nI'll ma' him a kettle-cake for breakfast i' the mornin'.\"\n\nAdam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah's letter by the light of his dip\ncandle.\n\n\nDEAR BROTHER SETH--Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of it\nat the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the carriage, this\nbeing a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that have\nfallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to lay\nby money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many in\npresent need of all things, would be a want of trust like the laying\nup of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think me\nslow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldly\ngood that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bear\nhim is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he uses\nthem as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to a place of\npower and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his parent and his\nyounger brother.\n\n\"My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be near\nher in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I often bear\nher in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim light\nas I did with her, and we held one another's hands, and I spoke the\nwords of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time,\nisn't it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is a\nlittle wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward light\nshines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divine\nstrength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and it\nis as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. For\nthen, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin\nI have beheld and been ready to weep over--yea, all the anguish of the\nchildren of men, which sometimes wraps me round like sudden darkness--I\ncan bear with a willing pain, as if I was sharing the Redeemer's cross.\nFor I feel it, I feel it--infinite love is suffering too--yea, in the\nfulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns, it mourns; and that is a\nblind self-seeking which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewith\nthe whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not true\nblessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in the\nworld: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw it\noff. It is not the spirit only that tells me this--I see it in the whole\nwork and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not the\nMan of Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? And\nis He not one with the Infinite Love itself--as our love is one with our\nsorrow?\n\n\"These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seen\nwith new clearness the meaning of those words, 'If any man love me, let\nhim take up my cross.' I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the\ntroubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. But\nsurely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was the\nsin and sorrow of this world--that was what lay heavy on his heart--and\nthat is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we must drink\nof with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is one\nwith his sorrow.\n\n\"In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. I\nhave had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands have\nbeen turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so that\nI feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What you say\nabout staying in your own country with your mother and brother shows me\nthat you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clear\nshowing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying a\nfalse offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindle\nit. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes think\nI cling too much to my life among the people here, and should be\nrebellious if I was called away.\n\n\"I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall\nFarm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt's desire, after I came\nback from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. My\naunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house is\nsufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to her\nand her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh--yea, and to\nall in that house. I am carried away to them continually in my sleep,\nand often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the thought of them\nis borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is dark\nto me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be taught. You say\nthey are all well.\n\n\"We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be,\nnot for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are desirous\nto have me for a short space among them, when I have a door opened me\nagain to leave Snowfield.\n\n\"Farewell, dear brother--and yet not farewell. For those children of\nGod whom it has been granted to see each other face to face, and to\nhold communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both can\nnever more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their souls\nare enlarged for evermore by that union, and they bear one another about\nin their thoughts continually as it were a new strength.--Your faithful\nSister and fellow-worker in Christ,\n\n\"DINAH MORRIS.\"\n\n\n\"I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen moves\nslow. And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is in my mind.\nGreet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twice\nwhen we parted.\"\n\n\nAdam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his head\nresting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came upstairs.\n\n\"Hast read the letter?\" said Seth.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Adam. \"I don't know what I should ha' thought of her and her\nletter if I'd never seen her: I daresay I should ha' thought a preaching\nwoman hateful. But she's one as makes everything seem right she says\nand does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the\nletter. It's wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. She'd\nmake thee rare and happy, Seth; she's just the woman for thee.\"\n\n\"It's no use thinking o' that,\" said Seth, despondingly. \"She spoke so\nfirm, and she's not the woman to say one thing and mean another.\"\n\n\"Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love by\ndegrees--the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I'd have thee go and\nsee her by and by: I'd make it convenient for thee to be away three\nor four days, and it 'ud be no walk for thee--only between twenty and\nthirty mile.\"\n\n\"I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be\ndispleased with me for going,\" said Seth.\n\n\"She'll be none displeased,\" said Adam emphatically, getting up and\nthrowing off his coat. \"It might be a great happiness to us all if she'd\nhave thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so contented\nto be with her.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Seth, rather timidly, \"and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too; she\nthinks a deal about her.\"\n\nAdam made no reply to that, and no other word but \"good-night\" passed\nbetween them.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI\n\nIn Hetty's Bed-Chamber\n\n\nIT was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even in\nMrs. Poyser's early household, and Hetty carried one with her as she\nwent up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted the\ndoor behind her.\n\nNow she would read her letter. It must--it must have comfort in it. How\nwas Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he should say what he\ndid say.\n\nShe set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent of\nroses, which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her. She put it to\nher lips, and a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two swept\naway all fear. But her heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands\nto tremble as she broke the seal. She read slowly; it was not easy for\nher to read a gentleman's handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains to\nwrite plainly.\n\n\n\"DEAREST HETTY--I have spoken truly when I have said that I loved you,\nand I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true friend as long\nas life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If I say\nanything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want of\nlove and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing I would not do\nfor you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear to\nthink of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them\naway; and if I followed only my own inclinations, I should be with her\nat this moment instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part from\nher--harder still for me to write words which may seem unkind, though\nthey spring from the truest kindness.\n\n\"Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it would\nbe to me for you to love me always, I feel that it would have been\nbetter for us both if we had never had that happiness, and that it is\nmy duty to ask you to love me and care for me as little as you can. The\nfault has all been mine, for though I have been unable to resist the\nlonging to be near you, I have felt all the while that your affection\nfor me might cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my feelings. I\nshould have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I am; but now,\nsince the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you from any evil\nthat I have power to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil for\nyou if your affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of\nno other man who might be able to make you happier by his love than I\never can, and if you continued to look towards something in the future\nwhich cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what you\none day spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do what you yourself\nwould come to feel was for your misery instead of your welfare. I know\nyou can never be happy except by marrying a man in your own station; and\nif I were to marry you now, I should only be adding to any wrong I have\ndone, besides offending against my duty in the other relations of life.\nYou know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live,\nand you would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so little\nin which we should be alike.\n\n\"And since I cannot marry you, we must part--we must try not to feel\nlike lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but nothing else\ncan be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believe\nthat I shall not always care for you--always be grateful to you--always\nremember my Hetty; and if any trouble should come that we do not now\nforesee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power.\n\n\"I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want to\nwrite, but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten. Do not\nwrite unless there is something I can really do for you; for, dear\nHetty, we must try to think of each other as little as we can. Forgive\nme, and try to forget everything about me, except that I shall be, as\nlong as I live, your affectionate friend,\n\n\"ARTHUR DONNITHORNE.\"\n\n\nSlowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it there\nwas the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass--a white\nmarble face with rounded childish forms, but with something sadder than\na child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the face--she saw nothing--she\nonly felt that she was cold and sick and trembling. The letter shook and\nrustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible sensation--this\ncold and trembling. It swept away the very ideas that produced it, and\nHetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her clothes-press, wrapped it\nround her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but getting warm.\nPresently she took up the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read\nit through again. The tears came this time--great rushing tears that\nblinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur was\ncruel--cruel to write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could\nnot marry her had no existence for her mind; how could she believe in\nany misery that could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had\nbeen longing for and dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make\nup the notion of that misery.\n\nAs she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face in the\nglass; it was reddened now, and wet with tears; it was almost like a\ncompanion that she might complain to--that would pity her. She leaned\nforward on her elbows, and looked into those dark overflooding eyes and\nat the quivering mouth, and saw how the tears came thicker and thicker,\nand how the mouth became convulsed with sobs.\n\nThe shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing blow on\nher new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving nature with an\noverpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to resistance, and\nsuspended her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went out, and then,\nwearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw herself on the bed without\nundressing and went to sleep.\n\nThere was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little after\nfour o'clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause of which broke upon\nher gradually as she began to discern the objects round her in the dim\nlight. And then came the frightening thought that she had to conceal her\nmisery as well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming.\nShe could lie no longer. She got up and went towards the table: there\nlay the letter. She opened her treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-rings\nand the locket--the signs of all her short happiness--the signs of\nthe lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the little\ntrinkets which she had once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest\nof her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the moments when\nthey had been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangely\npretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a bewildering\ndelicious surprise--they were so much sweeter than she had thought\nanything could be. And the Arthur who had spoken to her and looked at\nher in this way, who was present with her now--whose arm she felt round\nher, his cheek against hers, his very breath upon her--was the cruel,\ncruel Arthur who had written that letter, that letter which she snatched\nand crushed and then opened again, that she might read it once more. The\nhalf-benumbed mental condition which was the effect of the last night's\nviolent crying made it necessary to her to look again and see if her\nwretched thoughts were actually true--if the letter was really so cruel.\nShe had to hold it close to the window, else she could not have read it\nby the faint light. Yes! It was worse--it was more cruel. She crushed\nit up again in anger. She hated the writer of that letter--hated him\nfor the very reason that she hung upon him with all her love--all the\ngirlish passion and vanity that made up her love.\n\nShe had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last night,\nand now she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, which is worse than the\nfirst shock because it has the future in it as well as the present.\nEvery morning to come, as far as her imagination could stretch, she\nwould have to get up and feel that the day would have no joy for her.\nFor there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first\nmoments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is\nto have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered\nhope. As Hetty began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all\nthe night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a\nsickening sense that her life would go on in this way. She should always\nbe doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks of\nwork, seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, and to\nTreddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying no happy thought\nwith her. For her short poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all the\nlittle joys that had once made the sweetness of her life--the new frock\nready for Treddleston Fair, the party at Mr. Britton's at Broxton wake,\nthe beaux that she would say \"No\" to for a long while, and the prospect\nof the wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gown\nand a great many clothes all at once. These things were all flat and\ndreary to her now; everything would be a weariness, and she would carry\nabout for ever a hopeless thirst and longing.\n\nShe paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned against the\ndark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms were bare, her hair hung down\nin delicate rings--and they were just as beautiful as they were that\nnight two months ago, when she walked up and down this bed-chamber\nglowing with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her neck and arms\nnow; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered sadly\nover the dull old chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards the\ngrowing dawn. Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her mind? Of her\nforeboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's affectionate\nentreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the impression\nhad been too slight to recur. Any affection or comfort Dinah could\nhave given her would have been as indifferent to Hetty this morning as\neverything else was except her bruised passion. She was only thinking\nshe could never stay here and go on with the old life--she could better\nbear something quite new than sinking back into the old everyday round.\nShe would like to run away that very morning, and never see any of the\nold faces again. But Hetty's was not a nature to face difficulties--to\ndare to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown\ncondition. Hers was a luxurious and vain nature--not a passionate\none--and if she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be urged\nto it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room for her\nthoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and she soon\nfixed on the one thing she would do to get away from her old life: she\nwould ask her uncle to let her go to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maid\nwould help her to get a situation, if she knew Hetty had her uncle's\nleave.\n\nWhen she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began to\nwash: it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try to behave\nas usual. She would ask her uncle this very day. On Hetty's blooming\nhealth it would take a great deal of such mental suffering as hers to\nleave any deep impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as usual\nin her working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap,\nan indifferent observer would have been more struck with the young\nroundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes and\neyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her. But when she took up\nthe crushed letter and put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out\nof sight, hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the great\ndrops had that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes. She\nwiped them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-time. Nobody should\nfind out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was disappointed\nabout anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and uncle\nwould be upon her gave her the self-command which often accompanies a\ngreat dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the\npossibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick and\nweary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They would think her\nconduct shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty's\nconscience.\n\nSo she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work.\n\nIn the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his\ngood-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized the\nopportunity of her aunt's absence to say, \"Uncle, I wish you'd let me go\nfor a lady's maid.\"\n\nMr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mild\nsurprise for some moments. She was sewing, and went on with her work\nindustriously.\n\n\"Why, what's put that into your head, my wench?\" he said at last, after\nhe had given one conservative puff.\n\n\"I should like it--I should like it better than farm-work.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn't\nbe half so good for your health, nor for your luck i' life. I'd like you\nto stay wi' us till you've got a good husband: you're my own niece, and\nI wouldn't have you go to service, though it was a gentleman's house, as\nlong as I've got a home for you.\"\n\nMr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe.\n\n\"I like the needlework,\" said Hetty, \"and I should get good wages.\"\n\n\"Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi' you?\" said Mr. Poyser, not noticing\nHetty's further argument. \"You mustna mind that, my wench--she does it\nfor your good. She wishes you well; an' there isn't many aunts as are no\nkin to you 'ud ha' done by you as she has.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't my aunt,\" said Hetty, \"but I should like the work better.\"\n\n\"It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit--an' I gev my\nconsent to that fast enough, sin' Mrs. Pomfret was willing to teach you.\nFor if anything was t' happen, it's well to know how to turn your hand\nto different sorts o' things. But I niver meant you to go to service, my\nwench; my family's ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybody\nknows, hanna they, Father? You wouldna like your grand-child to take\nwage?\"\n\n\"Na-a-y,\" said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant to make\nit bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and looked down\non the floor. \"But the wench takes arter her mother. I'd hard work t'\nhould HER in, an' she married i' spite o' me--a feller wi' on'y two head\no' stock when there should ha' been ten on's farm--she might well die o'\nth' inflammation afore she war thirty.\"\n\nIt was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son's question\nhad fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long unextinguished\nresentment, which had always made the grandfather more indifferent to\nHetty than to his son's children. Her mother's fortune had been spent by\nthat good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel's blood in her veins.\n\n\"Poor thing, poor thing!\" said Martin the younger, who was sorry to have\nprovoked this retrospective harshness. \"She'd but bad luck. But Hetty's\ngot as good a chance o' getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i'\nthis country.\"\n\nAfter throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his pipe\nand his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did not give some sign\nof having renounced her ill-advised wish. But instead of that, Hetty,\nin spite of herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at the denial,\nhalf out of the day's repressed sadness.\n\n\"Hegh, hegh!\" said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, \"don't\nlet's have any crying. Crying's for them as ha' got no home, not for\nthem as want to get rid o' one. What dost think?\" he continued to his\nwife, who now came back into the house-place, knitting with fierce\nrapidity, as if that movement were a necessary function, like the\ntwittering of a crab's antennae.\n\n\"Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are much\nolder, wi' that gell forgetting to lock the pens up o' nights. What's\nthe matter now, Hetty? What are you crying at?\"\n\n\"Why, she's been wanting to go for a lady's maid,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"I\ntell her we can do better for her nor that.\"\n\n\"I thought she'd got some maggot in her head, she's gone about wi' her\nmouth buttoned up so all day. It's all wi' going so among them servants\nat the Chase, as we war fools for letting her. She thinks it 'ud be a\nfiner life than being wi' them as are akin to her and ha' brought her up\nsin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks there's nothing belongs to\nbeing a lady's maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born to, I'll\nbe bound. It's what rag she can get to stick on her as she's thinking on\nfrom morning till night, as I often ask her if she wouldn't like to be\nthe mawkin i' the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out.\nI'll never gi' my consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she's\ngot good friends to take care on her till she's married to somebody\nbetter nor one o' them valets, as is neither a common man nor a\ngentleman, an' must live on the fat o' the land, an's like enough to\nstick his hands under his coat-tails and expect his wife to work for\nhim.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"we must have a better husband for her nor\nthat, and there's better at hand. Come, my wench, give over crying and\nget to bed. I'll do better for you nor letting you go for a lady's maid.\nLet's hear no more on't.\"\n\nWhen Hetty was gone upstairs he said, \"I canna make it out as she should\nwant to go away, for I thought she'd got a mind t' Adam Bede. She's\nlooked like it o' late.\"\n\n\"Eh, there's no knowing what she's got a liking to, for things take\nno more hold on her than if she was a dried pea. I believe that gell,\nMolly--as is aggravatin' enough, for the matter o' that--but I believe\nshe'd care more about leaving us and the children, for all she's been\nhere but a year come Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she's got this\nnotion o' being a lady's maid wi' going among them servants--we might\nha' known what it 'ud lead to when we let her go to learn the fine work.\nBut I'll put a stop to it pretty quick.\"\n\n\"Thee'dst be sorry to part wi' her, if it wasn't for her good,\" said Mr.\nPoyser. \"She's useful to thee i' the work.\"\n\n\"Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on her nor she deserves--a little hard-hearted\nhussy, wanting to leave us i' that way. I can't ha' had her about me\nthese seven year, I reckon, and done for her, and taught her everything\nwi'out caring about her. An' here I'm having linen spun, an' thinking\nall the while it'll make sheeting and table-clothing for her when she's\nmarried, an' she'll live i' the parish wi' us, and never go out of\nour sights--like a fool as I am for thinking aught about her, as is no\nbetter nor a cherry wi' a hard stone inside it.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle,\" said Mr. Poyser,\nsoothingly. \"She's fond on us, I'll be bound; but she's young, an' gets\nthings in her head as she can't rightly give account on. Them young\nfillies 'ull run away often wi'-ou knowing why.\"\n\nHer uncle's answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty besides\nthat of disappointing her and making her cry. She knew quite well whom\nhe had in his mind in his allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solid\nhusband; and when she was in her bedroom again, the possibility of her\nmarrying Adam presented itself to her in a new light. In a mind where no\nstrong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme sense of\nright to which the agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quiet\nendurance, one of the first results of sorrow is a desperate vague\nclutching after any deed that will change the actual condition. Poor\nHetty's vision of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic\ncalculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shut\nout by reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was ready\nfor one of those convulsive, motiveless actions by which wretched men\nand women leap from a temporary sorrow into a lifelong misery.\n\nWhy should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so that\nit made some change in her life. She felt confident that he would still\nwant to marry her, and any further thought about Adam's happiness in the\nmatter had never yet visited her.\n\n\"Strange!\" perhaps you will say, \"this rush of impulse to-wards a course\nthat might have seemed the most repugnant to her present state of mind,\nand in only the second night of her sadness!\"\n\nYes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty's, struggling\namidst the serious sad destinies of a human being, are strange. So are\nthe motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a stormy\nsea. How pretty it looked with its parti-coloured sail in the sunlight,\nmoored in the quiet bay!\n\n\"Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings.\"\n\nBut that will not save the vessel--the pretty thing that might have been\na lasting joy.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII\n\nMrs. Poyser \"Has Her Say Out\"\n\n\nTHE next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the\nDonnithorne Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that very\nday--no less than a second appearance of the smart man in top-boots said\nby some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to\nbe the future steward, but by Mr. Casson himself, the personal witness\nto the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing better\nthan a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had thought\nof denying Mr. Casson's testimony to the fact that he had seen\nthe stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating\ncircumstances.\n\n\"I see him myself,\" he said; \"I see him coming along by the Crab-tree\nMeadow on a bald-faced hoss. I'd just been t' hev a pint--it was\nhalf after ten i' the fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg'lar as the\nclock--and I says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon, 'You'll get\na bit o' barley to-day, Knowles,' I says, 'if you look about you'; and\nthen I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the Treddles'on road, and\njust as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i' top-boots coming\nalong on a bald-faced hoss--I wish I may never stir if I didn't. And I\nstood still till he come up, and I says, 'Good morning, sir,' I says,\nfor I wanted to hear the turn of his tongue, as I might know whether he\nwas a this-country man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hup\nfor the barley this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, if\nwe've good luck.' And he says, 'Eh, ye may be raight, there's noo\ntallin',' he says, and I knowed by that\"--here Mr. Casson gave a\nwink--\"as he didn't come from a hundred mile off. I daresay he'd think\nme a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as talks\nthe right language.\"\n\n\"The right language!\" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. \"You're about\nas near the right language as a pig's squeaking is like a tune played on\na key-bugle.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. \"I\nshould think a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is likely to\nknow what's the right language pretty nigh as well as a schoolmaster.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, man,\" said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation,\n\"you talk the right language for you. When Mike Holdsworth's goat says\nba-a-a, it's all right--it 'ud be unnatural for it to make any other\nnoise.\"\n\nThe rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson had the laugh\nstrongly against him, and wisely fell back on the previous question,\nwhich, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed in\nthe churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh interest\nconferred on all news when there is a fresh person to hear it; and\nthat fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, \"never\nwent boozin' with that set at Casson's, a-sittin' soakin' in drink, and\nlooking as wise as a lot o' cod-fish wi' red faces.\"\n\nIt was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husband\non their way from church concerning this problematic stranger that\nMrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or two\nafterwards, as she was standing at the house-door with her knitting,\nin that eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning was\ndone, she saw the old squire enter the yard on his black pony,\nfollowed by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards as a case of\nprevision, which really had something more in it than her own remarkable\npenetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she said to\nherself, \"I shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is a-going to\ntake the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay.\nBut Poyser's a fool if he does.\"\n\nSomething unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire's\nvisits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser had during the\nlast twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more than\nmet the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him the next time\nhe appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches had always\nremained imaginary.\n\n\"Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,\" said the old squire, peering at her with his\nshort-sighted eyes--a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyser\nobserved, \"allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and he\nwas going to dab his finger-nail on you.\"\n\nHowever, she said, \"Your servant, sir,\" and curtsied with an air of\nperfect deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the woman\nto misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism,\nwithout severe provocation.\n\n\"Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; he's only i' the rick-yard. I'll send for him in a minute, if\nyou'll please to get down and step in.\"\n\n\"Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little matter;\nbut you are quite as much concerned in it, if not more. I must have your\nopinion too.\"\n\n\"Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in,\" said Mrs. Poyser, as they\nentered the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty's\ncurtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with gooseberry\njam, stood hiding her face against the clock and peeping round\nfurtively.\n\n\"What a fine old kitchen this is!\" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round\nadmiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, well-chiselled,\npolite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous. \"And you keep it\nso exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know,\nbeyond any on the estate.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, since you're fond of 'em, I should be glad if you'd let a\nbit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the boarding's i' that state as we're\nlike to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and the cellar, you may stan' up\nto your knees i' water in't, if you like to go down; but perhaps you'd\nrather believe my words. Won't you please to sit down, sir?\"\n\n\"Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and I\nhear on all hands about your fine cheese and butter,\" said the squire,\nlooking politely unconscious that there could be any question on which\nhe and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree. \"I think I see the door\nopen, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on your\ncream and butter. I don't expect that Mrs. Satchell's cream and butter\nwill bear comparison with yours.\"\n\n\"I can't say, sir, I'm sure. It's seldom I see other folks's butter,\nthough there's some on it as one's no need to see--the smell's enough.\"\n\n\"Ah, now this I like,\" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the damp\ntemple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. \"I'm sure I should\nlike my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came from this\ndairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my\nslight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I'll sit down\nin your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst of\nbusiness, I see, as usual. I've been looking at your wife's beautiful\ndairy--the best manager in the parish, is she not?\"\n\nMr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with a\nface a shade redder than usual, from the exertion of \"pitching.\" As\nhe stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool old\ngentleman, he looked like a prize apple by the side of a withered crab.\n\n\"Will you please to take this chair, sir?\" he said, lifting his father's\narm-chair forward a little: \"you'll find it easy.\"\n\n\"No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs,\" said the old gentleman,\nseating himself on a small chair near the door. \"Do you know, Mrs.\nPoyser--sit down, pray, both of you--I've been far from contented, for\nsome time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy management. I think she has not a\ngood method, as you have.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, I can't speak to that,\" said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice,\nrolling and unrolling her knitting and looking icily out of the window,\nas she continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if\nhe liked, she thought; she wasn't going to sit down, as if she'd give in\nto any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt the\nreverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair.\n\n\"And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the\nChase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm tired of having a farm on my\nown hands--nothing is made the best of in such cases, as you know. A\nsatisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you and I, Poyser,\nand your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrangement in\nconsequence, which will be to our mutual advantage.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination as\nto the nature of the arrangement.\n\n\"If I'm called upon to speak, sir,\" said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at\nher husband with pity at his softness, \"you know better than me; but I\ndon't see what the Chase Farm is t' us--we've cumber enough wi' our own\nfarm. Not but what I'm glad to hear o' anybody respectable coming into\nthe parish; there's some as ha' been brought in as hasn't been looked on\ni' that character.\"\n\n\"You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure\nyou--such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the little\nplan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it as much\nto your own advantage as his.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the first\noffer o' the sort I've heared on. It's them as take advantage that get\nadvantage i' this world, I think. Folks have to wait long enough afore\nit's brought to 'em.\"\n\n\"The fact is, Poyser,\" said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's theory of\nworldly prosperity, \"there is too much dairy land, and too little plough\nland, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle's purpose--indeed, he will only\ntake the farm on condition of some change in it: his wife, it appears,\nis not a clever dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I'm thinking of\nis to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures,\nyou might increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under your\nwife's management; and I should request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my\nhouse with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the other\nhand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges,\nwhich really, with our wet seasons, would be a good riddance for you.\nThere is much less risk in dairy land than corn land.\"\n\nMr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head\non one side, and his mouth screwed up--apparently absorbed in making the\ntips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy the\nribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through the whole\nbusiness, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife's view of the\nsubject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a\npoint of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel,\nany day; and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to him. So,\nafter a few moments' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, \"What\ndost say?\"\n\nMrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity\nduring his silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss, looked\nicily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her knitting\ntogether with the loose pin, held it firmly between her clasped hands.\n\n\"Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o' your\ncorn-land afore your lease is up, which it won't be for a year come next\nMichaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more dairy work into my hands,\neither for love or money; and there's nayther love nor money here, as I\ncan see, on'y other folks's love o' theirselves, and the money as is to\ngo into other folks's pockets. I know there's them as is born t' own\nthe land, and them as is born to sweat on't\"--here Mrs. Poyser paused\nto gasp a little--\"and I know it's christened folks's duty to submit to\ntheir betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not make\na martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and worret\nmyself as if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, for no landlord in\nEngland, not if he was King George himself.\"\n\n\"No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not,\" said the squire, still\nconfident in his own powers of persuasion, \"you must not overwork\nyourself; but don't you think your work will rather be lessened than\nincreased in this way? There is so much milk required at the Abbey\nthat you will have little increase of cheese and butter making from\nthe addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most\nprofitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?\"\n\n\"Aye, that's true,\" said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a\nquestion of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this case\na purely abstract question.\n\n\"I daresay,\" said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way\ntowards her husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair--\"I daresay\nit's true for men as sit i' th' chimney-corner and make believe as\neverything's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int' everything else. If you\ncould make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy getting\ndinner. How do I know whether the milk 'ull be wanted constant? What's\nto make me sure as the house won't be put o' board wage afore we're\nmany months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights wi' twenty\ngallons o' milk on my mind--and Dingall 'ull take no more butter, let\nalone paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg the\nbutcher on our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' the measles.\nAnd there's the fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly half a day's work\nfor a man an' hoss--that's to be took out o' the profits, I reckon? But\nthere's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away\nthe water.\"\n\n\"That difficulty--about the fetching and carrying--you will not have,\nMrs. Poyser,\" said the squire, who thought that this entrance into\nparticulars indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs.\nPoyser's part. \"Bethell will do that regularly with the cart and pony.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' having\ngentlefolks's servants coming about my back places, a-making love to\nboth the gells at once and keeping 'em with their hands on their hips\nlistening to all manner o' gossip when they should be down on their\nknees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi' having our\nback kitchen turned into a public.\"\n\n\"Well, Poyser,\" said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if\nhe thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings and\nleft the room, \"you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily\nmake another arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall not\nforget your readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as a\nneighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for three\nyears, when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who\nis a man of some capital, would be glad to take both the farms, as they\ncould be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an old\ntenant like you.\"\n\nTo be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough to\ncomplete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even without the final threat.\nHer husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the old\nplace where he had been bred and born--for he believed the old squire\nhad small spite enough for anything--was beginning a mild remonstrance\nexplanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to buy and\nsell more stock, with, \"Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard...\" when\nMrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her say\nout this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the only\nshelter were the work-house.\n\n\"Then, sir, if I may speak--as, for all I'm a woman, and there's folks\nas thinks a woman's fool enough to stan' by an' look on while the men\nsign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I make one quarter o' the\nrent, and save another quarter--I say, if Mr. Thurle's so ready to take\nfarms under you, it's a pity but what he should take this, and see if\nhe likes to live in a house wi' all the plagues o' Egypt in't--wi'\nthe cellar full o' water, and frogs and toads hoppin' up the steps by\ndozens--and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bit\no' cheese, and runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect\n'em to eat us up alive--as it's a mercy they hanna eat the children long\nago. I should like to see if there's another tenant besides Poyser as\n'ud put up wi' never having a bit o' repairs done till a place tumbles\ndown--and not then, on'y wi' begging and praying and having to pay\nhalf--and being strung up wi' the rent as it's much if he gets enough\nout o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own money into the ground\nbeforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such a life here as\nthat: a maggot must be born i' the rotten cheese to like it, I reckon.\nYou may run away from my words, sir,\" continued Mrs. Poyser, following\nthe old squire beyond the door--for after the first moments of stunned\nsurprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile,\nhad walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to get\naway immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard,\nand was some distance from the causeway when his master beckoned.\n\n\"You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin' underhand\nways o' doing us a mischief, for you've got Old Harry to your friend,\nthough nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we're not dumb\ncreatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha' got the lash i'\ntheir hands, for want o' knowing how t' undo the tackle. An' if I'm th'\nonly one as speaks my mind, there's plenty o' the same way o' thinking\ni' this parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better than a\nbrimstone match in everybody's nose--if it isna two-three old folks as\nyou think o' saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a drop\no' porridge. An' you may be right i' thinking it'll take but little to\nsave your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made, wi' all\nyour scrapin'.\"\n\nThere are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may be a\nformidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black pony, even\nthe gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being aware\nthat Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he\nsuspected that sour old John was grinning behind him--which was also\nthe fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick's\nsheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony's\nheels carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's solo in an impressive\nquartet.\n\nMrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she\nturned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove them\ninto the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again\nwith her usual rapidity as she re-entered the house.\n\n\"Thee'st done it now,\" said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, but\nnot without some triumphant amusement at his wife's outbreak.\n\n\"Yes, I know I've done it,\" said Mrs. Poyser; \"but I've had my say out,\nand I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure i'\nliving if you're to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind\nout by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan't repent saying what I\nthink, if I live to be as old as th' old squire; and there's little\nlikelihood--for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' only\nfolks as aren't wanted i' th' other world.\"\n\n\"But thee wutna like moving from th' old place, this Michaelmas\ntwelvemonth,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"and going into a strange parish, where\nthee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon us both, and upo' Father too.\"\n\n\"Eh, it's no use worreting; there's plenty o' things may happen between\nthis and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be master afore them,\nfor what we know,\" said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually\nhopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her own\nmerit and not by other people's fault.\n\n\"I'm none for worreting,\" said Mr. Poyser, rising from his\nthree-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; \"but I should\nbe loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred and\nborn, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt,\nand niver thrive again.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII\n\nMore Links\n\n\nTHE barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went by\nwithout waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. The apples and\nnuts were gathered and stored; the scent of whey departed from the\nfarm-houses, and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The woods\nbehind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendour\nunder the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant\nbasketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and its\nlads and lasses leaving or seeking service and winding along between\nthe yellow hedges, with their bundles under their arms. But though\nMichaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come to\nthe Chase Farm, and the old squire, after all, had been obliged to put\nin a new bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that the\nsquire's plan had been frustrated because the Poysers had refused to\nbe \"put upon,\" and Mrs. Poyser's outbreak was discussed in all\nthe farm-houses with a zest which was only heightened by frequent\nrepetition. The news that \"Bony\" was come back from Egypt was\ncomparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy was\nnothing to Mrs. Poyser's repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine had heard\na version of it in every parishioner's house, with the one exception of\nthe Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any\nquarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasure\nof laughing at the old gentleman's discomfiture with any one besides his\nmother, who declared that if she were rich she should like to allow Mrs.\nPoyser a pension for life, and wanted to invite her to the parsonage\nthat she might hear an account of the scene from Mrs. Poyser's own lips.\n\n\"No, no, Mother,\" said Mr. Irwine; \"it was a little bit of irregular\njustice on Mrs. Poyser's part, but a magistrate like me must not\ncountenance irregular justice. There must be no report spread that I\nhave taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose the little good\ninfluence I have over the old man.\"\n\n\"Well, I like that woman even better than her cream-cheeses,\" said Mrs.\nIrwine. \"She has the spirit of three men, with that pale face of hers.\nAnd she says such sharp things too.\"\n\n\"Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She's quite original\nin her talk too; one of those untaught wits that help to stock a country\nwith proverbs. I told you that capital thing I heard her say about\nCraig--that he was like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to hear\nhim crow. Now that's an AEsop's fable in a sentence.\"\n\n\"But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out of\nthe farm next Michaelmas, eh?\" said Mrs. Irwine.\n\n\"Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorne\nis likely to think twice, and digest his spleen rather than turn them\nout. But if he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur and I must\nmove heaven and earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are\nmust not go.\"\n\n\"Ah, there's no knowing what may happen before Lady day,\" said Mrs.\nIrwine. \"It struck me on Arthur's birthday that the old man was a little\nshaken: he's eighty-three, you know. It's really an unconscionable age.\nIt's only women who have a right to live as long as that.\"\n\n\"When they've got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without them,\"\nsaid Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother's hand.\n\nMrs. Poyser, too, met her husband's occasional forebodings of a notice\nto quit with \"There's no knowing what may happen before Lady day\"--one\nof those undeniable general propositions which are usually intended to\nconvey a particular meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really\ntoo hard upon human nature that it should be held a criminal offence to\nimagine the death even of the king when he is turned eighty-three. It is\nnot to be believed that any but the dullest Britons can be good subjects\nunder that hard condition.\n\nApart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the Poyser\nhousehold. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a surprising improvement\nin Hetty. To be sure, the girl got \"closer tempered, and sometimes she\nseemed as if there'd be no drawing a word from her with cart-ropes,\"\nbut she thought much less about her dress, and went after the work quite\neagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how she never wanted\nto go out now--indeed, could hardly be persuaded to go; and she bore\nher aunt's putting a stop to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chase\nwithout the least grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that she\nhad set her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting to\nbe a lady's maid must have been caused by some little pique or\nmisunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adam\ncame to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits and to talk\nmore than at other times, though she was almost sullen when Mr. Craig or\nany other admirer happened to pay a visit there.\n\nAdam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which gave\nway to surprise and delicious hope. Five days after delivering Arthur's\nletter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm again--not without\ndread lest the sight of him might be painful to her. She was not in the\nhouse-place when he entered, and he sat talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser\nfor a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they might\npresently tell him Hetty was ill. But by and by there came a light step\nthat he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, \"Come, Hetty, where have you\nbeen?\" Adam was obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the\nchanged look there must be in her face. He almost started when he saw\nher smiling as if she were pleased to see him--looking the same as ever\nat a first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never seen\nher in before when he came of an evening. Still, when he looked at\nher again and again as she moved about or sat at her work, there was a\nchange: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she smiled as much as she\nhad ever done of late, but there was something different in her eyes,\nin the expression of her face, in all her movements, Adam\nthought--something harder, older, less child-like. \"Poor thing!\" he\nsaid to himself, \"that's allays likely. It's because she's had her first\nheartache. But she's got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for\nthat.\"\n\nAs the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to see\nhim--turning up her lovely face towards him as if she meant him to\nunderstand that she was glad for him to come--and going about her work\nin the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began to believe\nthat her feeling towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he had\nimagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had been able\nto think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and would\nmarry her as a folly of which she was timely cured. And it perhaps was,\nas he had sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be--her\nheart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man she\nknew to have a serious love for her.\n\nPossibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his\ninterpretations, and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming in a\nsensible man to behave as he did--falling in love with a girl who really\nhad nothing more than her beauty to recommend her, attributing imaginary\nvirtues to her, and even condescending to cleave to her after she had\nfallen in love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patient\ntrembling dog waits for his master's eye to be turned upon him. But in\nso complex a thing as human nature, we must consider, it is hard to find\nrules without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensible\nmen fall in love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance,\nsee through all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine\nthemselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all\nproper occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them in every\nrespect--indeed, so as to compel the approbation of all the maiden\nladies in their neighbourhood. But even to this rule an exception will\noccur now and then in the lapse of centuries, and my friend Adam was\none. For my own part, however, I respect him none the less--nay, I think\nthe deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed\nHetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the\nvery strength of his nature and not out of any inconsistent weakness. Is\nit any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite music? To feel its\nwondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the\ndelicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and binding\ntogether your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibration,\nmelting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that has\nbeen scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating in one\nemotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of\nself-renouncing sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow and\nyour present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is it\na weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman's\ncheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, or\nthe sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman is\nlike music: what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond and\nfar above the one woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of genius\nhave a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them. It is more\nthan a woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyes--it seems to be a\nfar-off mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for itself\nthere; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something more\nthan their prettiness--by their close kinship with all we have known\nof tenderness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this\nimpersonal expression in beauty (it is needless to say that there are\ngentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none of it whatever),\nand for this reason, the noblest nature is often the most blinded to\nthe character of the one woman's soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I\nfear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a long time\nto come, in spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best\nreceipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.\n\nOur good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling for\nHetty: he could not disguise mystery in this way with the appearance of\nknowledge; he called his love frankly a mystery, as you have heard him.\nHe only knew that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching\nthe spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage within\nhim. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in her?\nHe created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large,\nunselfish, tender.\n\nThe hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling towards\nArthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have been of a slight kind;\nthey were altogether wrong, and such as no man in Arthur's position\nought to have allowed himself, but they must have had an air of\nplayfulness about them, which had probably blinded him to their danger\nand had prevented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty's heart. As\nthe new promise of happiness rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousy\nbegan to die out. Hetty was not made unhappy; he almost believed that\nshe liked him best; and the thought sometimes crossed his mind that the\nfriendship which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the days\nto come, and he would not have to say \"good-bye\" to the grand old woods,\nbut would like them better because they were Arthur's. For this new\npromise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain had an\nintoxicating effect on the sober Adam, who had all his life been used to\nmuch hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy\nlot after all? It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, Jonathan\nBurge, finding it impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up his\nmind to offer him a share in the business, without further condition\nthan that he should continue to give his energies to it and renounce\nall thought of having a separate business of his own. Son-in-law or no\nson-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted with,\nand his headwork was so much more important to Burge than his skill\nin handicraft that his having the management of the woods made little\ndifference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains about\nthe squire's timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adam\nsaw here an opening into a broadening path of prosperous work such as he\nhad thought of with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might\ncome to build a bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always\nsaid to himself that Jonathan Burge's building business was like an\nacorn, which might be the mother of a great tree. So he gave his hand\nto Burge on that bargain, and went home with his mind full of happy\nvisions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps be shocked when I\nsay it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for seasoning\ntimber at a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening of\nbricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for the\nstrengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron girder.\nWhat then? Adam's enthusiasm lay in these things; and our love is\ninwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air,\nexalting its power by a subtle presence.\n\nAdam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for his\nmother in the old one; his prospects would justify his marrying very\nsoon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their mother would perhaps\nbe more contented to live apart from Adam. But he told himself that he\nwould not be hasty--he would not try Hetty's feeling for him until it\nhad had time to grow strong and firm. However, tomorrow, after church,\nhe would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. Mr. Poyser, he\nknew, would like it better than a five-pound note, and he should see if\nHetty's eyes brightened at it. The months would be short with all he had\nto fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him of\nlate must not hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he got home\nand told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while she sat\nby almost crying for joy and wanting him to eat twice as much as usual\nbecause of this good-luck, he could not help preparing her gently for\nthe coming change by talking of the old house being too small for them\nall to go on living in it always.\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV\n\nThe Betrothal\n\n\nIT was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of November.\nThere was no sunshine, but the clouds were high, and the wind was so\nstill that the yellow leaves which fluttered down from the hedgerow elms\nmust have fallen from pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go\nto church, for she had taken a cold too serious to be neglected; only\ntwo winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold; and since\nhis wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser considered that on the whole\nit would be as well for him to stay away too and \"keep her company.\" He\ncould perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that determined\nthis conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds that our\nfirmest convictions are often dependent on subtle impressions for which\nwords are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no one from the\nPoyser family went to church that afternoon except Hetty and the boys;\nyet Adam was bold enough to join them after church, and say that he\nwould walk home with them, though all the way through the village he\nappeared to be chiefly occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them about\nthe squirrels in Binton Coppice, and promising to take them there some\nday. But when they came to the fields he said to the boys, \"Now, then,\nwhich is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' home-gate first shall\nbe the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the donkey. But Tommy\nmust have the start up to the next stile, because he's the smallest.\"\n\nAdam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As soon\nas the boys had both set off, he looked down at Hetty and said, \"Won't\nyou hang on my arm, Hetty?\" in a pleading tone, as if he had already\nasked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and put\nher round arm through his in a moment. It was nothing to her, putting\nher arm through Adam's, but she knew he cared a great deal about having\nher arm through his, and she wished him to care. Her heart beat no\nfaster, and she looked at the half-bare hedgerows and the ploughed field\nwith the same sense of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcely\nfelt that he was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was\npressing her arm a little--a very little. Words rushed to his lips that\nhe dared not utter--that he had made up his mind not to utter yet--and\nso he was silent for the length of that field. The calm patience\nwith which he had once waited for Hetty's love, content only with her\npresence and the thought of the future, had forsaken him since that\nterrible shock nearly three months ago. The agitations of jealousy had\ngiven a new restlessness to his passion--had made fear and uncertainty\ntoo hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to Hetty of his\nlove, he would tell her about his new prospects and see if she would be\npleased. So when he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, \"I'm\ngoing to tell your uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and I\nthink he'll be glad to hear it too.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" Hetty said indifferently.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I'm going to\ntake it.\"\n\nThere was a change in Hetty's face, certainly not produced by any\nagreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt a momentary\nannoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her uncle\nthat Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business any day,\nif he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and the thought\nimmediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because of\nwhat had happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. With that\nthought, and before she had time to remember any reasons why it could\nnot be true, came a new sense of forsakenness and disappointment. The\none thing--the one person--her mind had rested on in its dull weariness,\nhad slipped away from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with\ntears. She was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the\ntears, and before he had finished saying, \"Hetty, dear Hetty, what\nare you crying for?\" his eager rapid thought had flown through all the\ncauses conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the true\none. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge--she didn't like him\nto marry--perhaps she didn't like him to marry any one but herself? All\ncaution was swept away--all reason for it was gone, and Adam could feel\nnothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her and took her hand, as\nhe said:\n\n\"I could afford to be married now, Hetty--I could make a wife\ncomfortable; but I shall never want to be married if you won't have me.\"\n\nHetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had done to\nArthur that first evening in the wood, when she had thought he was not\ncoming, and yet he came. It was a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she\nfelt now, but the great dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful\nas ever, perhaps more beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant\nwomanliness about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in the\nhappiness of that moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressed\nher arm close against his heart as he leaned down towards her.\n\n\"Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love and take\ncare of as long as I live?\"\n\nHetty did not speak, but Adam's face was very close to hers, and she\nput up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. She wanted to be\ncaressed--she wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her again.\n\nAdam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through the\nrest of the walk. He only said, \"I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn't\nI, Hetty?\" and she said, \"Yes.\"\n\nThe red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces\nthat evening, when Hetty was gone upstairs and Adam took the opportunity\nof telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather that he saw his way\nto maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had consented to have him.\n\n\"I hope you have no objections against me for her husband,\" said Adam;\n\"I'm a poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing as I can work for.\"\n\n\"Objections?\" said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned forward and\nbrought out his long \"Nay, nay.\" \"What objections can we ha' to you,\nlad? Never mind your being poorish as yet; there's money in your\nhead-piece as there's money i' the sown field, but it must ha' time.\nYou'n got enough to begin on, and we can do a deal tow'rt the bit o'\nfurniture you'll want. Thee'st got feathers and linen to spare--plenty,\neh?\"\n\nThis question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was wrapped up\nin a warm shawl and was too hoarse to speak with her usual facility.\nAt first she only nodded emphatically, but she was presently unable to\nresist the temptation to be more explicit.\n\n\"It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen,\" she said,\nhoarsely, \"when I never sell a fowl but what's plucked, and the wheel's\na-going every day o' the week.\"\n\n\"Come, my wench,\" said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, \"come and kiss\nus, and let us wish you luck.\"\n\nHetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man.\n\n\"There!\" he said, patting her on the back, \"go and kiss your aunt and\nyour grandfather. I'm as wishful t' have you settled well as if you was\nmy own daughter; and so's your aunt, I'll be bound, for she's done by\nyou this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her own. Come, come, now,\"\nhe went on, becoming jocose, as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt and\nthe old man, \"Adam wants a kiss too, I'll warrant, and he's a right to\none now.\"\n\nHetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair.\n\n\"Come, Adam, then, take one,\" persisted Mr. Poyser, \"else y' arena half\na man.\"\n\nAdam got up, blushing like a small maiden--great strong fellow as he\nwas--and, putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently kissed her\nlips.\n\nIt was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were no\ncandles--why should there be, when the fire was so bright and was\nreflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted to\nwork on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like contentment\nin the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to her, Adam's caress,\nstirred no passion in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity,\nbut they were the best her life offered her now--they promised her some\nchange.\n\nThere was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about the\npossibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in.\nNo house was empty except the one next to Will Maskery's in the village,\nand that was too small for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best\nplan would be for Seth and his mother to move and leave Adam in the old\nhome, which might be enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of\nspace in the woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning his\nmother out.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Mr. Poyser at last, \"we needna fix everything\nto-night. We must take time to consider. You canna think o' getting\nmarried afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but there must be a\nbit o' time to make things comfortable.\"\n\n\"Aye, to be sure,\" said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; \"Christian\nfolks can't be married like cuckoos, I reckon.\"\n\n\"I'm a bit daunted, though,\" said Mr. Poyser, \"when I think as we may\nhave notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm twenty mile\noff.\"\n\n\"Eh,\" said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands up\nand down, while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair, \"it's a poor\ntale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a strange parish. An'\nyou'll happen ha' double rates to pay,\" he added, looking up at his son.\n\n\"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father,\" said Martin the younger.\n\"Happen the captain 'ull come home and make our peace wi' th' old\nsquire. I build upo' that, for I know the captain 'll see folks righted\nif he can.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV\n\nThe Hidden Dread\n\n\nIT was a busy time for Adam--the time between the beginning of November\nand the beginning of February, and he could see little of Hetty, except\non Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him nearer\nand nearer to March, when they were to be married, and all the little\npreparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress towards the\nlonged-for day. Two new rooms had been \"run up\" to the old house, for\nhis mother and Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth had cried\nso piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he had gone to Hetty\nand asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with his\nmother's ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hetty\nsaid, \"Yes; I'd as soon she lived with us as not.\" Hetty's mind was\noppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth's\nways; she could not care about them. So Adam was consoled for the\ndisappointment he had felt when Seth had come back from his visit to\nSnowfield and said \"it was no use--Dinah's heart wasna turned towards\nmarrying.\" For when he told his mother that Hetty was willing they\nshould all live together and there was no more need of them to think of\nparting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had heard her speak\nin since it had been settled that he was to be married, \"Eh, my lad,\nI'll be as still as th' ould tabby, an' ne'er want to do aught but\nth' offal work, as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part the\nplatters an' things, as ha' stood on the shelf together sin' afore thee\nwast born.\"\n\nThere was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam's sunshine:\nHetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his anxious, tender\nquestions, she replied with an assurance that she was quite contented\nand wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was more\nlively than usual. It might be that she was a little overdone with work\nand anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken another\ncold, which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confined\nher to her room all through January. Hetty had to manage everything\ndownstairs, and half-supply Molly's place too, while that good damsel\nwaited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into\nher new functions, working with a grave steadiness which was new in her,\nthat Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show him what a\ngood housekeeper he would have; but he \"doubted the lass was o'erdoing\nit--she must have a bit o' rest when her aunt could come downstairs.\"\n\nThis desirable event of Mrs. Poyser's coming downstairs happened in the\nearly part of February, when some mild weather thawed the last patch of\nsnow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt came\ndown, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things which\nwere wanting, and which Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for neglecting,\nobserving that she supposed \"it was because they were not for th'\noutside, else she'd ha' bought 'em fast enough.\"\n\nIt was about ten o'clock when Hetty set off, and the slight hoar-frost\nthat had whitened the hedges in the early morning had disappeared as\nthe sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February days have a stronger\ncharm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likes\nto pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at the\npatient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that\nthe beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the\nsame: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on\nthe trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And\nthe dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches\nis beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives or\nrides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so\nwhen, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked to me\nlike our English Loamshire--the rich land tilled with just as much care,\nthe woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadows--I have\ncome on something by the roadside which has reminded me that I am not\nin Loamshire: an image of a great agony--the agony of the Cross. It has\nstood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshine\nby the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook was\ngurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this world who\nknew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this image of agony\nwould seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this joyous\nnature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, or\namong the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there\nmight be a human heart beating heavily with anguish--perhaps a young\nblooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from swift-advancing\nshame, understanding no more of this life of ours than a foolish lost\nlamb wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath,\nyet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness.\n\nSuch things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind the\nblossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you came\nclose to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your ear\nwith a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion has much sorrow in\nit: no wonder he needs a suffering God.\n\nHetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand, is\nturning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston road, but not that\nshe may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and think\nwith hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is\nshining; and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been for\nsomething at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wants to\nbe out of the high-road, that she may walk slowly and not care how her\nface looks, as she dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gate\nshe can get into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great\ndark eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is\ndesolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave tender\nman. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept away in\nthe weary night, before she went to sleep. At the next stile the pathway\nbranches off: there are two roads before her--one along by the hedgerow,\nwhich will by and by lead her into the road again, the other across\nthe fields, which will take her much farther out of the way into the\nScantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see nobody. She chooses\nthis and begins to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thought\nof an object towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in\nthe Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, and\nshe leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is a\nclump of trees on the low ground, and she is making her way towards it.\nNo, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark shrouded pool, so full with\nthe wintry rains that the under boughs of the elder-bushes lie low\nbeneath the water. She sits down on the grassy bank, against the\nstooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She has\nthought of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just gone\nby, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps her hands round\nher knees, and leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying to\nguess what sort of bed it would make for her young round limbs.\n\nNo, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and if\nshe had, they might find her--they might find out why she had drowned\nherself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go away, go where\nthey can't find her.\n\nAfter the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after her\nbetrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hope\nthat something would happen to set her free from her terror; but she\ncould wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been concentrated\non the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistible\ndread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her\nmiserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurred\nto her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her that would\nshelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbours\nwho once more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Her\nimagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do\nnothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else\nwould happen--something must happen--to set her free from this dread. In\nyoung, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind trust in\nsome unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe that\na great wretchedness will actually befall them as to believe that they\nwill die.\n\nBut now necessity was pressing hard upon her--now the time of her\nmarriage was close at hand--she could no longer rest in this blind\ntrust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyes\ncould detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world,\nof which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a\nthought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now, so\nunable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwing\nherself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride. As\nshe sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that\nhe would receive her tenderly--that he would care for her and think for\nher--was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the moment\nindifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothing\nbut the scheme by which she should get away.\n\nShe had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about the\ncoming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty had\nread this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, \"I wish Dinah 'ud come\nagain now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt when you're gone. What\ndo you think, my wench, o' going to see her as soon as you can be spared\nand persuading her to come back wi' you? You might happen persuade her\nwi' telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o' not being\nable to come.\" Hetty had not liked the thought of going to Snowfield,\nand felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, \"It's so far off,\nUncle.\" But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext\nfor going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again that she\nshould like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. And\nthen, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would ask\nfor the coach that would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was at\nWindsor, and she would go to him.\n\nAs soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from the\ngrassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way to\nTreddleston, for she must buy the wedding things she had come out for,\nthough she would never want them. She must be careful not to raise any\nsuspicion that she was going to run away.\n\nMrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go and\nsee Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding. The sooner\nshe went the better, since the weather was pleasant now; and Adam, when\nhe came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, he\nwould make time to go with her to Treddleston and see her safe into the\nStoniton coach.\n\n\"I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty,\" he said, the\nnext morning, leaning in at the coach door; \"but you won't stay much\nbeyond a week--the time 'ull seem long.\"\n\nHe was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers in its\ngrasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence--she was used\nto it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no other love\nthan her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she gave him the last\nlook.\n\n\"God bless her for loving me,\" said Adam, as he went on his way to work\nagain, with Gyp at his heels.\n\nBut Hetty's tears were not for Adam--not for the anguish that would come\nupon him when he found she was gone from him for ever. They were for the\nmisery of her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender man\nwho offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helpless\nsuppliant, on the man who would think it a misfortune that she was\nobliged to cling to him.\n\nAt three o'clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to take\nher, they said, to Leicester--part of the long, long way to Windsor--she\nfelt dimly that she might be travelling all this weary journey towards\nthe beginning of new misery.\n\nYet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If he\ndid not mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to be good to\nher.\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Five\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI\n\nThe Journey of Hope\n\n\nA LONG, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from the\nfamiliar to the strange: that is a hard and dreary thing even to the\nrich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when we are called\nby duty, not urged by dread.\n\nWhat was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no longer\nmelting into vague hopes, but pressed upon by the chill of\ndefinite fear, repeating again and again the same small round of\nmemories--shaping again and again the same childish, doubtful images\nof what was to come--seeing nothing in this wide world but the little\nhistory of her own pleasures and pains; with so little money in her\npocket, and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could afford\nalways to go in the coaches--and she felt sure she could not, for the\njourney to Stoniton was more expensive than she had expected--it was\nplain that she must trust to carriers' carts or slow waggons; and what\na time it would be before she could get to the end of her journey! The\nburly old coachman from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young woman\namong the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit beside\nhim; and feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open the\ndialogue with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off the\nstones to the elaboration of one suitable in all respects. After many\ncuts with his whip and glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye,\nhe lifted his lips above the edge of his wrapper and said, \"He's pretty\nnigh six foot, I'll be bound, isna he, now?\"\n\n\"Who?\" said Hetty, rather startled.\n\n\"Why, the sweetheart as you've left behind, or else him as you're goin'\narter--which is it?\"\n\nHetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought this\ncoachman must know something about her. He must know Adam, and might\ntell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to country people to\nbelieve that those who make a figure in their own parish are not known\neverywhere else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to understand\nthat chance words could happen to apply closely to her circumstances.\nShe was too frightened to speak.\n\n\"Hegh, hegh!\" said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not so\ngratifying as he had expected, \"you munna take it too ser'ous; if he's\nbehaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass as you can get a sweetheart\nany day.\"\n\nHetty's fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the coachman\nmade no further allusion to her personal concerns; but it still had the\neffect of preventing her from asking him what were the places on the\nroad to Windsor. She told him she was only going a little way out of\nStoniton, and when she got down at the inn where the coach stopped, she\nhastened away with her basket to another part of the town. When she\nhad formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen any\ndifficulties except that of getting away, and after she had overcome\nthis by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meeting\nwith Arthur and the question how he would behave to her--not resting on\nany probable incidents of the journey. She was too entirely ignorant\nof traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her store\nof money--her three guineas--in her pocket, she thought herself amply\nprovided. It was not until she found how much it cost her to get to\nStoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journey, and then, for\nthe first time, she felt her ignorance as to the places that must be\npassed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along the\ngrim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little inn,\nwhere she hoped to get a cheap lodging for the night. Here she asked\nthe landlord if he could tell her what places she must go to, to get to\nWindsor.\n\n\"Well, I can't rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it's\nwhere the king lives,\" was the answer. \"Anyhow, you'd best go t' Ashby\nnext--that's south'ard. But there's as many places from here to London\nas there's houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I've never been\nno traveller myself. But how comes a lone young woman like you to be\nthinking o' taking such a journey as that?\"\n\n\"I'm going to my brother--he's a soldier at Windsor,\" said Hetty,\nfrightened at the landlord's questioning look. \"I can't afford to go\nby the coach; do you think there's a cart goes toward Ashby in the\nmorning?\"\n\n\"Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; but\nyou might run over the town before you found out. You'd best set off and\nwalk, and trust to summat overtaking you.\"\n\nEvery word sank like lead on Hetty's spirits; she saw the journey\nstretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get to Ashby seemed a hard\nthing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was nothing\nto the rest of the journey. But it must be done--she must get to Arthur.\nOh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her!\nShe who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeing\nfamiliar faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whose\nfarthest journey had been to Rosseter on the pillion with her uncle;\nwhose thoughts had always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure,\nbecause all the business of her life was managed for her--this\nkittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any other\ngrief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girded\nat by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way in\nloneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but a\ntremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the first time, as\nshe lay down to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her home\nhad been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, that\nher quiet lot at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, with her\nlittle pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and nothing to hide from\nany one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and find\nthat all the feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare.\nShe thought of all she had left behind with yearning regret for her own\nsake. Her own misery filled her heart--there was no room in it for other\npeople's sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been so\ntender and loving. The memory of that had still a charm for her, though\nit was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable.\nFor Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future than\na hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had no\ndelights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew no\nromances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are the\nsource of romance, so that well-read ladies may find it difficult to\nunderstand her state of mind. She was too ignorant of everything beyond\nthe simple notions and habits in which she had been brought up to have\nany more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur would\ntake care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn. He would\nnot marry her and make her a lady; and apart from that she could think\nof nothing he could give towards which she looked with longing and\nambition.\n\nThe next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and bread\nfor her breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards Ashby, under a\nleaden-coloured sky, with a narrowing streak of yellow, like a departing\nhope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at the\nlength and difficulty of her journey, she was most of all afraid of\nspending her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have to ask\npeople's charity; for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud nature\nbut of a proud class--the class that pays the most poor-rates, and\nmost shudders at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had not yet\noccurred to her that she might get money for her locket and earrings\nwhich she carried with her, and she applied all her small arithmetic\nand knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many rides\nwere contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which had\na melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the other\nbright-flaming coin.\n\nFor the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely, always\nfixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush at the most distant\nvisible point in the road as a goal, and feeling a faint joy when she\nhad reached it. But when she came to the fourth milestone, the first she\nhad happened to notice among the long grass by the roadside, and read\nthat she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage sank.\nShe had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and almost hungry\nagain in the keen morning air; for though Hetty was accustomed to much\nmovement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks which\nproduced quite a different sort of fatigue from that of household\nactivity. As she was looking at the milestone she felt some drops\nfalling on her face--it was beginning to rain. Here was a new trouble\nwhich had not entered into her sad thoughts before, and quite weighed\ndown by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat down on the step of\na stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of hardship is like\nthe first taste of bitter food--it seems for a moment unbearable; yet,\nif there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take another bite\nand find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her burst of\nweeping, she rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and she\nmust try to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter.\nPresently, as she walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy\nwheels behind her; a covered waggon was coming, creeping slowly along\nwith a slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She waited\nfor it, thinking that if the waggoner were not a very sour-looking man,\nshe would ask him to take her up. As the waggon approached her, the\ndriver had fallen behind, but there was something in the front of the\nbig vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her life\nshe would not have noticed it, but now, the new susceptibility that\nsuffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress her\nstrongly. It was only a small white-and-liver-coloured spaniel which\nsat on the front ledge of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and an\nincessant trembling in the body, such as you may have seen in some of\nthese small creatures. Hetty cared little for animals, as you know,\nbut at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid creature had some\nfellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the reason, she\nwas less doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came forward--a\nlarge ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf or\nmantle.\n\n\"Could you take me up in your waggon, if you're going towards Ashby?\"\nsaid Hetty. \"I'll pay you for it.\"\n\n\"Aw,\" said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which belongs\nto heavy faces, \"I can take y' up fawst enough wi'out bein' paid for't\nif you dooant mind lyin' a bit closish a-top o' the wool-packs. Where do\nyou coom from? And what do you want at Ashby?\"\n\n\"I come from Stoniton. I'm going a long way--to Windsor.\"\n\n\"What! Arter some service, or what?\"\n\n\"Going to my brother--he's a soldier there.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm going no furder nor Leicester--and fur enough too--but I'll\ntake you, if you dooant mind being a bit long on the road. Th' hosses\nwooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they feel the little doog there, as\nI puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He war lost, I b'lieve, an's been\nall of a tremble iver sin'. Come, gi' us your basket an' come behind and\nlet me put y' in.\"\n\nTo lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the curtains of the\nawning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty now, and she half-slept\naway the hours till the driver came to ask her if she wanted to get down\nand have \"some victual\"; he himself was going to eat his dinner at this\n\"public.\" Late at night they reached Leicester, and so this second day\nof Hetty's journey was past. She had spent no money except what she\nhad paid for her food, but she felt that this slow journeying would be\nintolerable for her another day, and in the morning she found her way\nto a coach-office to ask about the road to Windsor, and see if it would\ncost her too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! The\ndistance was too great--the coaches were too dear--she must give them\nup; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty anxious\nface, wrote down for her the names of the chief places she must pass\nthrough. This was the only comfort she got in Leicester, for the men\nstared at her as she went along the street, and for the first time in\nher life Hetty wished no one would look at her. She set out walking\nagain; but this day she was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken by\na carrier's cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of a\nreturn chaise, with a drunken postilion--who frightened her by driving\nlike Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her,\ntwisting himself backwards on his saddle--she was before night in the\nheart of woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles from\nWindsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard work\nfor her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to Stratford-on-Avon,\nfinding Stratford set down in her list of places, and then she was told\nshe had come a long way out of the right road. It was not till the fifth\nday that she got to Stony Stratford. That seems but a slight journey as\nyou look at the map, or remember your own pleasant travels to and from\nthe meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty!\nIt seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, and hedgerows, and\ndotted houses, and villages, and market-towns--all so much alike to her\nindifferent eyes--must have no end, and she must go on wandering among\nthem for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for some cart to come, and\nthen finding the cart went only a little way--a very little way--to the\nmiller's a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public houses,\nwhere she must go to get food and ask questions, because there were\nalways men lounging there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Her\nbody was very weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; they\nhad made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dread\nshe had gone through at home. When at last she reached Stony Stratford,\nher impatience and weariness had become too strong for her economical\ncaution; she determined to take the coach for the rest of the way,\nthough it should cost her all her remaining money. She would need\nnothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare for\nthe last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at the\nsign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o'clock in the middle of the\nseventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged her\nto \"remember him.\" She put her hand in her pocket and took out the\nshilling, but the tears came with the sense of exhaustion and the\nthought that she was giving away her last means of getting food, which\nshe really required before she could go in search of Arthur. As she\nheld out the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled eyes to the\ncoachman's face and said, \"Can you give me back sixpence?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, gruffly, \"never mind--put the shilling up again.\"\n\nThe landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to witness this\nscene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding served to keep his\ngood nature, as well as his person, in high condition. And that lovely\ntearful face of Hetty's would have found out the sensitive fibre in most\nmen.\n\n\"Come, young woman, come in,\" he said, \"and have adrop o' something;\nyou're pretty well knocked up, I can see that.\"\n\nHe took her into the bar and said to his wife, \"Here, missis, take this\nyoung woman into the parlour; she's a little overcome\"--for Hetty's\ntears were falling fast. They were merely hysterical tears: she thought\nshe had no reason for weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weak\nand tired to help it. She was at Windsor at last, not far from Arthur.\n\nShe looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat and beer that\nthe landlady brought her, and for some minutes she forgot everything\nelse in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger and recovering\nfrom exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and looked\nat her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and her\ncurls had fallen down. Her face was all the more touching in its\nyouth and beauty because of its weary look, and the good woman's eyes\npresently wandered to her figure, which in her hurried dressing on her\njourney she had taken no pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eye\ndetects what the familiar unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed.\n\n\"Why, you're not very fit for travelling,\" she said, glancing while she\nspoke at Hetty's ringless hand. \"Have you come far?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more self-command,\nand feeling the better for the food she had taken. \"I've come a good\nlong way, and it's very tiring. But I'm better now. Could you tell me\nwhich way to go to this place?\" Here Hetty took from her pocket a bit\nof paper: it was the end of Arthur's letter on which he had written his\naddress.\n\nWhile she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to look\nat her as earnestly as his wife had done. He took up the piece of paper\nwhich Hetty handed across the table, and read the address.\n\n\"Why, what do you want at this house?\" he said. It is in the nature of\ninnkeepers and all men who have no pressing business of their own to ask\nas many questions as possible before giving any information.\n\n\"I want to see a gentleman as is there,\" said Hetty.\n\n\"But there's no gentleman there,\" returned the landlord. \"It's shut\nup--been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman is it you want? Perhaps\nI can let you know where to find him.\"\n\n\"It's Captain Donnithorne,\" said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginning\nto beat painfully at this disappointment of her hope that she should\nfind Arthur at once.\n\n\"Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit,\" said the landlord, slowly. \"Was he\nin the Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer with a fairish skin and\nreddish whiskers--and had a servant by the name o' Pym?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Hetty; \"you know him--where is he?\"\n\n\"A fine sight o' miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia's gone to\nIreland; it's been gone this fortnight.\"\n\n\"Look there! She's fainting,\" said the landlady, hastening to support\nHetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked like a\nbeautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress.\n\n\"Here's a bad business, I suspect,\" said the landlord, as he brought in\nsome water.\n\n\"Ah, it's plain enough what sort of business it is,\" said the wife.\n\"She's not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that. She looks like\na respectable country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judge\nby her tongue. She talks something like that ostler we had that come\nfrom the north. He was as honest a fellow as we ever had about the\nhouse--they're all honest folks in the north.\"\n\n\"I never saw a prettier young woman in my life,\" said the husband.\n\"She's like a pictur in a shop-winder. It goes to one's 'eart to look at\nher.\"\n\n\"It 'ud have been a good deal better for her if she'd been uglier and\nhad more conduct,\" said the landlady, who on any charitable construction\nmust have been supposed to have more \"conduct\" than beauty. \"But she's\ncoming to again. Fetch a drop more water.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVII\n\nThe Journey in Despair\n\n\nHETTY was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions to be\naddressed to her--too ill even to think with any distinctness of the\nevils that were to come. She only felt that all her hope was crushed,\nand that instead of having found a refuge she had only reached the\nborders of a new wilderness where no goal lay before her. The sensations\nof bodily sickness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the\ngood-natured landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite as\nthere is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw himself on\nthe sand instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun.\n\nBut when sleep and rest had brought back the strength necessary for the\nkeenness of mental suffering--when she lay the next morning looking at\nthe growing light which was like a cruel task-master returning to urge\nfrom her a fresh round of hated hopeless labour--she began to think what\ncourse she must take, to remember that all her money was gone, to\nlook at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with the new\nclearness shed on it by the experience of her journey to Windsor. But\nwhich way could she turn? It was impossible for her to enter into any\nservice, even if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediate\nbeggary before her. She thought of a young woman who had been found\nagainst the church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly dead with cold\nand hunger--a tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued and taken\nto the parish. \"The parish!\" You can perhaps hardly understand the\neffect of that word on a mind like Hetty's, brought up among people who\nwere somewhat hard in their feelings even towards poverty, who lived\namong the fields, and had little pity for want and rags as a cruel\ninevitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities, but held them\na mark of idleness and vice--and it was idleness and vice that brought\nburdens on the parish. To Hetty the \"parish\" was next to the prison\nin obloquy, and to ask anything of strangers--to beg--lay in the same\nfar-off hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life\nthought it impossible she could ever come near. But now the remembrance\nof that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, on her way from\nchurch, being carried into Joshua Rann's, came back upon her with the\nnew terrible sense that there was very little now to divide HER from\nthe same lot. And the dread of bodily hardship mingled with the dread\nof shame; for Hetty had the luxurious nature of a round soft-coated pet\nanimal.\n\nHow she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and cared\nfor as she had always been! Her aunt's scolding about trifles would have\nbeen music to her ears now; she longed for it; she used to hear it in a\ntime when she had only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hetty that\nused to make up the butter in the dairy with the Guelder roses peeping\nin at the window--she, a runaway whom her friends would not open their\ndoors to again, lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge that\nshe had no money to pay for what she received, and must offer those\nstrangers some of the clothes in her basket? It was then she thought of\nher locket and ear-rings, and seeing her pocket lie near, she reached it\nand spread the contents on the bed before her. There were the locket and\near-rings in the little velvet-lined boxes, and with them there was a\nbeautiful silver thimble which Adam had bought her, the words \"Remember\nme\" making the ornament of the border; a steel purse, with her one\nshilling in it; and a small red-leather case, fastening with a strap.\nThose beautiful little ear-rings, with their delicate pearls and garnet,\nthat she had tried in her ears with such longing in the bright sunshine\non the 30th of July! She had no longing to put them in her ears now: her\nhead with its dark rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow, and\nthe sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was something too hard\nfor regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it was\nbecause there were some thin gold rings in them, which were also worth\na little money. Yes, she could surely get some money for her ornaments:\nthose Arthur had given her must have cost a great deal of money. The\nlandlord and landlady had been good to her; perhaps they would help her\nto get the money for these things.\n\nBut this money would not keep her long. What should she do when it was\ngone? Where should she go? The horrible thought of want and beggary\ndrove her once to think she would go back to her uncle and aunt and ask\nthem to forgive her and have pity on her. But she shrank from that idea\nagain, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal. She could never\nendure that shame before her uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge, and the\nservants at the Chase, and the people at Broxton, and everybody who knew\nher. They should never know what had happened to her. What could she do?\nShe would go away from Windsor--travel again as she had done the last\nweek, and get among the flat green fields with the high hedges round\nthem, where nobody could see her or know her; and there, perhaps, when\nthere was nothing else she could do, she should get courage to drown\nherself in some pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would get\naway from Windsor as soon as possible: she didn't like these people at\nthe inn to know about her, to know that she had come to look for Captain\nDonnithorne. She must think of some reason to tell them why she had\nasked for him.\n\nWith this thought she began to put the things back into her pocket,\nmeaning to get up and dress before the landlady came to her. She had her\nhand on the red-leather case, when it occurred to her that there might\nbe something in this case which she had forgotten--something worth\nselling; for without knowing what she should do with her life, she\ncraved the means of living as long as possible; and when we desire\neagerly to find something, we are apt to search for it in hopeless\nplaces. No, there was nothing but common needles and pins, and dried\ntulip-petals between the paper leaves where she had written down her\nlittle money-accounts. But on one of these leaves there was a name,\nwhich, often as she had seen it before, now flashed on Hetty's mind like\na newly discovered message. The name was--Dinah Morris, Snowfield. There\nwas a text above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah's own hand\nwith a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting together and\nHetty happened to have the red case lying open before her. Hetty did not\nread the text now: she was only arrested by the name. Now, for the first\ntime, she remembered without indifference the affectionate kindness\nDinah had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber--that\nHetty must think of her as a friend in trouble. Suppose she were to go\nto Dinah, and ask her to help her? Dinah did not think about things as\nother people did. She was a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was\nalways kind. She couldn't imagine Dinah's face turning away from her in\ndark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice willingly speaking ill of her, or\nrejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to belong to\nthat world of Hetty's, whose glance she dreaded like scorching fire. But\neven to her Hetty shrank from beseeching and confession. She could not\nprevail on herself to say, \"I will go to Dinah\": she only thought of\nthat as a possible alternative, if she had not courage for death.\n\nThe good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come downstairs soon\nafter herself, neatly dressed, and looking resolutely self-possessed.\nHetty told her she was quite well this morning. She had only been very\ntired and overcome with her journey, for she had come a long way to ask\nabout her brother, who had run away, and they thought he was gone for a\nsoldier, and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he had been very\nkind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and the landlady looked\ndoubtfully at Hetty as she told it; but there was a resolute air of\nself-reliance about her this morning, so different from the helpless\nprostration of yesterday, that the landlady hardly knew how to make a\nremark that might seem like prying into other people's affairs. She only\ninvited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in the course of it\nHetty brought out her ear-rings and locket, and asked the landlord if\nhe could help her to get money for them. Her journey, she said, had cost\nher much more than she expected, and now she had no money to get back to\nher friends, which she wanted to do at once.\n\nIt was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for she\nhad examined the contents of Hetty's pocket yesterday, and she and her\nhusband had discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautiful\nthings, with a stronger conviction than ever that Hetty had been\nmiserably deluded by the fine young officer.\n\n\"Well,\" said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious trifles\nbefore him, \"we might take 'em to the jeweller's shop, for there's one\nnot far off; but Lord bless you, they wouldn't give you a quarter o'\nwhat the things are worth. And you wouldn't like to part with 'em?\" he\nadded, looking at her inquiringly.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind,\" said Hetty, hastily, \"so as I can get money to go\nback.\"\n\n\"And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to sell\n'em,\" he went on, \"for it isn't usual for a young woman like you to have\nfine jew'llery like that.\"\n\nThe blood rushed to Hetty's face with anger. \"I belong to respectable\nfolks,\" she said; \"I'm not a thief.\"\n\n\"No, that you aren't, I'll be bound,\" said the landlady; \"and you'd no\ncall to say that,\" looking indignantly at her husband. \"The things were\ngev to her: that's plain enough to be seen.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean as I thought so,\" said the husband, apologetically,\n\"but I said it was what the jeweller might think, and so he wouldn't be\noffering much money for 'em.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the wife, \"suppose you were to advance some money on the\nthings yourself, and then if she liked to redeem 'em when she got home,\nshe could. But if we heard nothing from her after two months, we might\ndo as we liked with 'em.\"\n\nI will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady had\nno regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature in the\nultimate possession of the locket and ear-rings: indeed, the effect they\nwould have in that case on the mind of the grocer's wife had presented\nitself with remarkable vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlord\ntook up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative manner.\nHe wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many of your well-wishers\nwould decline to make a little gain out of you? Your landlady is\nsincerely affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and will\nreally rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the same\ntime she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a percentage as\npossible.\n\n\"How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?\" said the\nwell-wisher, at length.\n\n\"Three guineas,\" answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, for\nwant of any other standard, and afraid of asking too much.\n\n\"Well, I've no objections to advance you three guineas,\" said the\nlandlord; \"and if you like to send it me back and get the jewellery\nagain, you can, you know. The Green Man isn't going to run away.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I'll be very glad if you'll give me that,\" said Hetty, relieved\nat the thought that she would not have to go to the jeweller's and be\nstared at and questioned.\n\n\"But if you want the things again, you'll write before long,\" said the\nlandlady, \"because when two months are up, we shall make up our minds as\nyou don't want 'em.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty indifferently.\n\nThe husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. The\nhusband thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could make a\ngood thing of it by taking them to London and selling them. The wife\nthought she would coax the good man into letting her keep them. And\nthey were accommodating Hetty, poor thing--a pretty, respectable-looking\nyoung woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anything\nfor her food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at eleven o'clock Hetty\nsaid \"Good-bye\" to them with the same quiet, resolute air she had worn\nall the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles\nback along the way she had come.\n\nThere is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that the\nlast hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others than perfect\ncontentment, and in despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the sense\nof dependence.\n\nHetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would make\nlife hateful to her; and no one, she said to herself, should ever know\nher misery and humiliation. No; she would not confess even to Dinah. She\nwould wander out of sight, and drown herself where her body would never\nbe found, and no one should know what had become of her.\n\nWhen she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take cheap\nrides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and on without distinct\npurpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the way she had\ncome, though she was determined not to go back to her own country.\nPerhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire\nfields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a hiding-place\neven in this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, often\ngetting over the stiles and sitting for hours under the hedgerows,\nlooking before her with blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself at the\nedge of a hidden pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wondering\nif it were very painful to be drowned, and if there would be anything\nworse after death than what she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines had\ntaken no hold on Hetty's mind. She was one of those numerous people\nwho have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their catechism, been\nconfirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and yet, for any practical\nresult of strength in life, or trust in death, have never appropriated a\nsingle Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would misunderstand\nher thoughts during these wretched days, if you imagined that they were\ninfluenced either by religious fears or religious hopes.\n\nShe chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had gone before by\nmistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her former way towards\nit--fields among which she thought she might find just the sort of pool\nshe had in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she carried\nher basket; death seemed still a long way off, and life was so strong\nin her. She craved food and rest--she hastened towards them at the very\nmoment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she would leap\ntowards death. It was already five days since she had left Windsor, for\nshe had wandered about, always avoiding speech or questioning looks,\nand recovering her air of proud self-dependence whenever she was under\nobservation, choosing her decent lodging at night, and dressing herself\nneatly in the morning, and setting off on her way steadily, or remaining\nunder shelter if it rained, as if she had a happy life to cherish.\n\nAnd yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was sadly\ndifferent from that which had smiled at itself in the old specked glass,\nor smiled at others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard and even\nfierce look had come in the eyes, though their lashes were as long as\never, and they had all their dark brightness. And the cheek was never\ndimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting, childish\nprettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from it--the\nsadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, with the\npassionate, passionless lips.\n\nAt last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a long\nnarrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a pool in that\nwood! It would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was not a\nwood, only a wild brake, where there had once been gravel-pits, leaving\nmounds and hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She roamed up\nand down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow before she\ncame to it, till her limbs were weary, and she sat down to rest. The\nafternoon was far advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the\nsun were setting behind it. After a little while Hetty started up again,\nfeeling that darkness would soon come on; and she must put off finding\nthe pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter for the night.\nShe had quite lost her way in the fields, and might as well go in one\ndirection as another, for aught she knew. She walked through field after\nfield, and no village, no house was in sight; but there, at the corner\nof this pasture, there was a break in the hedges; the land seemed to\ndip down a little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the\nopening. Hetty's heart gave a great beat as she thought there must be\na pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the tufted grass, with\npale lips and a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were come in\nspite of herself, instead of being the object of her search.\n\nThere it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, no sound near.\nShe set down her basket, and then sank down herself on the grass,\ntrembling. The pool had its wintry depth now: by the time it got\nshallow, as she remembered the pools did at Hayslope, in the summer,\nno one could find out that it was her body. But then there was her\nbasket--she must hide that too. She must throw it into the water--make\nit heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look\nabout for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid down\nbeside her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need to\nhurry--there was all the night to drown herself in. She sat leaning her\nelbow on the basket. She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in her\nbasket--three, which she had supplied herself with at the place where\nshe ate her dinner. She took them out now and ate them eagerly, and then\nsat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that came\nover her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed dreamy\nattitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank down on her\nknees. She was fast asleep.\n\nWhen she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was frightened\nat this darkness--frightened at the long night before her. If she could\nbut throw herself into the water! No, not yet. She began to walk about\nthat she might get warm again, as if she would have more resolution\nthen. Oh how long the time was in that darkness! The bright hearth and\nthe warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising and lying down,\nthe familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and holidays with\ntheir simple joys of dress and feasting--all the sweets of her young\nlife rushed before her now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms\ntowards them across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of\nArthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her cursing would do. She\nwished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life of shame that\nhe dared not end by death.\n\nThe horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude--out of all human\nreach--became greater every long minute. It was almost as if she were\ndead already, and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to life\nagain. But no: she was alive still; she had not taken the dreadful\nleap. She felt a strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation:\nwretchedness, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that she\nwas still in life--that she might yet know light and warmth again. She\nwalked backwards and forwards to warm herself, beginning to discern\nsomething of the objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed to\nthe night--the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living\ncreature--perhaps a field-mouse--rushing across the grass. She no longer\nfelt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk back\nacross the field, and get over the stile; and then, in the very next\nfield, she thought she remembered there was a hovel of furze near a\nsheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. She\ncould pass the night there, for that was what Alick did at Hayslope\nin lambing-time. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a new\nhope. She took up her basket and walked across the field, but it was\nsome time before she got in the right direction for the stile. The\nexercise and the occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to her,\nhowever, and lightened the horror of the darkness and solitude. There\nwere sheep in the next field, and she startled a group as she set down\nher basket and got over the stile; and the sound of their movement\ncomforted her, for it assured her that her impression was right--this\nwas the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the field where\nthe sheep were. Right on along the path, and she would get to it. She\nreached the opposite gate, and felt her way along its rails and the\nrails of the sheep-fold, till her hand encountered the pricking of the\ngorsy wall. Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped\nher way, touching the prickly gorse, to the door, and pushed it open.\nIt was an ill-smelling close place, but warm, and there was straw on\nthe ground. Hetty sank down on the straw with a sense of escape. Tears\ncame--she had never shed tears before since she left Windsor--tears and\nsobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that she\nwas still on the familiar earth, with the sheep near her. The very\nconsciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her: she turned up her\nsleeves, and kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soon\nwarmth and weariness lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fell\ncontinually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the pool\nagain--fancying that she had jumped into the water, and then awaking\nwith a start, and wondering where she was. But at last deep dreamless\nsleep came; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow against\nthe gorsy wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two equal\nterrors, found the one relief that was possible to it--the relief of\nunconsciousness.\n\nAlas! That relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It seemed to\nHetty as if those dozen dreams had only passed into another dream--that\nshe was in the hovel, and her aunt was standing over her with a candle\nin her hand. She trembled under her aunt's glance, and opened her eyes.\nThere was no candle, but there was light in the hovel--the light of\nearly morning through the open door. And there was a face looking down\non her; but it was an unknown face, belonging to an elderly man in a\nsmock-frock.\n\n\"Why, what do you do here, young woman?\" the man said roughly.\n\nHetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame than she had\ndone in her momentary dream under her aunt's glance. She felt that she\nwas like a beggar already--found sleeping in that place. But in spite of\nher trembling, she was so eager to account to the man for her presence\nhere, that she found words at once.\n\n\"I lost my way,\" she said. \"I'm travelling--north'ard, and I got away\nfrom the road into the fields, and was overtaken by the dark. Will you\ntell me the way to the nearest village?\"\n\nShe got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet to\nadjust it, and then laid hold of her basket.\n\nThe man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without giving her any\nanswer, for some seconds. Then he turned away and walked towards the\ndoor of the hovel, but it was not till he got there that he stood still,\nand, turning his shoulder half-round towards her, said, \"Aw, I can show\nyou the way to Norton, if you like. But what do you do gettin' out o'\nthe highroad?\" he added, with a tone of gruff reproof. \"Y'ull be gettin'\ninto mischief, if you dooant mind.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty, \"I won't do it again. I'll keep in the road, if\nyou'll be so good as show me how to get to it.\"\n\n\"Why dooant you keep where there's a finger-poasses an' folks to ax the\nway on?\" the man said, still more gruffly. \"Anybody 'ud think you was a\nwild woman, an' look at yer.\"\n\nHetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more at this last\nsuggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As she followed him out of\nthe hovel she thought she would give him a sixpence for telling her the\nway, and then he would not suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point\nout the road to her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the six-pence\nready, and when he was turning away, without saying good-morning,\nshe held it out to him and said, \"Thank you; will you please to take\nsomething for your trouble?\"\n\nHe looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, \"I want none o' your\nmoney. You'd better take care on't, else you'll get it stool from yer,\nif you go trapesin' about the fields like a mad woman a-thatway.\"\n\nThe man left her without further speech, and Hetty held on her way.\nAnother day had risen, and she must wander on. It was no use to think of\ndrowning herself--she could not do it, at least while she had money left\nto buy food and strength to journey on. But the incident on her waking\nthis morning heightened her dread of that time when her money would be\nall gone; she would have to sell her basket and clothes then, and she\nwould really look like a beggar or a wild woman, as the man had said.\nThe passionate joy in life she had felt in the night, after escaping\nfrom the brink of the black cold death in the pool, was gone now.\nLife now, by the morning light, with the impression of that man's hard\nwondering look at her, was as full of dread as death--it was worse; it\nwas a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank and shrank\nas she did from the black pool, and yet could find no refuge from it.\n\nShe took out her money from her purse, and looked at it. She had still\ntwo-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her for many days more, or it\nwould help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, within reach of\nDinah. The thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since the\nexperience of the night had driven her shuddering imagination away from\nthe pool. If it had been only going to Dinah--if nobody besides Dinah\nwould ever know--Hetty could have made up her mind to go to her. The\nsoft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn her. But afterwards the\nother people must know, and she could no more rush on that shame than\nshe could rush on death.\n\nShe must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair to give\nher courage. Perhaps death would come to her, for she was getting less\nand less able to bear the day's weariness. And yet--such is the strange\naction of our souls, drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very\nends we dread--Hetty, when she set out again from Norton, asked the\nstraightest road northwards towards Stonyshire, and kept it all that\nday.\n\nPoor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face and the hard,\nunloving, despairing soul looking out of it--with the narrow heart\nand narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but her own, and\ntasting that sorrow with the more intense bitterness! My heart bleeds\nfor her as I see her toiling along on her weary feet, or seated in\na cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, never\nthinking or caring whither it tends, till hunger comes and makes her\ndesire that a village may be near.\n\nWhat will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart from\nall love, caring for human beings only through her pride, clinging to\nlife only as the hunted wounded brute clings to it?\n\nGod preserve you and me from being the beginners of such misery!\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVIII\n\nThe Quest\n\n\nTHE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as any\nother days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at his daily\nwork. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least,\nperhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, because there might\nthen be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight had\npassed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not return;\nshe must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one\ncould have supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient\nto see her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day\n(Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There\nwas no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light, and\nperhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty\nearly at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day--Dinah too, if she\nwere coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would afford to\nlose his Monday for the sake of bringing her.\n\nHis project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on\nSaturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to come back\nwithout Hetty, for she had been quite too long away, considering the\nthings she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week was\nsurely enough for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah, Mrs.\nPoyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could make her\nbelieve the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at\nSnowfield. \"Though,\" said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, \"you might\ntell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to\na shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off her\nnext Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange folks, and\nleave the children fatherless and motherless.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man\nperfectly heart-whole, \"it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking rarely\nnow, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, for\nshe'd help thee wi' the little uns: they took t' her wonderful.\"\n\nSo at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the first\nmile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Dinah\nmight come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the cold\nmorning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of\nSunday calm. It was the last morning in February, with a low grey sky,\nand a slight hoar-frost on the green border of the road and on the black\nhedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the\nhill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked in\nsilence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.\n\n\"Good-bye, lad,\" said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and\nlooking at him affectionately as they were about to part. \"I wish thee\nwast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am.\"\n\n\"I'm content, Addy, I'm content,\" said Seth cheerfully. \"I'll be an old\nbachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children.\"\n\nThe'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward,\nmentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was very fond of\nhymns:\n\n     Dark and cheerless is the morn\n     Unaccompanied by thee:\n     Joyless is the day's return\n     Till thy mercy's beams I see:\n     Till thou inward light impart,\n     Glad my eyes and warm my heart.\n\n     Visit, then, this soul of mine,\n     Pierce the gloom of sin and grief--\n     Fill me, Radiancy Divine,\n     Scatter all my unbelief.\n     More and more thyself display,\n     Shining to the perfect day.\n\nAdam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne road\nat sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tall\nbroad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firm\nas any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills as\nthey began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam's life had his\nface been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; and\nthis freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical minds\nlike his, made him all the more observant of the objects round him\nand all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his\nown favourite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love--the\nknowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty,\nwho was so soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morning\nair was to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-being\nthat made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of\nmore intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images than\nHetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness that\nall this happiness was given to him--that this life of ours had such\nsweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps\nrather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very close\nto his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the\nother. But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this\nway, busy thought would come back with the greater vigour; and this\nmorning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved\nthat were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all\nthe benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country\ngentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in his\nown district.\n\nIt seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that pretty\ntown within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted. After\nthis, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no more\nwide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows,\nbut greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal\nwide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been and\nwere no longer. \"A hungry land,\" said Adam to himself. \"I'd rather go\nsouth'ard, where they say it's as flat as a table, than come to live\nhere; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the\nmost comfort to folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she\nmust look as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in the\ndesert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat.\" And when at last\nhe came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was\n\"fellow to the country,\" though the stream through the valley where the\ngreat mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town\nlay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam\ndid not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to find\nDinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little way from\nthe mill--an old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with a\nlittle bit of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderly\ncouple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn where\nthey were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be out\non some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Hetty at home.\nAdam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by the\nroadside before him, there shone out in his face that involuntary smile\nwhich belongs to the expectation of a near joy.\n\nHe hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door.\nIt was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow palsied shake of\nthe head.\n\n\"Is Dinah Morris at home?\" said Adam.\n\n\"Eh?...no,\" said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger with\na wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. \"Will you please to\ncome in?\" she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself.\n\"Why, ye're brother to the young man as come afore, arena ye?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Adam, entering. \"That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam.\nHe told me to give his respects to you and your good master.\"\n\n\"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye feature him,\non'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My man isna come home\nfrom meeting.\"\n\nAdam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman with\nquestions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in one\ncorner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his voice\nand would come down them.\n\n\"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?\" said the old woman, standing\nopposite to him. \"An' you didn' know she was away from home, then?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Adam, \"but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing as\nit's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home, or gone along\nwith Dinah?\"\n\nThe old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.\n\n\"Gone along wi' her?\" she said. \"Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big town\nye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's people. She's\nbeen gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for her\njourney. You may see her room here,\" she went on, opening a door and not\nnoticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and followed her, and\ndarted an eager glance into the little room with its narrow bed, the\nportrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the large\nBible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He could\nnot speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an\nundefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on the\njourney. Still the old woman was so slow of speech and apprehension,\nthat Hetty might be at Snowfield after all.\n\n\"It's a pity ye didna know,\" she said. \"Have ye come from your own\ncountry o' purpose to see her?\"\n\n\"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel,\" said Adam, abruptly; \"Where is she?\"\n\n\"I know nobody by that name,\" said the old woman, wonderingly. \"Is it\nanybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?\"\n\n\"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday was a\nfortnight, to see Dinah Morris?\"\n\n\"Nay; I'n seen no young woman.\"\n\n\"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyes\nand dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? You\ncouldn't forget her if you saw her.\"\n\n\"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--there\ncome nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till you come, for\nthe folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat\nthe matter?\"\n\nThe old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But he\nwas not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly where he could\ninquire about Hetty.\n\n\"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was a\nfortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something has happened\nto her. I can't stop. Good-bye.\"\n\nHe hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to the\ngate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towards\nthe town. He was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coach\nstopped.\n\nNo! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accident\nhappened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there was no coach to\ntake him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn't\nstay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was\nin great anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eagerness\nof a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pockets\nlooking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back\nto Oakbourne in his own \"taxed cart\" this very evening. It was not five\no'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to get\nto Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he really\nwanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night; he should have\nall Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt\nto eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale,\ndeclared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, it\noccurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman\nwhere Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall\nFarm--he only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--the\nPoysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any\naddress, and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not\nrecall the name of the \"blessed woman\" who was Dinah's chief friend in\nthe Society at Leeds.\n\nDuring that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time for\nall the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope. In the very\nfirst shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, the\nthought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but he\ntried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with modes\nof accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerable\nthought. Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance,\ngot into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and did\nnot want to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fence\nof vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct\nagonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking that she\ncould love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; and\nnow, in her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had run\naway. And she was gone to him. The old indignation and jealousy\nrose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing\nfalsely--had written to Hetty--had tempted her to come to him--being\nunwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besides\nhimself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had\ngiven her directions how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew that\nArthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt it\nat the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged\nto Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful\nretrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thing\nhadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought that\nshe could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man who\noffered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to blame her:\nshe never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with\nthat man who had selfishly played with her heart--had perhaps even\ndeliberately lured her away.\n\nAt Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young woman\nas Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more than a\nfortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that in\na hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton coach that went\nthrough Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went away with the\nhorses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight to\nthe house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was the\nmost obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might be\nher destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief\ncoach-roads. She had been noticed here too, and was remembered to have\nsat on the box by the coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, for\nanother man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three or\nfour days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at the\ninn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken Adam must of\nnecessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay, till eleven o'clock,\nwhen the coach started.\n\nAt Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had driven\nHetty would not be in the town again till night. When he did come he\nremembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke addressed to her,\nquoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency that\nhe thought there was something more than common, because Hetty had not\nlaughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done at\nthe inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of\nthe next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town\nfrom which a coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did not\nstart from Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--and\nthen in walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines of\nroad, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No,\nshe was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adam\nwas to go home and carry the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As to\nwhat he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions\namidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within him\nwhile he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of Arthur\nDonnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for\nit: it was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure\nmight be an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been home\nand done what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, he\nwould start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road,\nhe would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and make himself certain\nhow far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thought\noccurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would be\nuseless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur.\nIt seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind\nabout Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that she had\ngone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the\nreason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur\nuncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to such\na step, after that letter written in August. There were but two\nalternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again and\nenticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriage\nwith himself because she found, after all, she could not love him well\nenough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if she retracted.\n\nWith this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur,\nthe thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved to\nbe almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would not\ntell the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or his\nintention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that he\nhad traced her as far as possible.\n\nIt was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached\nTreddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and also\nto encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself without\nundressing on a bed at the \"Waggon Overthrown,\" and slept hard from pure\nweariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five o'clock he\nset out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept a\nkey of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let himself in;\nand he wished to enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxious\nto avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and\nasking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gently\nalong the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but, as he\nexpected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided\nwhen he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence, and\nin his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his body\nagainst his master's legs.\n\nAdam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He threw\nhimself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the signs of work\naround him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in them\nagain, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wrong with his\nmaster, laid his rough grey head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his brows\nto look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been\nconstantly among strange people and in strange places, having no\nassociations with the details of his daily life, and now that by the\nlight of this new morning he was come back to his home and surrounded\nby the familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the\nreality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon him\nwith a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers,\nwhich he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's use, when his home\nshould be hers.\n\nSeth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp's\nbark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressing\nhimself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother: he would come\nhome to-day, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly by\nto-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday than\nhe had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was the\ngreatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he had\nno hope left that she would ever love him well enough to marry him; but\nhe had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and\nbrother than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always near\nher, instead of living so far off!\n\nHe came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitchen\ninto the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood still in\nthe doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seated\nlistlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almost\nlike a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant what the\nmarks meant--not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up at\nhim without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himself\ntrembling so that speech did not come readily.\n\n\"God have mercy on us, Addy,\" he said, in a low voice, sitting down on\nthe bench beside Adam, \"what is it?\"\n\nAdam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress the\nsigns of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at this first\napproach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed.\n\nSeth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of\ntheir boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.\n\n\"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?\" he asked, in a low tone, when Adam\nraised his head and was recovering himself.\n\n\"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been to\nSnowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was a\nfortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where she went\nafter she got to Stoniton.\"\n\nSeth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could\nsuggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.\n\n\"Hast any notion what she's done it for?\" he said, at last.\n\n\"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it came\nnigh--that must be it,\" said Adam. He had determined to mention no\nfurther reason.\n\n\"I hear Mother stirring,\" said Seth. \"Must we tell her?\"\n\n\"No, not yet,\" said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair\nfrom his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. \"I can't have her told\nyet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I've been to\nthe village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, and\nthee must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody is to know anything\nabout. I'll go and wash myself now.\" Adam moved towards the door of the\nworkshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth's\neyes with a calm sad glance, he said, \"I must take all the money out\no' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll be\nthine, to take care o' Mother with.\"\n\nSeth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secret\nunder all this. \"Brother,\" he said, faintly--he never called Adam\n\"Brother\" except in solemn moments--\"I don't believe you'll do anything\nas you can't ask God's blessing on.\"\n\n\"Nay, lad,\" said Adam, \"don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what's\na man's duty.\"\n\nThe thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would\nonly distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half of\nirrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as she\nhad always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness and\nself-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--he told her when she\ncame down--had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and a\nbad headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for his\npaleness and heavy eyes.\n\nHe determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to his\nbusiness for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged to\ngo on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; for\nhe wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when the\nchildren and servants would be in the house-place, and there must be\nexclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty.\nHe waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard at\nthe village, and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It was\nan immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr.\nPoyser advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going\nto the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with a\nsense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master's\neye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a useful\ncompanion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught sight of\nAdam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.\n\n\"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and not\nbrought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?\"\n\n\"No, I've not brought 'em,\" said Adam, turning round, to indicate that\nhe wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.\n\n\"Why,\" said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, \"ye look\nbad. Is there anything happened?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Adam, heavily. \"A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hetty\nat Snowfield.\"\n\nMr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment.\n\"Not find her? What's happened to her?\" he said, his thoughts flying at\nonce to bodily accident.\n\n\"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never went\nto Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't learn nothing\nof her after she got down from the Stoniton coach.\"\n\n\"Why, you donna mean she's run away?\" said Martin, standing still, so\npuzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as a\ntrouble by him.\n\n\"She must ha' done,\" said Adam. \"She didn't like our marriage when it\ncame to the point--that must be it. She'd mistook her feelings.\"\n\nMartin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting\nup the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing. His usual\nslowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful. At\nlast he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, \"Then she didna deserve\nt' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault myself, for she was my niece, and\nI was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye,\nlad--the more's the pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.\"\n\nAdam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for a\nlittle while, went on, \"I'll be bound she's gone after trying to get a\nlady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago, and\nwanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd thought better on her\"--he added,\nshaking his head slowly and sadly--\"I'd thought better on her, nor to\nlook for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been got\nready.\"\n\nAdam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr.\nPoyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. He\nhad no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to Arthur.\n\n\"It was better it should be so,\" he said, as quietly as he could, \"if\nshe felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away before than\nrepent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back, as\nshe may do if she finds it hard to get on away from home.\"\n\n\"I canna look on her as I've done before,\" said Martin decisively.\n\"She's acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I'll not turn my back on\nher: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've knowed on her.\nIt'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back\nwi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit.\"\n\n\"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and\nI couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction where she is at Leeds,\nelse I should ha' brought it you.\"\n\n\"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin,\" said Mr. Poyser,\nindignantly, \"than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n.\"\n\n\"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser,\" said Adam, \"for I've a deal to see\nto.\"\n\n\"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis when\nI go home. It's a hard job.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Adam, \"I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quiet\nfor a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's no knowing\nhow things may turn out.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why the match\nis broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands wi' me,\nlad: I wish I could make thee amends.\"\n\nThere was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment which\ncaused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken fashion.\nYet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the two honest men\ngrasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding.\n\nThere was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Seth\nto go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that Adam\nBede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journey--and to say as\nmuch, and no more, to any one else who made inquiries about him. If the\nPoysers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would infer\nthat he was gone in search of Hetty.\n\nHe had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now the\nimpulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr. Irwine,\nand make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force which belongs\nto a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey--a\ndifficult one--by sea--and no soul would know where he was gone. If\nanything happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matter\nconcerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling which\nmade Adam shrink from telling anything which was her secret must give\nway before the need there was that she should have some one else besides\nhimself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity.\nTowards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, Adam\nfelt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's interest called\non him to speak.\n\n\"I must do it,\" said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread\nthemselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon him in\nan instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering; \"it's the right\nthing. I can't stand alone in this way any longer.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIX\n\nThe Tidings\n\n\nADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest\nstride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be gone\nout--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of\nstrong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he\nsaw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel.\n\nBut the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though\nthere was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: it\nhad evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some one\nwho had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could\nhardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speak\nto the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had\nbegun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as\nhe threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the\nclock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said,\nbut he heard the study door open--the stranger seemed to be coming out,\nand as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at once.\n\nAdam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along the\nlast five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adam\nwatched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some\nreason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almost\nalways these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything\nbut some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came\nto give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us\nin our sleep.\n\nCarroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He\nwas to go into the study immediately. \"I can't think what that strange\nperson's come about,\" the butler added, from mere incontinence of\nremark, as he preceded Adam to the door, \"he's gone i' the dining-room.\nAnd master looks unaccountable--as if he was frightened.\" Adam took no\nnotice of the words: he could not care about other people's business.\nBut when he entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he felt\nin an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely different\nfrom the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter\nlay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed\nglance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation with\nsome disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door,\nas if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him.\n\n\"You want to speak to me, Adam,\" he said, in that low constrainedly\nquiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation.\n\"Sit down here.\" He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more\nthan a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense\nthat this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an additional unexpected\ndifficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to\na measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperative\nreasons.\n\n\"I come to you, sir,\" he said, \"as the gentleman I look up to most of\nanybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as it'll\npain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrong\nother people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till I'd good reason.\"\n\nMr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, \"You was\nt' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o'\nthis month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' the\nparish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me.\"\n\nMr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then,\ndetermined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out.\n\n\"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was going\nto Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday to\nfetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach to\nStoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a long\njourney to look for her, and I can't trust t' anybody but you where I'm\ngoing.\"\n\nMr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down.\n\n\"Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?\" he said.\n\n\"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir,\" said Adam. \"She\ndidn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I doubt.\nThere's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody else\nconcerned besides me.\"\n\nA gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came across the\neager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment. Adam was looking on\nthe ground, and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak.\nBut when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr.\nIrwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without flinching.\n\n\"You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend,\" he said, \"and\nused to be proud to think as I should pass my life i' working for him,\nand had felt so ever since we were lads....\"\n\nMr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm,\nwhich lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain,\nsaid, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, \"No, Adam, no--don't say\nit, for God's sake!\"\n\nAdam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of the\nwords that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The grasp\non his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his\nchair, saying, \"Go on--I must know it.\"\n\n\"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no\nright to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents and used\nto go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only two days before\nhe went away--found him a-kissing her as they were parting in the Grove.\nThere'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then, though I'd loved\nher for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with his\nwrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he said\nsolemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no more\nthan a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty\nhe'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as\nI hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and\nI thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to love\nanother man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter, and she\nseemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected...and she\nbehaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't know her own\nfeelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was too\nlate...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceive\nme. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and--you know the rest,\nsir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away,\nand she's gone to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to\nwork again till I know what's become of her.\"\n\nDuring Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his\nself-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him.\nIt was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when Arthur\nbreakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a\nconfession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. And\nif their words had taken another turn...if he himself had been less\nfastidious about intruding on another man's secrets...it was cruel\nto think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and\nmisery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which\nthe present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as it\nrushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity,\nfor the man who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sad\nblind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was close\nupon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have\nfeared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes\nover us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he must\ninflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand on\nthe arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he said\nsolemnly:\n\n\"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You\ncan bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires both\ntasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than\nany you have yet known. But you are not guilty--you have not the worst\nof all sorrows. God help him who has!\"\n\nThe two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was trembling\nsuspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on.\n\n\"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him. She is\nin Stonyshire--at Stoniton.\"\n\nAdam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leaped\nto her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm again and said,\npersuasively, \"Wait, Adam, wait.\" So he sat down.\n\n\"She is in a very unhappy position--one which will make it worse for you\nto find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever.\"\n\nAdam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and\nhe whispered, \"Tell me.\"\n\n\"She has been arrested...she is in prison.\"\n\nIt was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance\ninto Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly and\nsharply, \"For what?\"\n\n\"For a great crime--the murder of her child.\"\n\n\"It CAN'T BE!\" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair and\nmaking a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting his\nback against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. \"It isn't\npossible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. WHO says it?\"\n\n\"God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is.\"\n\n\"But who says she is guilty?\" said Adam violently. \"Tell me everything.\"\n\n\"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and the\nconstable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confess\nher name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no\ndoubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, only\nthat she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leather\npocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it--one at the\nbeginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah\nMorris, Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own name--she denies\neverything, and will answer no questions, and application has been made\nto me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her,\nfor it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own\nname.\"\n\n\"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?\" said Adam,\nstill violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame.\n\"I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it.\"\n\n\"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime;\nbut we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and read\nthat letter, Adam.\"\n\nAdam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes\nsteadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. When\nhe came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page--he couldn't\nread--he could not put the words together and make out what they meant.\nHe threw it down at last and clenched his fist.\n\n\"It's HIS doing,\" he said; \"if there's been any crime, it's at his door,\nnot at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me first. Let 'em put\nHIM on his trial--let him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell 'em\nhow he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied to\nme. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her...so weak\nand young?\"\n\nThe image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor\nAdam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of the\nroom as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone of\nappealing anguish, \"I can't bear it...O God, it's too hard to lay upon\nme--it's too hard to think she's wicked.\"\n\nMr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter\nsoothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam before him,\nwith that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in\nmoments of terrible emotion--the hard bloodless look of the skin, the\ndeep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow--the sight\nof this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow,\nmoved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless,\nwith his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that\nshort space he was living through all his love again.\n\n\"She can't ha' done it,\" he said, still without moving his eyes, as\nif he were only talking to himself: \"it was fear made her hide it...I\nforgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wast\ndeceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...but they'll\nnever make me believe it.\"\n\nHe was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce\nabruptness, \"I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make him go and\nlook at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he can't forget\nit--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he lives it shall\nfollow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--I'll fetch him, I'll\ndrag him myself.\"\n\nIn the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and\nlooked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who was\npresent with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by the\narm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, \"No, Adam, no; I'm sure you\nwill wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead of\ngoing on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall\nwithout your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his\nway home--or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I\nknow, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go\nwith me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as\nsoon as you can compose yourself.\"\n\nWhile Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the\nactual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and listened.\n\n\"Remember,\" Mr. Irwine went on, \"there are others to think of, and\nact for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the good\nPoysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to\nthink. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--from your sense of\nduty to God and man--that you will try to act as long as action can be\nof any use.\"\n\nIn reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam's\nown sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the best means of\ncounteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours.\n\n\"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?\" he said again, after a moment's\npause. \"We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Adam, \"I'll do what you think right. But the folks at\nth' Hall Farm?\"\n\n\"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shall\nhave ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now, and I shall\nreturn as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XL\n\nThe Bitter Waters Spread\n\n\nMR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and the\nfirst words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house, were, that\nSquire Donnithorne was dead--found dead in his bed at ten o'clock that\nmorning--and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awake\nwhen Mr. Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed without\nseeing her.\n\n\"Well, Dauphin,\" Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, \"you're\ncome at last. So the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits, which\nmade him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. I\nsuppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed\nthis morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, though\nI daresay I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death.\"\n\n\"What have they done about Arthur?\" said Mr. Irwine. \"Sent a messenger\nto await him at Liverpool?\"\n\n\"Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I\nshall live now to see him master at the Chase, and making good times on\nthe estate, like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happy\nas a king now.\"\n\nMr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with\nanxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almost\nintolerable.\n\n\"What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are\nyou thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful Irish\nChannel at this time of year?\"\n\n\"No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to rejoice\njust now.\"\n\n\"You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stoniton\nabout. What in the world is it, that you can't tell me?\"\n\n\"You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell\nyou at present. Good-night: you'll sleep now you have no longer anything\nto listen for.\"\n\nMr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur,\nsince it would not now hasten his return: the news of his grandfather's\ndeath would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go\nto bed now and get some needful rest, before the time came for the\nmorning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm and\nto Adam's home.\n\nAdam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank from\nseeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again.\n\n\"It's no use, sir,\" he said to the rector, \"it's no use for me to go\nback. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I couldn't bear\nthe sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a room\nhere, where I can see the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, in\ntime, to bear seeing her.\"\n\nAdam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the\ncrime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the belief in\nher guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from him\nthe facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason\nfor thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, at\nparting, only said, \"If the evidence should tell too strongly against\nher, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other\ncircumstances will be a plea for her.\"\n\n\"Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into the\nwrong way,\" said Adam, with bitter earnestness. \"It's right they should\nknow it was a fine gentleman made love to her, and turned her head wi'\nnotions. You'll remember, sir, you've promised to tell my mother, and\nSeth, and the people at the farm, who it was as led her wrong, else\nthey'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be doing her a\nhurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, let her\nha' done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose him!\"\n\n\"I think your demand is just, Adam,\" said Mr. Irwine, \"but when you are\ncalmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only\nthat his punishment is in other hands than ours.\"\n\nMr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur's\nsad part in the story of sin and sorrow--he who cared for Arthur with\nfatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he\nsaw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart from\nAdam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hetty\nwould persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mind\nto withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at\nonce, for there was no time to rob the tidings of their suddenness.\nHetty's trial must come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be\nheld at Stoniton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin\nPoyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was\nbetter he should know everything as long beforehand as possible.\n\nBefore ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm was\na house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. The\nsense of family dishonour was too keen even in the kind-hearted Martin\nPoyser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He\nand his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnished\ncharacter, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head\nand paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish register;\nand Hetty had brought disgrace on them all--disgrace that could never\nbe wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of\nfather and son--the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised all\nother sensibility--and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observe\nthat Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled\nby the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason is,\nthat mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditional\nimpressions.\n\n\"I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her\noff,\" said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while the old\ngrandfather was crying in the opposite chair, \"but I'll not go nigh her,\nnor ever see her again, by my own will. She's made our bread bitter to\nus for all our lives to come, an' we shall ne'er hold up our heads i'\nthis parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's\npoor amends pity 'ull make us.\"\n\n\"Pity?\" said the grandfather, sharply. \"I ne'er wanted folks's pity i'\nMY life afore...an' I mun begin to be looked down on now, an' me turned\nseventy-two last St. Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pall-bearers\nas I'n picked for my funeral are i' this parish and the next to\n't....It's o' no use now...I mun be ta'en to the grave by strangers.\"\n\n\"Don't fret so, father,\" said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little,\nbeing almost overawed by her husband's unusual hardness and decision.\n\"You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the lads and the little\nun 'ull grow up in a new parish as well as i' th' old un.\"\n\n\"Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now,\" said Mr. Poyser,\nand the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. \"We thought\nit 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but I\nmust gi' notice myself now, an' see if there can anybody be got to come\nan' take to the crops as I'n put i' the ground; for I wonna stay upo'\nthat man's land a day longer nor I'm forced to't. An' me, as thought him\nsuch a good upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to be\nour landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i' the same\nchurch wi' him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an'\npretended to be such a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a fine\nfriend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine, an' all\nthe while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' this\ncountry any more nor we can.\"\n\n\"An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her,\" said the\nold man. \"Why, they'll cast it up to the little un, as isn't four 'ear\nold, some day--they'll cast it up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the\n'sizes for murder.\"\n\n\"It'll be their own wickedness, then,\" said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in\nher voice. \"But there's One above 'ull take care o' the innicent child,\nelse it's but little truth they tell us at church. It'll be harder nor\never to die an' leave the little uns, an' nobody to be a mother to 'em.\"\n\n\"We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is,\" said Mr.\nPoyser; \"but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be at Leeds.\"\n\n\"Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith,\" said\nMrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husband.\n\"I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't remember what name\nshe called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's like enough to know, for\nshe's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on.\"\n\n\"I'll send to Seth,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"I'll send Alick to tell him to\ncome, or else to send up word o' the woman's name, an' thee canst write\na letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as we can make out a\ndirection.\"\n\n\"It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i'\ntrouble,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"Happen it'll be ever so long on the road,\nan' never reach her at last.\"\n\nBefore Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had\nalready flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, \"Eh, there's no\ncomfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get Dinah\nMorris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to\ncome in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me. She'd tell me the\nrights on't, belike--she'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an'\nheart-break comin' upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's\nlife, but war better nor anybody else's son, pick the country round. Eh,\nmy lad...Adam, my poor lad!\"\n\n\"Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?\" said\nSeth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro.\n\n\"Fetch her?\" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like\na crying child who hears some promise of consolation. \"Why, what place\nis't she's at, do they say?\"\n\n\"It's a good way off, mother--Leeds, a big town. But I could be back in\nthree days, if thee couldst spare me.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother, an'\nbring me word what he's a-doin'. Mester Irwine said he'd come an' tell\nme, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me. Thee\nmust go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to\nDinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin' when nobody wants thee.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure where she'd be i' that big town,\" said Seth. \"If I'd gone\nmyself, I could ha' found out by asking the members o' the Society. But\nperhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o'\nth' outside, it might get to her; for most like she'd be wi' Sarah\nWilliamson.\"\n\nAlick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was\nwriting to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself; but he went\nto the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address\nof the letter, and warn them that there might be some delay in the\ndelivery, from his not knowing an exact direction.\n\nOn leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also\na claim to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away from\nbusiness for some time; and before six o'clock that evening there were\nfew people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr.\nIrwine had not mentioned Arthur's name to Burge, and yet the story of\nhis conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by\nits terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his\ngrandfather was dead, and that he was come into the estate. For Martin\nPoyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours\nwho ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first\nday of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that\npassed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story,\nand found early opportunities of communicating it.\n\nOne of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the\nhand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut\nup his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived about\nhalf-past seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine,\nbegged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something\nparticular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwine\nsoon joined him.\n\n\"Well, Bartle?\" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his\nusual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all\nwho feel with us very much alike. \"Sit down.\"\n\n\"You know what I'm come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay,\" said\nBartle.\n\n\"You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached\nyou...about Hetty Sorrel?\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left\nhim at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what's the state\nof the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o'\npink-and-white they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't value\nher a rotten nut--not a rotten nut--only for the harm or good that may\ncome out of her to an honest man--a lad I've set such store\nby--trusted to, that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in the\nworld....Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid country\nthat ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn't\nhad so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the\nhigher branches, and then this might never have happened--might never\nhave happened.\"\n\nBartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame\nof mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion of\nventing his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and\nprobably his moist eyes also.\n\n\"You'll excuse me, sir,\" he said, when this pause had given him time to\nreflect, \"for running on in this way about my own feelings, like that\nfoolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants to\nlisten to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself--if you'll\ntake the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's doing.\"\n\n\"Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle,\" said Mr. Irwine. \"The\nfact is, I'm very much in the same condition as you just now; I've a\ngreat deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be\nquite silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I share\nyour concern for Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings I\ncare for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after the\ntrial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He has taken a room\nthere, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better he\nshould be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he still\nbelieves Hetty is innocent--he wants to summon up courage to see her if\nhe can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is.\"\n\n\"Do you think the creatur's guilty, then?\" said Bartle. \"Do you think\nthey'll hang her?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And\none bad symptom is that she denies everything--denies that she has had\na child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and\nshe was obstinately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal\nwhen she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as at the change in\nher. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the\nsake of the innocent who are involved.\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom\nhe was speaking. \"I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it's stuff and nonsense\nfor the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I\nthink the sooner such women are put out o' the world the better; and the\nmen that help 'em to do mischief had better go along with 'em for that\nmatter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the\nvictual that 'ud feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to care\nabout it, I don't want him to suffer more than's needful....Is he very\nmuch cut up, poor fellow?\" Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and\nputting them on, as if they would assist his imagination.\n\n\"Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep,\" said Mr. Irwine. \"He looks\nterribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and then\nyesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But I\nshall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, and I have confidence enough in\nthe strength of Adam's principle to trust that he will be able to endure\nthe worst without being driven to anything rash.\"\n\nMr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather\nthan addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind the\npossibility that the spirit of vengeance to-wards Arthur, which was\nthe form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an\nencounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the Grove.\nThis possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward\nto Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring to\nsuicide, and his face wore a new alarm.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir,\" he said, \"and I hope you'll\napprove of it. I'm going to shut up my school--if the scholars come,\nthey must go back again, that's all--and I shall go to Stoniton and look\nafter Adam till this business is over. I'll pretend I'm come to look\non at the assizes; he can't object to that. What do you think about it,\nsir?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, \"there would be some real\nadvantages in that...and I honour you for your friendship towards him,\nBartle. But...you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I'm\nafraid you have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider his\nweakness about Hetty.\"\n\n\"Trust to me, sir--trust to me. I know what you mean. I've been a fool\nmyself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shan't thrust myself\non him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and\nput in a word here and there.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion,\n\"I think you'll be doing a good deed; and it will be well for you to let\nAdam's mother and brother know that you're going.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, yes,\" said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles,\n\"I'll do that, I'll do that; though the mother's a whimpering\nthing--I don't like to come within earshot of her; however, she's\na straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you\ngood-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spared me. You're\neverybody's friend in this business--everybody's friend. It's a heavy\nweight you've got on your shoulders.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.\"\n\nBartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll's conversational\nadvances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legs\npattered beside him on the gravel, \"Now, I shall be obliged to take you\nwith me, you good-for-nothing woman. You'd go fretting yourself to death\nif I left you--you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by some\ntramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting your\nnose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do\nanything disgraceful, I'll disown you--mind that, madam, mind that!\"\n\n\n\nChapter XLI\n\nThe Eve of the Trial\n\n\n\nAN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one laid\non the floor. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the dark wall\nopposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled\nwith the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey is\npretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles at\nAdam Bede, seated near the dark window.\n\nYou would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face has\ngot thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected beard\nof a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over his\nforehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to\npush it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has one\narm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at his\nclasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door.\n\n\"There he is,\" said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the\ndoor. It was Mr. Irwine.\n\nAdam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine\napproached him and took his hand.\n\n\"I'm late, Adam,\" he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placed\nfor him, \"but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I intended\nto be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I have done\neverything now, however--everything that can be done to-night, at least.\nLet us all sit down.\"\n\nAdam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was\nno chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background.\n\n\"Have you seen her, sir?\" said Adam tremulously.\n\n\"Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening.\"\n\n\"Did you ask her, sir...did you say anything about me?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, \"I spoke of you. I said\nyou wished to see her before the trial, if she consented.\"\n\nAs Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning eyes.\n\n\"You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only\nyou--some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against her\nfellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than 'No' either\nto me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentioned\nto her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family whom she\nwould like to see--to whom she could open her mind--she said, with a\nviolent shudder, 'Tell them not to come near me--I won't see any of\nthem.'\"\n\nAdam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was\nsilence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, \"I don't like\nto advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you\nstrongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without her consent.\nIt is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, that\nthe interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I have\nscarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned\nyour name; she only said 'No,' in the same cold, obstinate way as usual.\nAnd if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless\nsuffering to you--severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed...\"\n\nAdam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on the\ntable. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had a\nquestion to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose\nquietly, turned the key in the door, and put it in his pocket.\n\n\"Is he come back?\" said Adam at last.\n\n\"No, he is not,\" said Mr. Irwine, quietly. \"Lay down your hat, Adam,\nunless you like to walk out with me for a little fresh air. I fear you\nhave not been out again to-day.\"\n\n\"You needn't deceive me, sir,\" said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine and\nspeaking in a tone of angry suspicion. \"You needn't be afraid of me.\nI only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It's his\nwork...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybody's heart to look\nat...I don't care what she's done...it was him brought her to it. And he\nshall know it...he shall feel it...if there's a just God, he shall feel\nwhat it is t' ha' brought a child like her to sin and misery.\"\n\n\"I'm not deceiving you, Adam,\" said Mr. Irwine. \"Arthur Donnithorne is\nnot come back--was not come back when I left. I have left a letter for\nhim: he will know all as soon as he arrives.\"\n\n\"But you don't mind about it,\" said Adam indignantly. \"You think it\ndoesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knows\nnothing about it--he suffers nothing.\"\n\n\"Adam, he WILL know--he WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heart\nand a conscience: I can't be entirely deceived in his character. I am\nconvinced--I am sure he didn't fall under temptation without a struggle.\nHe may be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am\npersuaded that this will be a shock of which he will feel the effects\nall his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount of\ntorture that you could inflict on him could benefit her.\"\n\n\"No--O God, no,\" Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; \"but\nthen, that's the deepest curse of all...that's what makes the blackness\nof it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty...she can never be my\nsweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing God had made--smiling up at\nme...I thought she loved me...and was good...\"\n\nAdam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if\nhe were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking at\nMr. Irwine, \"But she isn't as guilty as they say? You don't think she\nis, sir? She can't ha' done it.\"\n\n\"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam,\" Mr. Irwine\nanswered gently. \"In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on what\nseems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some small\nfact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right to\nsay that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bear\nthe punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moral\nguilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes even in\ndetermining who has committed a single criminal act, and the problem how\nfar a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of\nhis own deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it.\nThe evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of selfish\nindulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken some\nfeeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mind\nthat can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don't suppose\nI can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this state\nof revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey your\npassion--for it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it\njustice--it might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay,\nworse; your passion might lead you yourself into a horrible crime.\"\n\n\"No--not worse,\" said Adam, bitterly; \"I don't believe it's worse--I'd\nsooner do it--I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself\nthan ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand by and see 'em\npunish her while they let me alone; and all for a bit o' pleasure, as,\nif he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd ha' cut his hand off sooner than\nhe'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresaw\nenough; he'd no right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. And\nthen he wanted to smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' things\nfolks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what he\nwill, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't half so\nbad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t' himself and knows\nall the while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else.\"\n\n\"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of\nwrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can't\nisolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall not spread.\nMen's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other as the air they\nbreathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel the\nterrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others;\nbut so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commit\nit. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply be\nanother evil added to those we are suffering under: you could not bear\nthe punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on every one\nwho loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that would\nleave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils to\nthem. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance, but\nthe feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and as\nlong as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that to fix your mind\non Arthur's punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in danger\nof being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you\ntold me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in\nthe Grove.\"\n\nAdam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the past,\nand Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to Bartle Massey\nabout old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other matters of an indifferent\nkind. But at length Adam turned round and said, in a more subdued tone,\n\"I've not asked about 'em at th' Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?\"\n\n\"He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise him to\nsee you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is best\nhe should not see you till you are calmer.\"\n\n\"Is Dinah Morris come to 'em, sir? Seth said they'd sent for her.\"\n\n\"No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They're afraid\nthe letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address.\"\n\nAdam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, \"I wonder if Dinah\n'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha' been sorely\nagainst it, since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think she\nwould, for the Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons;\nand Seth said he thought she would. She'd a very tender way with her,\nDinah had; I wonder if she could ha' done any good. You never saw her,\nsir, did you?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her--she pleased me a good deal.\nAnd now you mention it, I wish she would come, for it is possible that a\ngentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jail\nchaplain is rather harsh in his manner.\"\n\n\"But it's o' no use if she doesn't come,\" said Adam sadly.\n\n\"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures\nfor finding her out,\" said Mr. Irwine, \"but it's too late now, I\nfear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night. God\nbless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XLII\n\nThe Morning of the Trial\n\n\nAT one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper room;\nhis watch lay before him on the table, as if he were counting the\nlong minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be said by\nthe witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particulars\nconnected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave active man, who\nwould have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an\napprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplate\nirremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility which would have\nbeen an impelling force where there was any possibility of action became\nhelpless anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an\nactive outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energetic\nnatures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a\nhopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the overmastering\nsense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable instinct,\nas they would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to think\nof seeing Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because he thought the\nmeeting might possibly be a good to her--might help to melt away this\nterrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will\nfor what she had done to him, she might open her heart to him. But this\nresolution had been an immense effort--he trembled at the thought of\nseeing her changed face, as a timid woman trembles at the thought of\nthe surgeon's knife, and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspense\nrather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable agony of\nwitnessing her trial.\n\nDeep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration,\nthe initiation into a new state. The yearning memories, the bitter\nregret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the Invisible\nRight--all the intense emotions which had filled the days and nights of\nthe past week, and were compressing themselves again like an eager crowd\ninto the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all the\nprevious years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had\nonly now awaked to full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he had\nalways before thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all\nthat he had himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's\nstroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may do\nthe work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a\nsoul full of new awe and new pity.\n\n\"O God,\" Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked blankly at\nthe face of the watch, \"and men have suffered like this before...and\npoor helpless young things have suffered like her....Such a little while\nago looking so happy and so pretty...kissing 'em all, her grandfather\nand all of 'em, and they wishing her luck....O my poor, poor\nHetty...dost think on it now?\"\n\nAdam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun to\nwhimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on the stairs.\nIt was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all over?\n\nBartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand and\nsaid, \"I'm just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are gone out\nof court for a bit.\"\n\nAdam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speak--he could only\nreturn the pressure of his friend's hand--and Bartle, drawing up the\nother chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his hat and his\nspectacles.\n\n\"That's a thing never happened to me before,\" he observed, \"to go out o'\nthe door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take 'em off.\"\n\nThe old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respond\nat all to Adam's agitation: he would gather, in an indirect way, that\nthere was nothing decisive to communicate at present.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, rising again, \"I must see to your having a bit of\nthe loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent this morning. He'll be\nangry with me if you don't have it. Come, now,\" he went on, bringing\nforward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine into a cup, \"I\nmust have a bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad--drink\nwith me.\"\n\nAdam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, \"Tell me about\nit, Mr. Massey--tell me all about it. Was she there? Have they begun?\"\n\n\"Yes, my boy, yes--it's taken all the time since I first went; but\nthey're slow, they're slow; and there's the counsel they've got for her\nputs a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do with\ncross-examining the witnesses and quarrelling with the other lawyers.\nThat's all he can do for the money they give him; and it's a big\nsum--it's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow, with an eye that 'ud pick\nthe needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it\n'ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in court;\nbut a tender heart makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures for ever\nonly to have had some good news to bring to you, my poor lad.\"\n\n\"But does it seem to be going against her?\" said Adam. \"Tell me what\nthey've said. I must know it now--I must know what they have to bring\nagainst her.\"\n\n\"Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but Martin\nPoyser--poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for him--it was like one\nsob, the sound they made when he came down again. The worst was when\nthey told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor\nfellow--it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily on him\nas well as you; you must help poor Martin; you must show courage. Drink\nsome wine now, and show me you mean to bear it like a man.\"\n\nBartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet\nobedience, took up the cup and drank a little.\n\n\"Tell me how SHE looked,\" he said presently.\n\n\"Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it was the\nfirst sight of the crowd and the judge, poor creatur. And there's a lot\no' foolish women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all up their arms\nand feathers on their heads, sitting near the judge: they've dressed\nthemselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be scarecrows and warnings\nagainst any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up their\nglasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a white\nimage, staring down at her hands and seeming neither to hear nor see\nanything. And she's as white as a sheet. She didn't speak when they\nasked her if she'd plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty,' and they pleaded 'not\nguilty' for her. But when she heard her uncle's name, there seemed to go\na shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at her, she\nhung her head down, and cowered, and hid her face in her hands.\nHe'd much ado to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. And the\ncounsellors--who look as hard as nails mostly--I saw, spared him as much\nas they could. Mr. Irwine put himself near him and went with him out o'\ncourt. Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by a\nneighbour and uphold him in such trouble as that.\"\n\n\"God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam, in a low voice,\nlaying his hand on Bartle's arm.\n\n\"Aye, aye, he's good metal; he gives the right ring when you try him,\nour parson does. A man o' sense--says no more than's needful. He's not\none of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as if\nfolks who stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble was\nthan those who have to bear it. I've had to do with such folks in my\ntime--in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to be\na witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her\ncharacter and bringing up.\"\n\n\"But the other evidence...does it go hard against her!\" said Adam. \"What\ndo you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at\nlast. The doctors' evidence is heavy on her--is heavy. But she's gone\non denying she's had a child from first to last. These poor silly\nwomen-things--they've not the sense to know it's no use denying what's\nproved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being so\nobstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the\nverdict's against her. But Mr. Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned with\nthe judge--you may rely upon that, Adam.\"\n\n\"Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the court?\"\nsaid Adam.\n\n\"There's the chaplain o' the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp\nferrety-faced man--another sort o' flesh and blood to Mr. Irwine. They\nsay the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o' the clergy.\"\n\n\"There's one man as ought to be there,\" said Adam bitterly. Presently he\ndrew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently turning\nover some new idea in his mind.\n\n\"Mr. Massey,\" he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, \"I'll\ngo back with you. I'll go into court. It's cowardly of me to keep away.\nI'll stand by her--I'll own her--for all she's been deceitful. They\noughtn't to cast her off--her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to\nGod's mercy, and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I'll\nnever be hard again. I'll go, Mr. Massey--I'll go with you.\"\n\nThere was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented Bartle\nfrom opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only said, \"Take\na bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must stop\nand eat a morsel. Now, you take some.\"\n\nNerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and drank\nsome wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as he had been yesterday, but he\nstood upright again, and looked more like the Adam Bede of former days.\n\n\n\nChapter XLIII\n\nThe Verdict\n\n\nTHE place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old hall,\nnow destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the close pavement\nof human heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows,\nvariegated with the mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armour\nhung in high relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the farther\nend, and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window opposite was\nspread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures,\nlike a dozing indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that through\nthe rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of old\nkings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all those\nshadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence of\nany but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts.\n\nBut that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt hitherto, now\nwhen Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly seen being ushered to the side\nof the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight of the great hall, among\nthe sleek shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face\nwere startling even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the dim\nlight of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope who were\npresent, and who told Hetty Sorrel's story by their firesides in their\nold age, never forgot to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poor\nfellow, taller by the head than most of the people round him, came into\ncourt and took his place by her side.\n\nBut Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position Bartle\nMassey had described, her hands crossed over each other and her eyes\nfixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments,\nbut at last, when the attention of the court was withdrawn by the\nproceedings he turned his face towards her with a resolution not to\nshrink.\n\nWhy did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the\nlikeness we see--it is the likeness, which makes itself felt the more\nkeenly because something else was and is not. There they were--the sweet\nface and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the\nrounded cheek and the pouting lips--pale and thin, yes, but like Hetty,\nand only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast a\nblighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, and\nleft only a hard despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that\ncompletest type of the life in another life which is the essence of\nreal human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the\ndebased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culprit\nwas the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under the apple-tree\nboughs--she was that Hetty's corpse, which he had trembled to look at\nthe first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his eyes from.\n\nBut presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and made\nthe sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the witness-box, a\nmiddle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct voice. She said, \"My\nname is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed to\nsell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at\nthe bar is the same young woman who came, looking ill and tired, with\na basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday\nevening, the 27th of February. She had taken the house for a public,\nbecause there was a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't\ntake in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired\nto go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And her\nprettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about her\nclothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me as I\ncouldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked her to sit\ndown, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was going, and\nwhere her friends were. She said she was going home to her friends: they\nwere farming folks a good way off, and she'd had a long journey that had\ncost her more money than she expected, so as she'd hardly any money left\nin her pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much. She\nhad been obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd\nthankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn't\ntake the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, but there\nwere two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I thought\nshe'd been led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to her\nfriends, it would be a good work to keep her out of further harm.\"\n\nThe witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and she\nidentified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in which she had\nherself dressed the child.\n\n\"Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by me\never since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble both for\nthe child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the little thing and\nbeing anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for there seemed no\nneed. I told the mother in the day-time she must tell me the name of her\nfriends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She said, by\nand by she would write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay,\nbut she would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say.\nShe said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what spirit\nshe showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, and\ntowards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after Meeting was over, and\nspeak to our minister about it. I left the house about half-past eight\no'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door, but at the back door, which\nopens into a narrow alley. I've only got the ground-floor of the\nhouse, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left the\nprisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap.\nShe hadn't cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I\nthought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed\ntowards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and\nask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back with\nme when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the door\nbehind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with a bolt inside, and\nwhen there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop door.\nBut I thought there was no danger in leaving it unfastened that little\nwhile. I was longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman\nthat came back with me. It was an hour and a half before we got back,\nand when we went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it,\nbut the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak and\nbonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I was\ndreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't go to give\ninformation, because I'd no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knew\nshe had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't like\nto set the constable after her, for she'd a right to go from me if she\nliked.\"\n\nThe effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him new\nforce. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime--her heart must have clung\nto her baby--else why should she have taken it with her? She might have\nleft it behind. The little creature had died naturally, and then she\nhad hidden it. Babies were so liable to death--and there might be\nthe strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so\noccupied with imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that he\ncould not listen to the cross-examination by Hetty's counsel, who tried,\nwithout result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some\nmovements of maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this\nwitness was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no\nword seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next witness's\nvoice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave a start and a\nfrightened look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and\nlooked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough\npeasant. He said:\n\n\"My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's Hole, two\nmiles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one o'clock in the\nafternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a\nmile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under\na bit of a haystack not far off the stile. She got up when she saw me,\nand seemed as if she'd be walking on the other way. It was a regular\nroad through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman\nthere, but I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I\nshould have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. I\nthought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood\nand looked back after her, but she went right on while she was in sight.\nI had to go to the other side of the coppice to look after some stakes.\nThere's a road right through it, and bits of openings here and there,\nwhere the trees have been cut down, and some of 'em not carried away.\nI didn't go straight along the road, but turned off towards the middle,\nand took a shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got\nfar out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a strange\ncry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't for\nstopping to look about just then. But it went on, and seemed so strange\nto me in that place, I couldn't help stopping to look. I began to think\nI might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hard\nwork to tell which way it came from, and for a good while I kept looking\nup at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; and there\nwas a lot of timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and\na trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find nothing,\nand at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went on\nabout my business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an hour\nafter, I couldn't help laying down my stakes to have another look. And\njust as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd\nand round and whitish lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the side\nof me. And I stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw it\nwas a little baby's hand.\"\n\nAt these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly\ntrembling; now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to what a\nwitness said.\n\n\"There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the ground\nwent hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out from among\nthem. But there was a hole left in one place and I could see down it\nand see the child's head; and I made haste and did away the turf and the\nchoppings, and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes on,\nbut its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made haste back\nwith it out of the wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it was\ndead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And I\nsaid, 'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to\nthe coppice.' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took\nthe child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on to\nJustice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young woman till dark\nat night, and we went and gave information at Stoniton, as they might\nstop her. And the next morning, another constable came to me, to go with\nhim to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, there\nwas the prisoner a-sitting against the bush where I found the child; and\nshe cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd got\na big piece of bread on her lap.\"\n\nAdam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking.\nHe had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the boarding in front\nof him. It was the supreme moment of his suffering: Hetty was guilty;\nand he was silently calling to God for help. He heard no more of the\nevidence, and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution had\nclosed--unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witness-box, telling\nof Hetty's unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtuous\nhabits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could have no\ninfluence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for\nmercy which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to\nspeak for her--a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times.\n\nAt last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement round\nhim. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. The\ndecisive moment was not far off. Adam felt a shuddering horror that would\nnot let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard\nindifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she stood like\na statue of dull despair.\n\n'There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout\nthe court during this interval. The desire to listen was suspended, and\nevery one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adam\nsat looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that were\nright in front of his eyes--the counsel and attorneys talking with an\nair of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with\nthe judge--did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake\nhis head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward action\nwas too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong\nsensation roused him.\n\nIt was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before\nthe knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as a\nsignal for silence on every ear. It is sublime--that sudden pause of a\ngreat multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and\ndeeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while the\njurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up\nher hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict.\n\n\"Guilty.\"\n\nIt was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh\nof disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no\nrecommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with\nthe prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly\nby the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even the\nverdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who\nwere near saw her trembling.\n\nThe stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and\nthe chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepened\nagain, before the crier had had time to command silence. If any sound\nwere heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge\nspoke, \"Hester Sorrel....\"\n\nThe blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she\nlooked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as if\nfascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a\ndeep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words \"and\nthen to be hanged by the neck till you be dead,\" a piercing shriek rang\nthrough the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet and\nstretched out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her:\nshe had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.\n\n\n\nChapter XLIV\n\nArthur's Return\n\n\nWhen Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from\nhis Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death, his first\nfeeling was, \"Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be\nwith him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at the\nlast that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death.\"\n\nIt is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity\nand softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busy\nthoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along\ntowards the home where he was now to be master, there was a continually\nrecurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a regard\nfor his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherished\naims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in human\nnature--only in human pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fine\nconstitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that\nothers think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give\nthem more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible for\nsuch a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the\ndeath of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything very\ndifferent from exultant joy. Now his real life was beginning; now he\nwould have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. He\nwould show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; he\nwould not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felt\nhimself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking after\nfavourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombre\nmornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well\nof on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches at\nelection dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture;\nthe patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligent\nlandowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like--happy\nfaces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouring\nfamilies on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him\nevery week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some very\ndelicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of the\nHayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to\nthe vicar; and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on\nliving at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--at\nleast until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct\nbackground, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play the\nlady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman.\n\nThese were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts through\nhours of travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which are\nonly like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a long\nlong panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces\nArthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddy\nfaces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyser\nfamily.\n\nWhat--Hetty?\n\nYes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about the\npast, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thought\nof the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot.\nMr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all the\nnews about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly three\nmonths ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had\nthought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself had\nboth told Mr. Irwine all about it--that Adam had been deeply in love\nwith Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to be\nmarried in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the\nrector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if\nit had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to\ndescribe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words with\nwhich the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would like\nto hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect.\n\nYes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfy\nhis renovated life, when he had read that passage in the letter. He\nthrew up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, and\ngreeted every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there had\nbeen news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the first time that day since\nhe had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load that\nhad been pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He\nthought he could conquer his bitterness towards Adam now--could offer\nhim his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painful\nmemory which would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down,\nand he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do what\nwe will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur\nwished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his business\nand his future, as he had always desired before the accursed meeting\nin August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he should\notherwise have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband had\na special claim on him--Hetty herself should feel that any pain she\nhad suffered through Arthur in the past was compensated to her a\nhundredfold. For really she could not have felt much, since she had so\nsoon made up her mind to marry Adam.\n\nYou perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the\npanorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March now;\nthey were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married. And now\nit was actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet--sweet\nlittle Hetty! The little puss hadn't cared for him half as much as\nhe cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still--was almost\nafraid of seeing her--indeed, had not cared much to look at any other\nwoman since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards him in\nthe Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to\nkiss him--that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And\nshe would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he could\nmeet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort of\ninfluence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. He\nhad been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam,\nand there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these\nmoments than the thought of their marriage. It was the exaggerating\neffect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little more\nquickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as she\nreally was, as Adam's wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home,\nhe should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank\nheaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and\ninterests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the fool\nagain.\n\nPleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of being\nhurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those round\nhis own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town--very\nmuch like Treddleston--where the arms of the neighbouring lord of the\nmanor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and\nhedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion\nof high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods\nwere more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down\nfrom a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet\nand chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--masses\nreddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: the\nsmall church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among the\nfaded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles round\nthem; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes at\nthe swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs of\nmysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And it\nshould not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go\non everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in\npost-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing but\nadmire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs,\nfor he had a share in Burge's business now, and, if he liked, Arthur\nwould put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in another\nyear or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur's life, that affair last\nsummer, but the future should make amends. Many men would have retained\na feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would not--he would\nresolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had certainly\nbeen very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent,\nand had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love,\nand had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind\ntowards any human being: he was happy, and would make every one else\nhappy that came within his reach.\n\nAnd here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a\nquiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and opposite\nto it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish\nblackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey,\nlooking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for the\nheir's return. \"Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He was a young\nfellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the world\ngoes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she\nshall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido.\"\n\nThe wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at the\nChase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferred\ntwo days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the\nservants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decent\nwelcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would have\nbeen difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in their\nfaces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts of\nthe head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the death\nof the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twenty\nmiles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty\nSorrel--pretty Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They had\nthe partisanship of household servants who like their places, and\nwere not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt\nagainst him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for him;\nnevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourly\nintercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling that\nthe longed-for event of the young squire's coming into the estate had\nbeen robbed of all its pleasantness.\n\nTo Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and\nsad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, and\nfeeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort of\npathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it--which is\nperhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man,\nconscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelled\nagreeably as he said, \"Well, Mills, how is my aunt?\"\n\nBut now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever since\nthe death, came forward to give deferential greetings and answer all\nquestions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where his\nAunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in the\nhouse who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughter\nwas unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral\narrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women,\nshe mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the more\nbecause she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in\nother hearts.\n\nBut Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done\nin his life before.\n\n\"Dear Aunt,\" he said affectionately, as he held her hand, \"YOUR loss is\nthe greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up to\nyou all the rest of your life.\"\n\n\"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur,\" poor Miss Lydia began,\npouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with\nimpatient patience. When a pause came, he said:\n\n\"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my own\nroom, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything.\"\n\n\"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?\" he said to the butler,\nwho seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall.\n\n\"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the\nwriting-table in your dressing-room.\"\n\nOn entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, but\nwhich Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast his\neyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were several letters and\npackets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty condition\nof a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really refresh\nhimself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his\nletters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, with\na delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new\nday, he went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level\nrays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and as\nArthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth\nupon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps you\nand I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth and\nhealth, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows of\nactivity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was no\nneed for hurrying to look at, because it was all our own.\n\nThe top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr.\nIrwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address was\nwritten, \"To be delivered as soon as he arrives.\" Nothing could have\nbeen less surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that\nmoment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlier\nthan it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that\nit was quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say.\nArthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the\nwriter.\n\n\n\"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I may\nthen be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it has\never been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know what\nI have to tell you without delay.\n\n\"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retribution\nthat is now falling on you: any other words that I could write at this\nmoment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in which I must\ntell you the simple fact.\n\n\"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime of\nchild-murder.\"...\n\n\nArthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a single\nminute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole frame, as if the\nlife were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next minute he\nhad rushed out of the room, still clutching the letter--he was hurrying\nalong the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was still\nthere, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted man across\nthe hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out after him\nas fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where the\nyoung squire was going.\n\nWhen Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur was\nforcing himself to read the remaining words of the letter. He thrust\nit into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that moment\ncaught sight of Mills' anxious face in front of him.\n\n\"Tell them I'm gone--gone to Stoniton,\" he said in a muffled tone of\nagitation--sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.\n\n\n\nChapter XLV\n\nIn the Prison\n\n\nNEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his back\nagainst the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail, saying a few last\nwords to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away, but the\nelderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and stroking\nhis chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet clear\nwoman's voice, saying, \"Can I get into the prison, if you please?\"\n\nHe turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments\nwithout answering.\n\n\"I have seen you before,\" he said at last. \"Do you remember preaching on\nthe village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on\nhorseback?\"\n\n\"Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?\"\n\n\"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned\nto death--and to stay with her, if I may be permitted. Have you power in\nthe prison, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you\nknow this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?\"\n\n\"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I\nwas away at Leeds, and didn't know of this great trouble in time to get\nhere before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenly\nFather, to let me go to her and stay with her.\"\n\n\"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come\nfrom Leeds?\"\n\n\"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his home\nnow, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leave\nfor me to be with her.\"\n\n\"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is very\nsullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don't let us\ndelay.\"\n\n\"Come, then,\" said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission,\n\"I know you have a key to unlock hearts.\"\n\nDinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were\nwithin the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing them off\nwhen she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they entered\nthe jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There was\nno agitation visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as if,\neven when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseen\nsupport.\n\nAfter speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and said,\n\"The turnkey will take you to the prisoner's cell and leave you there\nfor the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a light during the\nnight--it is contrary to rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I can\nhelp you in anything, ask the jailer for my address and come to me.\nI take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine\nfellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening I\nheard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me where\nhe lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with trouble to\nremember.\"\n\n\"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges over\na tinman's shop, in the street on the right hand as you entered the\nprison. There is an old school-master with him. Now, good-bye: I wish\nyou success.\"\n\n\"Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you.\"\n\nAs Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn evening\nlight seemed to make the walls higher than they were by day, and the\nsweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a white flower on\nthis background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all the\nwhile, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rude\nvoice would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered the\ndark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his most\ncivil tone, \"It'll be pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I can\nstop with my light a bit, if you like.\"\n\n\"Nay, friend, thank you,\" said Dinah. \"I wish to go in alone.\"\n\n\"As you like,\" said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and\nopening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from his\nlantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sitting\non her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if\nshe were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock would have been likely\nto waken her.\n\nThe door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the\nevening sky, through the small high grating--enough to discern human\nfaces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because\nHetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a\nyearning heart. Then she said, softly, \"Hetty!\"\n\nThere was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's frame--a start such\nas might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock--but she did\nnot look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressible\nemotion, \"Hetty...it's Dinah.\"\n\nAgain there was a slight startled movement through Hetty's frame,\nand without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as if\nlistening.\n\n\"Hetty...Dinah is come to you.\"\n\nAfter a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from\nher knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking at\neach other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad\nyearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched them\nout.\n\n\"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you think I\nwouldn't come to you in trouble?\"\n\nHetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's face--at first like an animal that\ngazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.\n\n\"I'm come to be with you, Hetty--not to leave you--to stay with you--to\nbe your sister to the last.\"\n\nSlowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and\nwas clasped in Dinah's arms.\n\nThey stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to move\napart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it, hung on this\nsomething that was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking helpless\nin a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her\nlove was welcomed by the wretched lost one. The light got fainter as\nthey stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet together,\ntheir faces had become indistinct.\n\nNot a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from\nHetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the hand\nthat held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah's. It was the human\ncontact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the dark\ngulf.\n\nDinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat\nbeside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven the poor\nsinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwards\nsaid, that she must not hurry God's work: we are overhasty to speak--as\nif God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his love\nfelt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way, but\nit got darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light on\nthe opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divine\npresence more and more--nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and\nit was the Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was willing the\nrescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak and find\nout how far Hetty was conscious of the present.\n\n\"Hetty,\" she said gently, \"do you know who it is that sits by your\nside?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Hetty answered slowly, \"it's Dinah.\"\n\n\"And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm together,\nand that night when I told you to be sure and think of me as a friend in\ntrouble?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, \"But you can do\nnothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. They'll hang me o'\nMonday--it's Friday now.\"\n\nAs Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering.\n\n\"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the suffering\nless hard when you have somebody with you, that feels for you--that you\ncan speak to, and say what's in your heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on\nme: you are glad to have me with you.\"\n\n\"You won't leave me, Dinah? You'll keep close to me?\"\n\n\"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the last....But,\nHetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one close to\nyou.\"\n\nHetty said, in a frightened whisper, \"Who?\"\n\n\"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and\ntrouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where you\nwent, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have\ntried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow you--when\nmy arms can't reach you--when death has parted us--He who is with\nus now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no\ndifference--whether we live or die, we are in the presence of God.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me for\ncertain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live.\"\n\n\"My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it's dreadful.\nBut if you had a friend to take care of you after death--in that\nother world--some one whose love is greater than mine--who can do\neverything?...If God our Father was your friend, and was willing to\nsave you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither know wicked\nfeelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would\nhelp you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn't be so\nhard to die on Monday, would it?\"\n\n\"But I can't know anything about it,\" Hetty said, with sullen sadness.\n\n\"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by trying\nto hide the truth. God's love and mercy can overcome all things--our\nignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness--all\nthings but our wilful sin, sin that we cling to, and will not give up.\nYou believe in my love and pity for you, Hetty, but if you had not let\nme come near you, if you wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me,\nyou'd have shut me out from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel\nmy love; I couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God's\nlove out in that way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while\nyou have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't reach\nyou until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have done this great\nwickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.' While you cling to\none sin and will not part with it, it must drag you down to misery after\ndeath, as it has dragged you to misery here in this world, my poor, poor\nHetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there is\nlight and blessedness for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our\nsouls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast it\noff now, Hetty--now: confess the wickedness you have done--the sin you\nhave been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down\ntogether, for we are in the presence of God.\"\n\nHetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still held\neach other's hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah said, \"Hetty,\nwe are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth.\"\n\nStill there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching--\n\n\"Dinah...help me...I can't feel anything like you...my heart is hard.\"\n\nDinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice:\n\n\n\"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow:\nthou hast entered that black darkness where God is not, and hast uttered\nthe cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy\ntravail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty\nto save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is clothed round\nwith thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannot\nstir to come to thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is\nhelpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour! It is a blind\ncry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy face\nof love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied thee, and melt\nher hard heart.\n\n\"See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and helpless,\nand thou didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and carry her before\nthee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles only\nat the pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her thy life-giving\nSpirit, and put a new fear within her--the fear of her sin. Make her\ndread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel the\npresence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom the\ndarkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for\nher to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercy--now, before\nthe night of death comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled,\nlike yesterday that returneth not.\n\n\"Saviour! It is yet time--time to snatch this poor soul from everlasting\ndarkness. I believe--I believe in thy infinite love. What is my love or\nmy pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my weak\narms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou--thou wilt breathe on the dead\nsoul, and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death.\n\n\"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like the\nmorning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony are upon\nthee--I see, I see thou art able and willing to save--thou wilt not let\nher perish for ever. Come, mighty Saviour! Let the dead hear thy voice.\nLet the eyes of the blind be opened. Let her see that God encompasses\nher. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off from\nhim. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her\nwhole soul, 'Father, I have sinned.'...\"\n\n\"Dinah,\" Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, \"I will\nspeak...I will tell...I won't hide it any more.\"\n\nBut the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently from\nher knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by her side.\nIt was a long time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and even\nthen they sat some time in stillness and darkness, holding each other's\nhands. At last Hetty whispered, \"I did do it, Dinah...I buried it in the\nwood...the little baby...and it cried...I heard it cry...ever such a way\noff...all night...and I went back because it cried.\"\n\nShe paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone.\n\n\"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die--there might somebody find it. I\ndidn't kill it--I didn't kill it myself. I put it down there and covered\nit up, and when I came back it was gone....It was because I was so\nvery miserable, Dinah...I didn't know where to go...and I tried to kill\nmyself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I tried so to drown myself in the\npool, and I couldn't. I went to Windsor--I ran away--did you know? I\nwent to find him, as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and then\nI didn't know what to do. I daredn't go back home again--I couldn't bear\nit. I couldn't have bore to look at anybody, for they'd have scorned me.\nI thought o' you sometimes, and thought I'd come to you, for I didn't\nthink you'd be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I thought I could\ntell you. But then the other folks 'ud come to know it at last, and I\ncouldn't bear that. It was partly thinking o' you made me come toward\nStoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going wandering about\ntill I was a beggar-woman, and had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as\nif I must go back to the farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful,\nDinah...I was so miserable...I wished I'd never been born into this\nworld. I should never like to go into the green fields again--I hated\n'em so in my misery.\"\n\nHetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon her\nfor words.\n\n\"And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that night,\nbecause I was so near home. And then the little baby was born, when I\ndidn't expect it; and the thought came into my mind that I might get\nrid of it and go home again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I was\nlying in the bed, and it got stronger and stronger...I longed so to go\nback again...I couldn't bear being so lonely and coming to beg for want.\nAnd it gave me strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I\nfelt I must do it...I didn't know how...I thought I'd find a pool, if\nI could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark.\nAnd when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do\nanything...I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go back\nhome, and never let 'em know why I ran away. I put on my bonnet and\nshawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby under my cloak;\nand I walked fast till I got into a street a good way off, and there\nwas a public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And\nI walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and it got\nlighter, for there came the moon--oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it\nfirst looked at me out o' the clouds--it never looked so before; and\nI turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid o' meeting\nanybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where\nI thought I could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a\nplace cut into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable,\nand the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a\ngood while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light, and the\nbaby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off...I thought there'd\nperhaps be a ditch or a pond there...and it was so early I thought I\ncould hide the child there, and get a long way off before folks was up.\nAnd then I thought I'd go home--I'd get rides in carts and go home and\ntell 'em I'd been to try and see for a place, and couldn't get one. I\nlonged so for it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I don't know\nhow I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it--it was like a heavy\nweight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I\ndaredn't look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood,\nand I walked about, but there was no water....\"\n\nHetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began\nagain, it was in a whisper.\n\n\"I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I sat\ndown on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And all of a\nsudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little grave. And it\ndarted into me like lightning--I'd lay the baby there and cover it with\nthe grass and the chips. I couldn't kill it any other way. And I'd done\nit in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, Dinah--I couldn't cover it quite\nup--I thought perhaps somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and then\nit wouldn't die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it\ncrying all the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I\nwas held fast--I couldn't go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I sat\nagainst the haystack to watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very hungry,\nand I'd only a bit of bread left, but I couldn't go away. And after ever\nsuch a while--hours and hours--the man came--him in a smock-frock, and\nhe looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste and went on. I\nthought he was going to the wood and would perhaps find the baby. And I\nwent right on, till I came to a village, a long way off from the wood,\nand I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something to eat\nthere, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby\ncrying, and thought the other folks heard it too--and I went on. But\nI was so tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the\nroadside there was a barn--ever such a way off any house--like the barn\nin Abbot's Close, and I thought I could go in there and hide myself\namong the hay and straw, and nobody 'ud be likely to come. I went in,\nand it was half full o' trusses of straw, and there was some hay too.\nAnd I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where nobody could find\nme; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep....But oh, the baby's\ncrying kept waking me, and I thought that man as looked at me so was\ncome and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long while at last,\nthough I didn't know, for when I got up and went out of the barn, I\ndidn't know whether it was night or morning. But it was morning, for\nit kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I couldn't\nhelp it, Dinah; it was the baby's crying made me go--and yet I was\nfrightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock 'ud see me\nand know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that. I'd left off\nthinking about going home--it had gone out o' my mind. I saw nothing\nbut that place in the wood where I'd buried the baby...I see it now. Oh\nDinah! shall I allays see it?\"\n\nHetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long\nbefore she went on.\n\n\"I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood....I knew\nthe way to the place...the place against the nut-tree; and I could\nhear it crying at every step....I thought it was alive....I don't know\nwhether I was frightened or glad...I don't know what I felt. I only know\nI was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't know what I felt till I saw\nthe baby was gone. And when I'd put it there, I thought I should like\nsomebody to find it and save it from dying; but when I saw it was gone,\nI was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o' stirring, I\nfelt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'ud\nknow about the baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or try\nfor anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, and\nnothing 'ud ever change. But they came and took me away.\"\n\nHetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still\nsomething behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tears\nmust come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob, \"Dinah, do\nyou think God will take away that crying and the place in the wood, now\nI've told everything?\"\n\n\"Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to\nthe God of all mercy.\"\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI\n\nThe Hours of Suspense\n\n\nON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for\nmorning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a short\nabsence, and said, \"Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you.\"\n\nAdam was seated with his back towards the door, but he started up and\nturned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His face\nwas even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was\nwashed and shaven this Sunday morning.\n\n\"Is it any news?\" he said.\n\n\"Keep yourself quiet, my lad,\" said Bartle; \"keep quiet. It's not what\nyou're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from the prison.\nShe's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you think\nwell to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poor\ncastaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, she said. She\nthought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preaching\nwomen are not so back'ard commonly,\" Bartle muttered to himself.\n\n\"Ask her to come in,\" said Adam.\n\nHe was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered,\nlifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the great\nchange that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tall\nman in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she put\nher hand into his and said, \"Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not\nforsaken her.\"\n\n\"Bless you for coming to her,\" Adam said. \"Mr. Massey brought me word\nyesterday as you was come.\"\n\nThey could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each\nother in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles,\nseemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himself\nfirst, and said, \"Sit down, young woman, sit down,\" placing the chair\nfor her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.\n\n\"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down,\" said Dinah, \"for I must hasten\nback. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, Adam\nBede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid her\nfarewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you should\nsee her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time will be\nshort.\"\n\nAdam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.\n\n\"It won't be,\" he said, \"it'll be put off--there'll perhaps come a\npardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite give it\nup.\"\n\n\"That's a blessed thought to me,\" said Dinah, her eyes filling with\ntears. \"It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast.\"\n\n\"But let what will be,\" she added presently. \"You will surely come, and\nlet her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul is\nvery dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is no\nlonger hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride of\nher heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires to\nbe taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that the\nbrethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner's\nknowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the Hall\nFarm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were\nhere, she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to\nforgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back\nwith me.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" Adam said. \"I can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'm\nlistening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but that. It can't be\nas she'll die that shameful death--I can't bring my mind to it.\"\n\nHe got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while\nDinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turned\nround and said, \"I will come, Dinah...to-morrow morning...if it must be.\nI may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must be. Tell her, I\nforgive her; tell her I will come--at the very last.\"\n\n\"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart,\" said Dinah.\n\"I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, and\nwas not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any\nreturn to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart.\nFarewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen you\nto bear all things.\" Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in\nsilence.\n\nBartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for\nher, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, \"Farewell,\nfriend,\" and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.\n\n\"Well,\" said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his\npocket, \"if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it's\nbut fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she's\none--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting a\nwoman without some foolishness or other.\"\n\nAdam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,\nheightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment,\nwas too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises\nthat he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.\n\n\"What does it matter to me, lad?\" Bartle said: \"a night's sleep more\nor less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keep\nthee company in trouble while I can.\"\n\nIt was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would\nsometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space\nfrom wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no\nsound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or\nthe falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully\ntended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, \"If I could\nha' done anything to save her--if my bearing anything would ha' done any\ngood...but t' have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it's\nhard for a man to bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if\nit hadn't been for HIM....O God, it's the very day we should ha' been\nmarried.\"\n\n\"Aye, my lad,\" said Bartle tenderly, \"it's heavy--it's heavy. But you\nmust remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notion\nshe'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think she\ncould have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done.\"\n\n\"I know--I know that,\" said Adam. \"I thought she was loving and\ntender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could I\nthink any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd married\nher, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might never\nha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--my having a bit o'\ntrouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this.\"\n\n\"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have come.\nThe smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--you must have\ntime. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and be\na man again, and there may good come out of this that we don't see.\"\n\n\"Good come out of it!\" said Adam passionately. \"That doesn't alter th'\nevil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if there\nwas a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought\nto see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiled\nhis fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself with\nthinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter her\nshame and misery.\"\n\n\"Well, lad, well,\" said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast\nwith his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, \"it's\nlikely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a good\nmany years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons why\nother folks should be patient.\"\n\n\"Mr. Massey,\" said Adam penitently, \"I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you\nsomething different; but you mustn't take it ill of me.\"\n\n\"Not I, lad--not I.\"\n\nSo the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing\nlight brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair.\nThere would soon be no more suspense.\n\n\"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam, when he saw the\nhand of his watch at six. \"If there's any news come, we shall hear about\nit.\"\n\nThe people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, through\nthe streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as they\nhurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prison\ngates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing those\neager people.\n\nNo; there was no news come--no pardon--no reprieve.\n\nAdam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself\nto send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: he\ncould not shut out the words.\n\n\"The cart is to set off at half-past seven.\"\n\nIt must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help.\n\nIn ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah\nhad sent him word that she could not come to him; she could not leave\nHetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting.\n\nHe could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses,\nand the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after the\ndoor closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.\n\nBut he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes lifted up\nto him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked!\nThe last time they had met his was when he parted from her with his\nheart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful\nsmile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the\nsweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were all\ngone--all but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of all\nwas the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes looking\nat him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the\ndead to tell him of her misery.\n\nShe was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. It\nseemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, and\nthe pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visible\npledge of the Invisible Mercy.\n\nWhen the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--she\nfelt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh\nfear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to\nreflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past\nand the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him.\n\n\"Speak to him, Hetty,\" Dinah said; \"tell him what is in your heart.\"\n\nHetty obeyed her, like a little child.\n\n\"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you forgive\nme...before I die?\"\n\nAdam answered with a half-sob, \"Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave\nthee long ago.\"\n\nIt had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of\nmeeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voice\nuttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been less\nstrained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable,\nand the rare tears came--they had never come before, since he had hung\non Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.\n\nHetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love that\nshe had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kept\nhold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, \"Will\nyou kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked?\"\n\nAdam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave\neach other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting.\n\n\"And tell him,\" Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, \"tell him...for\nthere's nobody else to tell him...as I went after him and couldn't find\nhim...and I hated him and cursed him once...but Dinah says I should\nforgive him...and I try...for else God won't forgive me.\"\n\nThere was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being turned\nin the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there\nwere several faces there. He was too agitated to see more--even to\nsee that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the last\npreparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room\nwas silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in\nloneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end.\n\n\n\nChapter XLVII\n\nThe Last Moment\n\n\nIT was a sight that some people remembered better even than their own\nsorrows--the sight in that grey clear morning, when the fatal cart\nwith the two young women in it was descried by the waiting watching\nmultitude, cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately\ninflicted sudden death.\n\nAll Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman who\nhad brought the obstinate criminal to confess, and there was as much\neagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hetty.\n\nBut Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty had\ncaught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she had clutched Dinah\nconvulsively.\n\n\"Close your eyes, Hetty,\" Dinah said, \"and let us pray without ceasing\nto God.\"\n\nAnd in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the midst of\nthe gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with the wrestling intensity\nof a last pleading, for the trembling creature that clung to her and\nclutched her as the only visible sign of love and pity.\n\nDinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a sort\nof awe--she did not even know how near they were to the fatal spot, when\nthe cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud shout hideous to her\near, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty's shriek mingled with the sound,\nand they clasped each other in mutual horror.\n\nBut it was not a shout of execration--not a yell of exultant cruelty.\n\nIt was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a horseman\ncleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and distressed, but\nanswers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks as if his eyes were\nglazed by madness, and he saw nothing but what was unseen by others.\nSee, he has something in his hand--he is holding it up as if it were a\nsignal.\n\nThe Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a\nhard-won release from death.\n\n\n\nChapter XLVIII\n\nAnother Meeting in the Wood\n\n\nTHE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite points\ntowards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene was\nthe Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were.\n\nThe old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will had been\nread, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had come\nout for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new future\nbefore him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could\ndo that best in the Grove.\n\nAdam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he had\nnot left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tell\nthem everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with the\nPoysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, wherever\nthat might be, for he meant to give up the management of the woods,\nand, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business with\nJonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home within\nreach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow.\n\n\"Seth and me are sure to find work,\" he said. \"A man that's got our\ntrade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a new\nstart. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's told me, since I came\nhome, she'd made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if I\nwished it, and if I'd be more comfortable elsewhere. It's wonderful\nhow quiet she's been ever since I came back. It seems as if the very\ngreatness o' the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be\nbetter in a new country, though there's some I shall be loath to leave\nbehind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr.\nPoyser. Trouble's made us kin.\"\n\n\"Aye, lad,\" said Martin. \"We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's name.\nBut I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough for folks not to find out as\nwe've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er the seas, and\nwere like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in our faces, and\nour children's after us.\"\n\nThat was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam's\nenergies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his old\noccupations till the morrow. \"But to-morrow,\" he said to himself, \"I'll\ngo to work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; and\nit's right whether I like it or not.\"\n\nThis evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow:\nsuspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was resolved\nnot to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him.\nHe had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur.\nAnd Adam distrusted himself--he had learned to dread the violence of his\nown feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what he\nhad felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remained\nwith him.\n\nThese thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged with\nstrong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called up\nthe image of the Grove--of that spot under the overarching boughs where\nhe had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessed\nby sudden rage.\n\n\"I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time,\" he said; \"it'll\ndo me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when I'd knocked\nhim down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it,\nbefore I began to think he might be dead.\"\n\nIn this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the\nsame spot at the same time.\n\nAdam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off the\nother with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had had\nthe basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, with\nhis pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the\nGrove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket of\ntools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenly\nround him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyes\nrested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and now\nhe paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary\nmark of his youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of his\nearliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never\nreturn. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection\nat the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed in\nbefore he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affection\nfor the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer.\n\nHe was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beech\nstood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was coming\nuntil the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him at\nonly two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each other\nin silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himself\nas close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as\nharrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in the\nmisery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such a\nmeeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always\nseen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid,\ncareless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him with\nthe signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was--he could not lay\na cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed to\nresist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first to\nspeak.\n\n\"Adam,\" he said, quietly, \"it may be a good thing that we have met here,\nfor I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow.\"\n\nHe paused, but Adam said nothing.\n\n\"I know it is painful to you to meet me,\" Arthur went on, \"but it is not\nlikely to happen again for years to come.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Adam, coldly, \"that was what I meant to write to you\nto-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an end\nbetween us, and somebody else put in my place.\"\n\nArthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he\nspoke again.\n\n\"It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't want\nto lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything for\nmy sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen the\nevil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't mean\nconsequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, I\nknow. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be\ndone, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Adam, after some hesitation; \"I'll hear what it is. If\nI can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know.\nWe've had enough o' that.\"\n\n\"I was going to the Hermitage,\" said Arthur. \"Will you go there with me\nand sit down? We can talk better there.\"\n\nThe Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for\nArthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened the\ndoor, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the\nchair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was the\nwaste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in\nan instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have\nbeen painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had been\nless painful.\n\nThey sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said,\n\"I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army.\"\n\nPoor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this\nannouncement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him. But\nAdam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face\nunchanged.\n\n\"What I want to say to you,\" Arthur continued, \"is this: one of my\nreasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may leave\ntheir home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrifice\nI would not make, to prevent any further injury to others through\nmy--through what has happened.\"\n\nArthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had\nanticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion of\ncompensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt to\nmake evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused his\nindignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right in\nthe face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he\nhad the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a rich\nman. He felt his old severity returning as he said, \"The time's past for\nthat, sir. A man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong;\nsacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got\na deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours.\"\n\n\"Favours!\" said Arthur, passionately; \"no; how can you suppose I meant\nthat? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave the\nplace where they have lived so many years--for generations. Don't you\nsee, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the\nfeeling that drives them away, it would be much better for them in the\nend to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who know\nthem?\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said Adam coldly. \"But then, sir, folks's feelings are\nnot so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to a\nstrange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the Hall\nFarm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a man\nwith his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's to be made any\nother than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made up\nfor.\"\n\nArthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in\nhim this evening, his pride winced under Adam's mode of treating him.\nWasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his most\ncherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months ago--Adam was\nforcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his own\nwrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the most\nirritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued\nby the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confronted\neach other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. The\nmomentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal\nfrom Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; but\nthere was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said,\n\"But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct--by giving\nway to anger and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinking\nwhat will be the effect in the future.\n\n\"If I were going to stay here and act as landlord,\" he added presently,\nwith still more eagerness--\"if I were careless about what I've\ndone--what I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, for\ngoing away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse then\nfor trying to make the evil worse. But when I tell you I'm going away\nfor years--when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off every\nplan of happiness I've ever formed--it is impossible for a sensible\nman like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poysers\nrefusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine has\ntold me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of\nthis idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours,\nand that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in his\nefforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods.\"\n\nArthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, \"You know that's a\ngood work to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. And\nyou don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you will\nlike to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate and\ntake my name. He is a good fellow.\"\n\nAdam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feel\nthat this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he had\nloved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be\nthrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that\ninduced him to go on, with growing earnestness.\n\n\"And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk the\nmatter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and then if\nyou would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....I\nknow, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me--I mean\nnothing of that kind--but I'm sure they would suffer less in the end.\nIrwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority\non the estate--he has consented to undertake that. They will really be\nunder no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the same\nwith you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse\npain that could incline you to go.\"\n\nArthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some\nagitation in his voice, \"I wouldn't act so towards you, I know. If you\nwere in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the\nbest.\"\n\nAdam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthur\nwent on, \"Perhaps you've never done anything you've had bitterly to\nrepent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous.\nYou would know then that it's worse for me than for you.\"\n\nArthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the\nwindows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued,\npassionately, \"Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday?\nShan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? And\ndon't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?\"\n\nThere was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mind\nwas not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have little\npermanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame\nbefore he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the\nmovement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with which\nAdam said, \"It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature.\nI was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t'\neverybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her suffering\ncut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard\nwith her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling\novermuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known what\nit is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been too\nharsh to my father when he was gone from me--I feel it now, when I think\nof him. I've no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong and\nrepent.\"\n\nAdam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is\nresolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went on\nwith more hesitation.\n\n\"I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but if\nyou're willing to do it now, for all I refused then...\"\n\nArthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and with\nthat action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyish\naffection.\n\n\"Adam,\" Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, \"it would never\nhave happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have helped to save\nme from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived\nyou afterwards--and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced\nupon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letter\nI told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think I\nwould not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from the\nvery first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give my\nlife if I could undo it.\"\n\nThey sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously,\n\"How did she seem when you left her, sir?\"\n\n\"Don't ask me, Adam,\" Arthur said; \"I feel sometimes as if I should go\nmad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that I\ncouldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save her from that wretched\nfate of being transported--that I can do nothing for her all those\nyears; and she may die under it, and never know comfort any more.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in\nsympathy for Arthur, \"you and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing,\nwhen we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as I\npray him to help me.\"\n\n\"But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris,\" Arthur said, pursuing\nhis own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam's\nwords, \"she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment--till\nshe goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort\nin her. I could worship that woman; I don't know what I should do if she\nwere not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could say\nnothing to her yesterday--nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her,\"\nArthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with which\nhe spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, \"tell her I asked you\nto give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she is the\none source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn't care about\nsuch things--or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she\nwill use the watch--I shall like to think of her using it.\"\n\n\"I'll give it to her, sir,\" Adam said, \"and tell her your words. She\ntold me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm.\"\n\n\"And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?\" said Arthur, reminded\nof the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchange\nof revived friendship. \"You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to\ncarry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?\"\n\n\"There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of,\" said\nAdam, with hesitating gentleness, \"and that was what made me hang back\nlonger. You see, it's the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay,\nit's for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we'd put up with\nanything for the sake o' that. I know that's what they'll feel, and\nI can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an\nhonourable independent spirit, they don't like to do anything that might\nmake 'em seem base-minded.\"\n\n\"But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason\nstrong enough against a course that is really more generous, more\nunselfish than the other. And it will be known--it shall be made known,\nthat both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try to\nmake things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that.\"\n\n\"No, sir, no,\" Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection.\n\"God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I could\ndo it, in my passion--but that was when I thought you didn't feel\nenough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got to\nthink of now--to do my work well and make the world a bit better place\nfor them as can enjoy it.\"\n\n\"Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, and\nconsult with him about everything.\"\n\n\"Are you going soon, sir?\" said Adam.\n\n\"As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements.\nGood-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, sir. God bless you.\"\n\nThe hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling\nthat sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.\n\nAs soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the\nwaste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Six\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIX\n\nAt the Hall Farm\n\n\nTHE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801--more than eighteen months\nafter that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage--was on the\nyard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excited\nmoments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being driven\ninto the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beasts\nran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of the\nbull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid feminine\ncreatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have some\nrelation to their own movements--with the tremendous crack of the\nwaggoner's whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the\nwaggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load.\n\nThe milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this\nhour on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with her\nknitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a\nkeener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a\npailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishment\nof having her hinder-legs strapped.\n\nTo-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the\narrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who was\nstitching Mr. Poyser's shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to have\nher thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden\ninsistence that she should look at \"Baby,\" that is, at a large wooden\ndoll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her\nsmall chair at Dinah's side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek\nwith much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years' growth than\nwhen you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore.\nMrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family\nlikeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little\noutward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant\nhouse-place, bright with polished oak and pewter.\n\n\"I never saw the like to you, Dinah,\" Mrs. Poyser was saying, \"when\nyou've once took anything into your head: there's no more moving you\nthan the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don't believe\nthat's religion; for what's the Sermon on the Mount about, as you're so\nfond o' reading to the boys, but doing what other folks 'ud have you do?\nBut if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like taking\nyour cloak off and giving it to 'em, or letting 'em slap you i' the\nface, I daresay you'd be ready enough. It's only when one 'ud have you\ndo what's plain common sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinate\nth' other way.\"\n\n\"Nay, dear Aunt,\" said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her\nwork, \"I'm sure your wish 'ud be a reason for me to do anything that I\ndidn't feel it was wrong to do.\"\n\n\"Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like\nto know, i' staying along wi' your own friends, as are th' happier for\nhaving you with 'em an' are willing to provide for you, even if your\nwork didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o' sparrow's victual y' eat\nand the bit o' rag you put on? An' who is it, I should like to know, as\nyou're bound t' help and comfort i' the world more nor your own flesh\nand blood--an' me th' only aunt you've got above-ground, an' am brought\nto the brink o' the grave welly every winter as comes, an' there's the\nchild as sits beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an'\nthe grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull miss\nyou so as never was--a-lighting his pipe an' waiting on him, an' now I\ncan trust you wi' the butter, an' have had all the trouble o' teaching\nyou, and there's all the sewing to be done, an' I must have a strange\ngell out o' Treddles'on to do it--an' all because you must go back to\nthat bare heap o' stones as the very crows fly over an' won't stop at.\"\n\n\"Dear Aunt Rachel,\" said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face, \"it's\nyour kindness makes you say I'm useful to you. You don't really want me\nnow, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you're in good\nhealth now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful\ncountenance again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few--some\nof them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will not\nmiss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need,\nwho have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel that I am\ncalled back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn\nagain towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word\nof life to the sinful and desolate.\"\n\n\"You feel! Yes,\" said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance\nat the cows, \"that's allays the reason I'm to sit down wi', when you've\na mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for\nmore than you're preaching now? Don't you go off, the Lord knows where,\nevery Sunday a-preaching and praying? An' haven't you got Methodists\nenow at Treddles'on to go and look at, if church-folks's faces are too\nhandsome to please you? An' isn't there them i' this parish as you've\ngot under hand, and they're like enough to make friends wi' Old Harry\nagain as soon as your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranage--she'll\nbe flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be bound.\nShe'll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog 'ull stand\non its hind-legs when there's nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna\nmatter so much about folks's souls i' this country, else you'd be for\nstaying with your own aunt, for she's none so good but what you might\nhelp her to be better.\"\n\nThere was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser's voice just then, which\nshe did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look at\nthe clock, and said: \"See there! It's tea-time; an' if Martin's i' the\nrick-yard, he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put\nyour bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and see if\nFather's there, and tell him he mustn't go away again without coming t'\nhave a cup o' tea; and tell your brothers to come in too.\"\n\nTotty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the\nbright oak table and reached down the tea-cups.\n\n\"You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' their work,\"\nshe began again; \"it's fine talking. They're all the same, clever or\nstupid--one can't trust 'em out o' one's sight a minute. They want\nsomebody's eye on 'em constant if they're to be kept to their work.\nAn' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the winter before last?\nWho's to look after 'em then, if you're gone? An' there's that blessed\nchild--something's sure t' happen to her--they'll let her tumble into\nthe fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard in't, or some\nmischief as 'ull lame her for life; an' it'll be all your fault, Dinah.\"\n\n\"Aunt,\" said Dinah, \"I promise to come back to you in the winter if\nyou're ill. Don't think I will ever stay away from you if you're in real\nwant of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should go\naway from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all things too\nrichly to enjoy--at least that I should go away for a short space. No\none can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the besetments I\nam most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call of duty\nwhich I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own desires; it\nis a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature should\nbecome like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light.\"\n\n\"It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury,\" said\nMrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. \"It's true there's good\nvictual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I don't provide\nenough and to spare, but if there's ever a bit o' odds an' ends as\nnobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it out...but look there!\nThere's Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he's\ncome so early.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at her\ndarling in a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof on her\ntongue.\n\n\"Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should be ashamed to\nbe carried. Why, Adam, she'll break your arm, such a big gell as that;\nset her down--for shame!\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Adam, \"I can lift her with my hand--I've no need to\ntake my arm to it.\"\n\nTotty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy,\nwas set down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her reproof with\na shower of kisses.\n\n\"You're surprised to see me at this hour o' the day,\" said Adam.\n\n\"Yes, but come in,\" said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; \"there's no\nbad news, I hope?\"\n\n\"No, nothing bad,\" Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his\nhand to her. She had laid down her work and stood up, instinctively, as\nhe approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as she\nput her hand in his and looked up at him timidly.\n\n\"It's an errand to you brought me, Dinah,\" said Adam, apparently\nunconscious that he was holding her hand all the while; \"mother's a bit\nailing, and she's set her heart on your coming to stay the night with\nher, if you'll be so kind. I told her I'd call and ask you as I came\nfrom the village. She overworks herself, and I can't persuade her to\nhave a little girl t' help her. I don't know what's to be done.\"\n\nAdam released Dinah's hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting an\nanswer, but before she had opened her lips Mrs. Poyser said, \"Look there\nnow! I told you there was folks enow t' help i' this parish, wi'out\ngoing further off. There's Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas'alty as can\nbe, and she won't let anybody but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at\nSnowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi'out you nor she can.\"\n\n\"I'll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don't want anything\ndone first, Aunt,\" said Dinah, folding up her work.\n\n\"Yes, I do want something done. I want you t' have your tea, child; it's\nall ready--and you'll have a cup, Adam, if y' arena in too big a hurry.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'll have a cup, please; and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm going\nstraight home, for I've got a lot o' timber valuations to write out.\"\n\n\"Why, Adam, lad, are you here?\" said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and\ncoatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking as much\nlike him as two small elephants are like a large one. \"How is it we've\ngot sight o' you so long before foddering-time?\"\n\n\"I came on an errand for Mother,\" said Adam. \"She's got a touch of her\nold complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her a bit.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll spare her for your mother a little while,\" said Mr. Poyser.\n\"But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on'y her husband.\"\n\n\"Husband!\" said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period of\nthe boyish mind. \"Why, Dinah hasn't got a husband.\"\n\n\"Spare her?\" said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and then\nseating herself to pour out the tea. \"But we must spare her, it seems,\nand not for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are\nyou doing to your little sister's doll? Making the child naughty, when\nshe'd be good if you'd let her. You shanna have a morsel o' cake if you\nbehave so.\"\n\nTommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turning\nDolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her truncated body to\nthe general scorn--an indignity which cut Totty to the heart.\n\n\"What do you think Dinah's been a-telling me since dinner-time?\" Mrs.\nPoyser continued, looking at her husband.\n\n\"Eh! I'm a poor un at guessing,\" said Mr. Poyser.\n\n\"Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i' the mill,\nand starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has got no\nfriends.\"\n\nMr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant\nastonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now seated\nherself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and\nwas busying herself with the children's tea. If he had been given to\nmaking general reflections, it would have occurred to him that there was\ncertainly a change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour;\nbut, as it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at that\nmoment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it was\na flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came\nbecause her uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is no\nknowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, \"Why, I\nhoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up the\nnotion o' going back to her old country.\"\n\n\"Thought! Yes,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"and so would anybody else ha'\nthought, as had got their right end up'ards. But I suppose you must be\na Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's ill guessing what the\nbats are flying after.\"\n\n\"Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from us?\"\nsaid Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. \"It's like breaking\nyour word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but you'd make this\nyour home.\"\n\n\"Nay, Uncle,\" said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. \"When I first came, I\nsaid it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my\naunt.\"\n\n\"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?\" said\nMrs. Poyser. \"If you didna mean to stay wi' me, you'd better never ha'\ncome. Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views. \"Thee\nmustna say so; we should ha' been ill off wi'out her, Lady day was a\ntwelvemont'. We mun be thankful for that, whether she stays or no. But\nI canna think what she mun leave a good home for, to go back int' a\ncountry where the land, most on't, isna worth ten shillings an acre,\nrent and profits.\"\n\n\"Why, that's just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she can give a\nreason,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"She says this country's too comfortable,\nan' there's too much t' eat, an' folks arena miserable enough. And she's\ngoing next week. I canna turn her, say what I will. It's allays the way\nwi' them meek-faced people; you may's well pelt a bag o' feathers as\ntalk to 'em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate--is it now,\nAdam?\"\n\nAdam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her by any\nmatter relating to herself, and, anxious to relieve her, if possible,\nhe said, looking at her affectionately, \"Nay, I can't find fault with\nanything Dinah does. I believe her thoughts are better than our guesses,\nlet 'em be what they may. I should ha' been thankful for her to stay\namong us, but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn't cross her, or make it\nhard to her by objecting. We owe her something different to that.\"\n\nAs it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just too\nmuch for Dinah's susceptible feelings at this moment. The tears came\ninto the grey eyes too fast to be hidden and she got up hurriedly,\nmeaning it to be understood that she was going to put on her bonnet.\n\n\"Mother, what's Dinah crying for?\" said Totty. \"She isn't a naughty\ndell.\"\n\n\"Thee'st gone a bit too fur,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"We've no right t'\ninterfere with her doing as she likes. An' thee'dst be as angry as could\nbe wi' me, if I said a word against anything she did.\"\n\n\"Because you'd very like be finding fault wi'out reason,\" said Mrs.\nPoyser. \"But there's reason i' what I say, else I shouldna say it. It's\neasy talking for them as can't love her so well as her own aunt does.\nAn' me got so used to her! I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep\nwhen she's gone from me. An' to think of her leaving a parish where\nshe's so looked on. There's Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as if\nshe was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggot o'\npreaching in her head--God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to call it\nso.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; \"but thee dostna tell Adam what\nhe said to thee about it one day. The missis was saying, Adam, as the\npreaching was the only fault to be found wi' Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says,\n'But you mustn't find fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget\nshe's got no husband to preach to. I'll answer for it, you give Poyser\nmany a good sermon.' The parson had thee there,\" Mr. Poyser added,\nlaughing unctuously. \"I told Bartle Massey on it, an' he laughed too.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's a small joke sets men laughing when they sit a-staring at\none another with a pipe i' their mouths,\" said Mrs. Poyser. \"Give\nBartle Massey his way and he'd have all the sharpness to himself. If\nthe chaff-cutter had the making of us, we should all be straw, I reckon.\nTotty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin Dinah, and see what she's\ndoing, and give her a pretty kiss.\"\n\nThis errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certain\nthreatening symptoms about the corners of the mouth; for Tommy,\nno longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his\nforefingers and turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that she\nfelt to be disagreeably personal.\n\n\"You're rare and busy now--eh, Adam?\" said Mr. Poyser. \"Burge's getting\nso bad wi' his asthmy, it's well if he'll ever do much riding about\nagain.\"\n\n\"Yes, we've got a pretty bit o' building on hand now,\" said Adam, \"what\nwith the repairs on th' estate, and the new houses at Treddles'on.\"\n\n\"I'll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit o'\nland is for him and Mary to go to,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"He'll be for\nlaying by business soon, I'll warrant, and be wanting you to take to it\nall and pay him so much by th' 'ear. We shall see you living on th' hill\nbefore another twelvemont's over.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Adam, \"I should like t' have the business in my own hands.\nIt isn't as I mind much about getting any more money. We've enough and\nto spare now, with only our two selves and mother; but I should like\nt' have my own way about things--I could try plans then, as I can't do\nnow.\"\n\n\"You get on pretty well wi' the new steward, I reckon?\" said Mr. Poyser.\n\n\"Yes, yes; he's a sensible man enough; understands farming--he's\ncarrying on the draining, and all that, capital. You must go some day\ntowards the Stonyshire side and see what alterations they're making. But\nhe's got no notion about buildings. You can so seldom get hold of a man\nas can turn his brains to more nor one thing; it's just as if they wore\nblinkers like th' horses and could see nothing o' one side of 'em. Now,\nthere's Mr. Irwine has got notions o' building more nor most architects;\nfor as for th' architects, they set up to be fine fellows, but the most\nof 'em don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrelling\nwith a door. My notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit o'\ntaste makes the best architect for common things; and I've ten times the\npleasure i' seeing after the work when I've made the plan myself.\"\n\nMr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam's discourse on\nbuilding, but perhaps it suggested to him that the building of his\ncorn-rick had been proceeding a little too long without the control of\nthe master's eye, for when Adam had done speaking, he got up and said,\n\"Well, lad, I'll bid you good-bye now, for I'm off to the rick-yard\nagain.\"\n\nAdam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a\nlittle basket in her hand, preceded by Totty.\n\n\"You're ready, I see, Dinah,\" Adam said; \"so we'll set off, for the\nsooner I'm at home the better.\"\n\n\"Mother,\" said Totty, with her treble pipe, \"Dinah was saying her\nprayers and crying ever so.\"\n\n\"Hush, hush,\" said the mother, \"little gells mustn't chatter.\"\n\nWhereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on the\nwhite deal table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. and Mrs. Poyser, you\nperceive, had no correct principles of education.\n\n\"Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn't want you, Dinah,\" said Mrs.\nPoyser: \"but you can stay, you know, if she's ill.\"\n\nSo, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm\ntogether.\n\n\n\nChapter L\n\nIn the Cottage\n\n\nADAM did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane.\nHe had never yet done so, often as they had walked together, for he had\nobserved that she never walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought,\nperhaps, that kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walked\napart, though side by side, and the close poke of her little black\nbonnet hid her face from him.\n\n\"You can't be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?\"\nAdam said, with the quiet interest of a brother, who has no anxiety for\nhimself in the matter. \"It's a pity, seeing they're so fond of you.\"\n\n\"You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for them\nand care for their welfare goes, but they are in no present need. Their\nsorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, in\nwhich I found a blessing that I have missed of late in the midst of too\nabundant worldly good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the work\nthat God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to our\nown souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall find the\nfulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where alone it\nis to be found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I have a clear\nshowing that my work lies elsewhere--at least for a time. In the years\nto come, if my aunt's health should fail, or she should otherwise need\nme, I shall return.\"\n\n\"You know best, Dinah,\" said Adam. \"I don't believe you'd go against the\nwishes of them that love you, and are akin to you, without a good and\nsufficient reason in your own conscience. I've no right to say anything\nabout my being sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put you\nabove every other friend I've got; and if it had been ordered so that\nyou could ha' been my sister, and lived with us all our lives, I should\nha' counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to us now. But\nSeth tells me there's no hope o' that: your feelings are different, and\nperhaps I'm taking too much upon me to speak about it.\"\n\nDinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards, till\nthey came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had passed through first\nand turned round to give her his hand while she mounted the unusually\nhigh step, she could not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck\nhim with surprise, for the grey eyes, usually so mild and grave, had\nthe bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation, and\nthe slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, was\nheightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only sister\nto Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some moments,\nand then he said, \"I hope I've not hurt or displeased you by what I've\nsaid, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I've no wish different from\nwhat you see to be best, and I'm satisfied for you to live thirty mile\noff, if you think it right. I shall think of you just as much as I do\nnow, for you're bound up with what I can no more help remembering than I\ncan help my heart beating.\"\n\nPoor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presently\nsaid, \"Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since we last\nspoke of him?\"\n\nDinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as\nshe had seen him in the prison.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Adam. \"Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him\nyesterday. It's pretty certain, they say, that there'll be a peace soon,\nthough nobody believes it'll last long; but he says he doesn't mean to\ncome home. He's no heart for it yet, and it's better for others that he\nshould keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks he's in the right not to come. It's\na sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he always\ndoes. There's one thing in the letter cut me a good deal: 'You can't\nthink what an old fellow I feel,' he says; 'I make no schemes now. I'm\nthe best when I've a good day's march or fighting before me.'\"\n\n\"He's of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have always\nfelt great pity,\" said Dinah. \"That meeting between the brothers, where\nEsau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful,\nnotwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, has always touched me\ngreatly. Truly, I have been tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of a\nmean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the good in the\nmidst of much that is unlovely.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Adam, \"I like to read about Moses best, in th' Old Testament.\nHe carried a hard business well through, and died when other folks were\ngoing to reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at his life\nso, and think what'll come of it after he's dead and gone. A good solid\nbit o' work lasts: if it's only laying a floor down, somebody's the\nbetter for it being done well, besides the man as does it.\"\n\nThey were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, and\nin this way they went on till they passed the bridge across the Willow\nBrook, when Adam turned round and said, \"Ah, here's Seth. I thought he'd\nbe home soon. Does he know of you're going, Dinah?\"\n\n\"Yes, I told him last Sabbath.\"\n\nAdam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on Sunday\nevening, a circumstance which had been very unusual with him of late,\nfor the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to have\noutweighed the pain of knowing she would never marry him. This evening\nhe had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, until he came\nquite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate eyelids\nand eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam was\nevidently quite outside the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he\nwore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let Dinah\nsee that he had noticed her face, and only said, \"I'm thankful you're\ncome, Dinah, for Mother's been hungering after the sight of you all day.\nShe began to talk of you the first thing in the morning.\"\n\nWhen they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm-chair, too\ntired with setting out the evening meal, a task she always performed a\nlong time beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when she\nheard the approaching footsteps.\n\n\"Coom, child, thee't coom at last,\" she said, when Dinah went towards\nher. \"What dost mane by lavin' me a week an' ne'er coomin' a-nigh me?\"\n\n\"Dear friend,\" said Dinah, taking her hand, \"you're not well. If I'd\nknown it sooner, I'd have come.\"\n\n\"An' how's thee t' know if thee dostna coom? Th' lads on'y know what\nI tell 'em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men think ye're\nhearty. But I'm none so bad, on'y a bit of a cold sets me achin'. An'\nth' lads tease me so t' ha' somebody wi' me t' do the work--they make me\nache worse wi' talkin'. If thee'dst come and stay wi' me, they'd let me\nalone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet\noff, an' let me look at thee.\"\n\nDinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was taking\noff her bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a newly\ngathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity and\ngentleness.\n\n\"What's the matter wi' thee?\" said Lisbeth, in astonishment; \"thee'st\nbeen a-cryin'.\"\n\n\"It's only a grief that'll pass away,\" said Dinah, who did not wish just\nnow to call forth Lisbeth's remonstrances by disclosing her intention\nto leave Hayslope. \"You shall know about it shortly--we'll talk of it\nto-night. I shall stay with you to-night.\"\n\nLisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole evening\nto talk with Dinah alone; for there was a new room in the cottage,\nyou remember, built nearly two years ago, in the expectation of a new\ninmate; and here Adam always sat when he had writing to do or plans to\nmake. Seth sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother would like\nto have Dinah all to herself.\n\nThere were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the\ncottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, large-featured,\nhardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her dim-eyed\nanxious looks turned continually on the lily face and the slight form\nin the black dress that were either moving lightly about in helpful\nactivity, or seated close by the old woman's arm-chair, holding her\nwithered hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language which\nLisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn-book. She would\nscarcely listen to reading at all to-night. \"Nay, nay, shut the book,\"\nshe said. \"We mun talk. I want t' know what thee was cryin' about. Hast\ngot troubles o' thy own, like other folks?\"\n\nOn the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like each\nother in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows, shaggy\nhair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his \"figuring\"; Seth, with\nlarge rugged features, the close copy of his brother's, but with thin,\nwavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely\nout of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly bought\nbook--Wesley's abridgment of Madame Guyon's life, which was full of\nwonder and interest for him. Seth had said to Adam, \"Can I help thee\nwith anything in here to-night? I don't want to make a noise in the\nshop.\"\n\n\"No, lad,\" Adam answered, \"there's nothing but what I must do myself.\nThee'st got thy new book to read.\"\n\nAnd often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused after\ndrawing a line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a kind smile\ndawning in his eyes. He knew \"th' lad liked to sit full o' thoughts he\ncould give no account of; they'd never come t' anything, but they made\nhim happy,\" and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting more and\nmore indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tenderness which\ncame from the sorrow at work within him.\n\nFor Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and\ndelighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had not\noutlived his sorrow--had not felt it slip from him as a temporary\nburden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It\nwould be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we won\nnothing but our old selves at the end of it--if we could return to the\nsame blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughts\nof human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives,\nthe same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth\nirrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that\nour sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing its\nform, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy--the one poor\nword which includes all our best insight and our best love. Not that\nthis transformation of pain into sympathy had completely taken place\nin Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of pain, and this he felt\nwould subsist as long as her pain was not a memory, but an existing\nthing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of every\nnew morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain,\nwithout, for all that, losing our sensibility to it. It becomes a habit\nof our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease\nas possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission, and we are\ncontented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in\nsilence and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periods\nthat the sense of our lives having visible and invisible relations,\nbeyond any of which either our present or prospective self is the\ncentre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert.\n\nThat was Adam's state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow. His\nwork, as you know, had always been part of his religion, and from very\nearly days he saw clearly that good carpentry was God's will--was that\nform of God's will that most immediately concerned him. But now there\nwas no margin of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, no\nholiday-time in the working-day world, no moment in the distance when\nduty would take off her iron glove and breast-plate and clasp him gently\ninto rest. He conceived no picture of the future but one made up of\nhard-working days such as he lived through, with growing contentment and\nintensity of interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could never\nbe anything to him but a living memory--a limb lopped off, but not gone\nfrom consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving was all the\nwhile gaining new force within him; that the new sensibilities bought by\na deep experience were so many new fibres by which it was possible, nay,\nnecessary to him, that his nature should intertwine with another. Yet he\nwas aware that common affection and friendship were more precious to him\nthan they used to be--that he clung more to his mother and Seth, and\nhad an unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any small\naddition to their happiness. The Poysers, too--hardly three or four days\npassed but he felt the need of seeing them and interchanging words and\nlooks of friendliness with them. He would have felt this, probably, even\nif Dinah had not been with them, but he had only said the simplest truth\nin telling Dinah that he put her above all other friends in the world.\nCould anything be more natural? For in the darkest moments of memory the\nthought of her always came as the first ray of returning comfort. The\nearly days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually turned into soft\nmoonlight by her presence; and in the cottage, too, for she had come\nat every spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been\nstricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousness at the sight of\nher darling Adam's grief-worn face. He had become used to watching her\nlight quiet movements, her pretty loving ways to the children, when he\nwent to the Hall Farm; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent music;\nto think everything she said and did was just right, and could not have\nbeen better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with her\nfor her overindulgence of the children, who had managed to convert Dinah\nthe preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had often trembled a\nlittle, into a convenient household slave--though Dinah herself was\nrather ashamed of this weakness, and had some inward conflict as to her\ndeparture from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was one thing that\nmight have been better; she might have loved Seth and consented to marry\nhim. He felt a little vexed, for his brother's sake, and he could not\nhelp thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Seth's wife, would have made\ntheir home as happy as it could be for them all--how she was the one\nbeing that would have soothed their mother's last days into peacefulness\nand rest.\n\n\"It's wonderful she doesn't love th' lad,\" Adam had said sometimes to\nhimself, \"for anybody 'ud think he was just cut out for her. But her\nheart's so taken up with other things. She's one o' those women that\nfeel no drawing towards having a husband and children o' their own. She\nthinks she should be filled up with her own life then, and she's been\nused so to living in other folks's cares, she can't bear the thought of\nher heart being shut up from 'em. I see how it is, well enough. She's\ncut out o' different stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She's\nnever easy but when she's helping somebody, and marriage 'ud interfere\nwith her ways--that's true. I've no right to be contriving and thinking\nit 'ud be better if she'd have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is--or\nthan God either, for He made her what she is, and that's one o' the\ngreatest blessings I've ever had from His hands, and others besides me.\"\n\nThis self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam's mind when he gathered\nfrom Dinah's face that he had wounded her by referring to his wish\nthat she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into the\nstrongest words his confidence in her decision as right--his resignation\neven to her going away from them and ceasing to make part of their life\notherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation were\nchosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough how much\nhe cared to see her continually--to talk to her with the silent\nconsciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she\nshould hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in\nhis assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet there\nremained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the\nright thing--that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him.\n\nDinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for she\nwas downstairs about five o'clock. So was Seth, for, through Lisbeth's\nobstinate refusal to have any woman-helper in the house, he had learned\nto make himself, as Adam said, \"very handy in the housework,\" that he\nmight save his mother from too great weariness; on which ground I hope\nyou will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have thought the\ngallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his invalid\nsister. Adam, who had sat up late at his writing, was still asleep,\nand was not likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as\nDinah had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never\nslept in the cottage since that night after Thias's death, when, you\nremember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a modified\napproval to her porridge. But in that long interval Dinah had made great\nadvances in household cleverness, and this morning, since Seth was there\nto help, she was bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness\nand order that would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far\nfrom that standard at present, for Lisbeth's rheumatism had forced her\nto give up her old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. When the\nkitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had\nbeen writing the night before, to see what sweeping and dusting were\nneeded there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air,\nand the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays of\nthe early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale auburn\nhair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a very\nlow tone--like a sweet summer murmur that you have to listen for very\nclosely--one of Charles Wesley's hymns:\n\n     Eternal Beam of Light Divine,\n     Fountain of unexhausted love,\n     In whom the Father's glories shine,\n     Through earth beneath and heaven above;\n\n     Jesus! the weary wanderer's rest,\n     Give me thy easy yoke to bear;\n     With steadfast patience arm my breast,\n     With spotless love and holy fear.\n\n     Speak to my warring passions, \"Peace!\"\n     Say to my trembling heart, \"Be still!\"\n     Thy power my strength and fortress is,\n     For all things serve thy sovereign will.\n\nShe laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever lived\nin Mrs. Poyser's household, you would know how the duster behaved in\nDinah's hand--how it went into every small corner, and on every ledge\nin and out of sight--how it went again and again round every bar of the\nchairs, and every leg, and under and over everything that lay on the\ntable, till it came to Adam's papers and rulers and the open desk near\nthem. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these and then hesitated,\nlooking at them with a longing but timid eye. It was painful to see\nhow much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this way, she\nheard Seth's step just outside the open door, towards which her back\nwas turned, and said, raising her clear treble, \"Seth, is your brother\nwrathful when his papers are stirred?\"\n\n\"Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,\" said a deep\nstrong voice, not Seth's.\n\nIt was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord.\nShe was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant felt nothing\nelse; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round,\nbut stood still, distressed because she could not say good-morning in a\nfriendly way. Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to see\nthe smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his\nwrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to look at\nhim.\n\n\"What! You think I'm a cross fellow at home, Dinah?\" he said, smilingly.\n\n\"Nay,\" said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, \"not so. But you might\nbe put about by finding things meddled with; and even the man Moses, the\nmeekest of men, was wrathful sometimes.\"\n\n\"Come, then,\" said Adam, looking at her affectionately, \"I'll help you\nmove the things, and put 'em back again, and then they can't get wrong.\nYou're getting to be your aunt's own niece, I see, for particularness.\"\n\nThey began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered\nherself sufficiently to think of any remark, and Adam looked at her\nuneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him somehow\nlately; she had not been so kind and open to him as she used to be.\nHe wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he was himself with\ndoing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him--it was\neasy for her to avoid looking at the tall man--and when at last there\nwas no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him to linger\nnear her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleading\ntone, \"Dinah, you're not displeased with me for anything, are you? I've\nnot said or done anything to make you think ill of me?\"\n\nThe question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course to\nher feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly, almost with the\ntears coming, and said, \"Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?\"\n\n\"I couldn't bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you,\"\nsaid Adam. \"And you don't know the value I set on the very thought of\nyou, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I'd be content\nfor you to go, if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was\nworth so much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and not\ngrumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind parting with\nyou, Dinah?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear friend,\" said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly,\n\"I know you have a brother's heart towards me, and we shall often be\nwith one another in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness through\nmanifold temptations. You must not mark me. I feel called to leave my\nkindred for a while; but it is a trial--the flesh is weak.\"\n\nAdam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer.\n\n\"I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah,\" he said. \"I'll say no more.\nLet's see if Seth's ready with breakfast now.\"\n\nThat is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too,\nhave been in love--perhaps, even, more than once, though you may not\nchoose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more\nthink the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which\ntwo human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quivering\nrain-streams, before they mingle into one--you will no more think these\nthings trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of coming\nspring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something\nin the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible\nbudding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and\ntouches are part of the soul's language; and the finest language,\nI believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as \"light,\"\n\"sound,\" \"stars,\" \"music\"--words really not worth looking at, or\nhearing, in themselves, any more than \"chips\" or \"sawdust.\" It is only\nthat they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and\nbeautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too,\nand if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and\nsawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, \"light\" and\n\"music,\" stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching\nyour present with your most precious past.\n\n\n\nChapter LI\n\nSunday Morning\n\n\nLISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough\nto detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made up\nher mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must\npart. \"For a long while,\" Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth of\nher resolve.\n\n\"Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again,\" said\nLisbeth. \"Long while! I'n got no long while t' live. An' I shall be\ntook bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come a-nigh me, an' I shall die\na-longing for thee.\"\n\nThat had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was not\nin the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She had\ntried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why\nshe must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her\nnothing but whim and \"contrairiness\"; and still more, by regretting that\nshe \"couldna' ha' one o' the lads\" and be her daughter.\n\n\"Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth,\" she said. \"He isna cliver enough for\nthee, happen, but he'd ha' been very good t' thee--he's as handy as can\nbe at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's as fond o' the Bible\nan' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen, thee'dst like a husband\nbetter as isna just the cut o' thysen: the runnin' brook isna athirst\nfor th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for thee--I know he would--an' he might\ncome t' like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubborn\nas th' iron bar--there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'd be\na fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' so\ncliver as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y a\nlook o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me.\"\n\nDinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions by\nfinding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and as\nsoon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It\ntouched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to look\nround on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standing\nat the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck\nin the dim aged eyes. \"The God of love and peace be with them,\"\nDinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. \"Make them glad\naccording to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years\nwherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from\nthem; let me have no will but thine.\"\n\nLisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near\nSeth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turned\nwood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which he\nmeant to give to Dinah before she went away.\n\n\"Thee't see her again o' Sunday afore she goes,\" were her first words.\n\"If thee wast good for anything, thee'dst make her come in again o'\nSunday night wi' thee, and see me once more.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother,\" said Seth. \"Dinah 'ud be sure to come again if she saw\nright to come. I should have no need to persuade her. She only thinks it\n'ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say good-bye over\nagain.\"\n\n\"She'd ne'er go away, I know, if Adam 'ud be fond on her an' marry her,\nbut everything's so contrairy,\" said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation.\n\nSeth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his mother's\nface. \"What! Has she said anything o' that sort to thee, Mother?\" he\nsaid, in a lower tone.\n\n\"Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to wait till\nfolks say things afore they find 'em out.\"\n\n\"Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What's put it into thy\nhead?\"\n\n\"It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so hollow as\nit must get in, an' nought to put it there. I know she's fond on him, as\nI know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an' that's anoof. An' he might\nbe willin' to marry her if he know'd she's fond on him, but he'll ne'er\nthink on't if somebody doesna put it into's head.\"\n\nHis mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not quite\na new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she should\nherself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure about Dinah's\nfeeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's.\n\n\"Nay, Mother, nay,\" he said, earnestly, \"thee mustna think o' speaking\no' such things to Adam. Thee'st no right to say what Dinah's feelings\nare if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing but mischief to say\nsuch things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward\nDinah, but he's no thoughts towards her that 'ud incline him to make her\nhis wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't think\nshe'll marry at all.\"\n\n\"Eh,\" said Lisbeth, impatiently. \"Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldna\nha' thee. She'll ne'er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t' ha'\nthy brother.\"\n\nSeth was hurt. \"Mother,\" he said, in a remonstrating tone, \"don't think\nthat of me. I should be as thankful t' have her for a sister as thee\nwouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more thoughts about myself\nin that thing, and I shall take it hard if ever thee say'st it again.\"\n\n\"Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi' sayin' things arena as I\nsay they are.\"\n\n\"But, Mother,\" said Seth, \"thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling\nAdam what thee think'st about her. It 'ud do nothing but mischief,\nfor it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I'm\npretty sure he feels nothing o' the sort.\"\n\n\"Eh, donna tell me what thee't sure on; thee know'st nought about it.\nWhat's he allays goin' to the Poysers' for, if he didna want t' see her?\nHe goes twice where he used t' go once. Happen he knowsna as he wants\nt' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's broth, but he'd miss it pretty\nquick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o' marrying if it isna put\ninto's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put him\nup to't an' not let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her to\nmake a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under the\nwhite thorn.\"\n\n\"Nay, Mother,\" said Seth, \"thee mustna think me unkind, but I should\nbe going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah's\nfeelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam by\nspeaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel thee not to do't.\nThee may'st be quite deceived about Dinah. Nay, I'm pretty sure, by\nwords she said to me last Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry.\"\n\n\"Eh, thee't as contrairy as the rest on 'em. If it war summat I didna\nwant, it 'ud be done fast enough.\"\n\nLisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop,\nleaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam's mind about\nDinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since\nAdam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on\nmatters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach this\ntenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not take\nmuch notice of what she said.\n\nSeth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by\ntimidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she had\nan opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause her\nany strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over\nher regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near that\npoint of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out\nof their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when\nSeth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came.\n\nSunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for\nas there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam was\nalways at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she\ncould venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner\nthan usual to prepare for her sons--very frequently for Adam and herself\nalone, Seth being often away the entire day--and the smell of the roast\nmeat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking in\na peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his best\nclothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and stroke\nher hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and\nsmile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them--all\nthese things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise.\n\nThe book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large pictured\nBible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round white deal\ntable in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because he\nknew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day in\nthe week when he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked to\nsee Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so he\ncame to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, and\npoetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and the\nother ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you\nwould have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in\nsemi-articulation--it was when he came to a speech that he could fancy\nhimself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people; then his\neyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver a\nlittle with sad sympathy--something, perhaps old Isaac's meeting with\nhis son, touched him closely; at other times, over the New Testament,\na very solemn look would come upon his face, and he would every now and\nthen shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his hand and let\nit fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, of\nwhich he was very fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words would bring\na delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally\ndiffering from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite\nwell, as became a good churchman.\n\nLisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite\nto him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without going\nup to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This\nmorning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth\nhad been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair,\nwhich was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the\nlarge page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was\nencouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went up\nto him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her\naffectionately and say, \"Why, Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty this\nmorning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I love\nthee the best.\" Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many\nthings. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it was\na picture--that of the angel seated on the great stone that has been\nrolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association\nin Lisbeth's memory, for she had been reminded of it when she first\nsaw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book\nsideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, \"That's\nher--that's Dinah.\"\n\nAdam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said, \"It\nis a bit like her; but Dinah's prettier, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, then, if thee think'st her so pretty, why arn't fond on her?\"\n\nAdam looked up in surprise. \"Why, Mother, dost think I don't set store\nby Dinah?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that\nshe had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief they\nmight do. \"What's th' use o' settin' store by things as are thirty mile\noff? If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go away.\"\n\n\"But I've no right t' hinder her, if she thinks well,\" said Adam,\nlooking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw a\nseries of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the\nchair opposite to him, as she said:\n\n\"But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy.\" Lisbeth dared\nnot venture beyond a vague phrase yet.\n\n\"Contrairy, mother?\" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. \"What\nhave I done? What dost mean?\"\n\n\"Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thy\nfigurin, an' thy work,\" said Lisbeth, half-crying. \"An' dost think thee\ncanst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber?\nAn' what wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody to take care on thee\nas thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i' the mornin'?\"\n\n\"What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?\" said Adam, vexed at this\nwhimpering. \"I canna see what thee't driving at. Is there anything I\ncould do for thee as I don't do?\"\n\n\"Aye, an' that there is. Thee might'st do as I should ha' somebody wi'\nme to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me when I'm bad, an' be good to me.\"\n\n\"Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th' house\nt' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o' work to do. We\ncan afford it--I've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better for\nus.\"\n\n\"Eh, what's the use o' talking o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o'\nth' wenches out o' th' village, or somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'er\nset eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my own\ncoffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me in.\"\n\nAdam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost\nseverity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But\nLisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a\nminute's quietness she began again.\n\n\"Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isna\nmany folks I send for t' come an' see me. I reckon. An' thee'st had the\nfetchin' on her times enow.\"\n\n\"Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know,\" said Adam. \"But it's no use\nsetting thy mind on what can't be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to stay at\nHayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her aunt's house, where\nthey hold her like a daughter, and where she's more bound than she is to\nus. If it had been so that she could ha' married Seth, that 'ud ha' been\na great blessing to us, but we can't have things just as we like in this\nlife. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without her.\"\n\n\"Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an'\nnought shall ma' me believe as God didna make her an' send her there o'\npurpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her bein' a Methody! It 'ud\nhappen wear out on her wi' marryin'.\"\n\nAdam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He\nunderstood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of the\nconversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had\never urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an\nidea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his\nmother's mind as quickly as possible.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said, gravely, \"thee't talking wild. Don't let me hear\nthee say such things again. It's no good talking o' what can never be.\nDinah's not for marrying; she's fixed her heart on a different sort o'\nlife.\"\n\n\"Very like,\" said Lisbeth, impatiently, \"very like she's none for\nmarr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t' marry wonna ax her. I\nshouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther if he'd ne'er axed me; an'\nshe's as fond o' thee as e'er I war o' Thias, poor fellow.\"\n\nThe blood rushed to Adam's face, and for a few moments he was not quite\nconscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for him,\nand he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up towards his. It seemed\nas if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very\nspeedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it would\nhave been very foolish in him to believe his mother's words--she could\nhave no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief very\nstrongly--perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were any\nto be offered.\n\n\"What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no foundation\nfor 'em? Thee know'st nothing as gives thee a right to say that.\"\n\n\"Then I knowna nought as gi'es me a right to say as the year's turned,\nfor all I feel it fust thing when I get up i' th' morning. She isna fond\no' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry HIM? But I can see\nas she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt Seth. She makes no\nmore o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she's all of a\ntremble when thee't a-sittin' down by her at breakfast an' a-looking at\nher. Thee think'st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee\nwast born.\"\n\n\"But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?\" said Adam\nanxiously.\n\n\"Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what should\nshe do but love thee? Thee't made to be loved--for where's there a\nstraighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein' a Methody? It's\non'y the marigold i' th' parridge.\"\n\nAdam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the\nbook on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was trembling\nlike a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the\nsame moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust his\nmother's insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet--and yet,\nnow the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things,\nvery slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptible\nbreeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother's words.\n\nLisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, \"An' thee't find out\nas thee't poorly aff when she's gone. Thee't fonder on her nor thee\nknow'st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp's follow thee.\"\n\nAdam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went out\ninto the fields.\n\nThe sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should\nknow was not summer's, even if there were not the touches of yellow\non the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than\nautumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which still\nleaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of the\nbushy hedgerows.\n\nAdam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which\nthis new thought of Dinah's love had taken possession of him, with an\novermastering power that made all other feelings give way before the\nimpetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that till\nthat moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossed\nhis mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards that\npossibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishes\nthan the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylight\ngleams and the breath of heaven enters.\n\nThe autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with\nresignation to the disappointment if his mother--if he himself--proved\nto be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement of\nhis hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to\nmake one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinah\nwas so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he was\nnot forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving\nher. Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noon\nof that morning.\n\nBut Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite\ncontented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he had\nnever been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had he seen\nanything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this,\nfor he thought he could trust Seth's observation better than his\nmother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with\nthis intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to\nhis mother, \"Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming\nhome? Will he be back to dinner?\"\n\n\"Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He's\ngone somewhere else a-preachin' and a-prayin'.\"\n\n\"Hast any notion which way he's gone?\" said Adam.\n\n\"Nay, but he aften goes to th' Common. Thee know'st more o's goings nor\nI do.\"\n\nAdam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with\nwalking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as\npossible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth\nwould scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was\ntwelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and he\nsauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with\neager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very vividly;\nbut it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the sky.\nAgain and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of\nhis own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love--almost\nlike the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself for\nan art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poets\nhave said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our\nlater love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the best\nwhich come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their\ndeeper-rooted affections? The boy's flutelike voice has its own spring\ncharm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music.\n\nAt last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam\nhastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusual\nmust have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough\nthat it was nothing alarming.\n\n\"Where hast been?\" said Adam, when they were side by side.\n\n\"I've been to the Common,\" said Seth. \"Dinah's been speaking the Word\nto a little company of hearers at Brimstone's, as they call him. They're\nfolks as never go to church hardly--them on the Common--but they'll go\nand hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking with power this forenoon\nfrom the words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to\nrepentance.' And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to see.\nThe women mostly bring their children with 'em, but to-day there was one\nstout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never saw\nthere before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was\npraying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinah\nbegan to speak, th' young un stood stock still all at once, and began to\nlook at her with's mouth open, and presently he ran away from's mother\nand went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take\nnotice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th' lad on her lap, while\nshe went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went to\nsleep--and the mother cried to see him.\"\n\n\"It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself,\" said Adam, \"so fond as\nthe children are of her. Dost think she's quite fixed against marrying,\nSeth? Dost think nothing 'ud turn her?\"\n\nThere was something peculiar in his brother's tone, which made Seth\nsteal a glance at his face before he answered.\n\n\"It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her,\" he answered. \"But\nif thee mean'st it about myself, I've given up all thoughts as she can\never be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's enough.\"\n\n\"But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be\nwilling to marry 'em?\" said Adam rather shyly.\n\n\"Well,\" said Seth, after some hesitation, \"it's crossed my mind\nsometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for the\ncreature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had marked out for\nher. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she's not one to\nbe brought under the power of it. And she's allays seemed clear about\nthat--as her work was to minister t' others, and make no home for\nherself i' this world.\"\n\n\"But suppose,\" said Adam, earnestly, \"suppose there was a man as 'ud\nlet her do just the same and not interfere with her--she might do a good\ndeal o' what she does now, just as well when she was married as when\nshe was single. Other women of her sort have married--that's to say, not\njust like her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and needy.\nThere's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of.\"\n\nA new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his\nhand on Adam's shoulder, said, \"Why, wouldst like her to marry THEE,\nBrother?\"\n\nAdam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, \"Wouldst be\nhurt if she was to be fonder o' me than o' thee?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Seth warmly, \"how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so\nlittle that I shouldna feel thy joy?\"\n\nThere was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said,\n\"I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think of her for a wife.\"\n\n\"But is it o' any use to think of her?\" said Adam. \"What dost say?\nMother's made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she's been\nsaying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah feels for me more\nthan common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But I'm afraid she speaks\nwithout book. I want to know if thee'st seen anything.\"\n\n\"It's a nice point to speak about,\" said Seth, \"and I'm afraid o' being\nwrong; besides, we've no right t' intermeddle with people's feelings\nwhen they wouldn't tell 'em themselves.\"\n\nSeth paused.\n\n\"But thee mightst ask her,\" he said presently. \"She took no offence at\nme for asking, and thee'st more right than I had, only thee't not in the\nSociety. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are for keeping the Society\nso strict to themselves. She doesn't mind about making folks enter the\nSociety, so as they're fit t' enter the kingdom o' God. Some o' the\nbrethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her for that.\"\n\n\"Where will she be the rest o' the day?\" said Adam.\n\n\"She said she shouldn't leave the farm again to-day,\" said Seth,\n\"because it's her last Sabbath there, and she's going t' read out o' the\nbig Bible wi' the children.\"\n\nAdam thought--but did not say--\"Then I'll go this afternoon; for if I\ngo to church, my thoughts 'ull be with her all the while. They must sing\nth' anthem without me to-day.\"\n\n\n\nChapter LII\n\nAdam and Dinah\n\n\nIT was about three o'clock when Adam entered the farmyard and roused\nAlick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing. Alick said everybody was\ngone to church \"but th' young missis\"--so he called Dinah--but this\ndid not disappoint Adam, although the \"everybody\" was so liberal as\nto include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of necessity were not\nunfrequently incompatible with church-going.\n\nThere was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all closed,\nand the very stones and tubs seemed quieter than usual. Adam heard the\nwater gently dripping from the pump--that was the only sound--and\nhe knocked at the house door rather softly, as was suitable in that\nstillness.\n\nThe door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with the\ngreat surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, when she knew it was his\nregular practice to be at church. Yesterday he would have said to her\nwithout any difficulty, \"I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were\nnot at home.\" But to-day something prevented him from saying that, and\nhe put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, and yet\nboth wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat down. Dinah\ntook the chair she had just left; it was at the corner of the table\nnear the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it was not\nopen. She had been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit\nof clear fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr.\nPoyser's three-cornered chair.\n\n\"Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?\" Dinah said, recovering\nherself. \"Seth said she was well this morning.\"\n\n\"No, she's very hearty to-day,\" said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah's\nfeeling at the sight of him, but shy.\n\n\"There's nobody at home, you see,\" Dinah said; \"but you'll wait. You've\nbeen hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Adam said, and then paused, before he added, \"I was thinking\nabout you: that was the reason.\"\n\nThis confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he thought\nDinah must understand all he meant. But the frankness of the words\ncaused her immediately to interpret them into a renewal of his brotherly\nregrets that she was going away, and she answered calmly, \"Do not be\ncareful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all things and abound at\nSnowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am not seeking my own will in\ngoing.\"\n\n\"But if things were different, Dinah,\" said Adam, hesitatingly. \"If you\nknew things that perhaps you don't know now....\"\n\nDinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he reached a\nchair and brought it near the corner of the table where she was sitting.\nShe wondered, and was afraid--and the next moment her thoughts flew to\nthe past: was it something about those distant unhappy ones that she\ndidn't know?\n\nAdam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which had now\na self-forgetful questioning in them--for a moment he forgot that he\nwanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to tell her what he\nmeant.\n\n\"Dinah,\" he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, \"I love\nyou with my whole heart and soul. I love you next to God who made me.\"\n\nDinah's lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled violently\nunder the shock of painful joy. Her hands were cold as death between\nAdam's. She could not draw them away, because he held them fast.\n\n\"Don't tell me you can't love me, Dinah. Don't tell me we must part and\npass our lives away from one another.\"\n\nThe tears were trembling in Dinah's eyes, and they fell before she could\nanswer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice.\n\n\"Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part.\"\n\n\"Not if you love me, Dinah--not if you love me,\" Adam said passionately.\n\"Tell me--tell me if you can love me better than a brother?\"\n\nDinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt to\nachieve any end by a deceptive concealment. She was recovering now from\nthe first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam with simple sincere\neyes as she said, \"Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you;\nand of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the contrary, I could\nfind my happiness in being near you and ministering to you continually.\nI fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear I\nshould forget the Divine presence, and seek no love but yours.\"\n\nAdam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other in\ndelicious silence--for the first sense of mutual love excludes other\nfeelings; it will have the soul all to itself.\n\n\"Then, Dinah,\" Adam said at last, \"how can there be anything contrary\nto what's right in our belonging to one another and spending our lives\ntogether? Who put this great love into our hearts? Can anything be\nholier than that? For we can help one another in everything as is good.\nI'd never think o' putting myself between you and God, and saying you\noughtn't to do this and you oughtn't to do that. You'd follow your\nconscience as much as you do now.\"\n\n\"Yes, Adam,\" Dinah said, \"I know marriage is a holy state for those who\nare truly called to it, and have no other drawing; but from my childhood\nupwards I have been led towards another path; all my peace and my joy\nhave come from having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself,\nand living only in God and those of his creatures whose sorrows and joys\nhe has given me to know. Those have been very blessed years to me, and I\nfeel that if I was to listen to any voice that would draw me aside from\nthat path, I should be turning my back on the light that has shone upon\nme, and darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not bless\neach other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and if I yearned,\nwhen it was too late, after that better part which had once been given\nme and I had put away from me.\"\n\n\"But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and if you love me\nso as to be willing to be nearer to me than to other people, isn't that\na sign that it's right for you to change your life? Doesn't the love\nmake it right when nothing else would?\"\n\n\"Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for now, since you\ntell me of your strong love towards me, what was clear to me has become\ndark again. I felt before that my heart was too strongly drawn towards\nyou, and that your heart was not as mine; and the thought of you had\ntaken hold of me, so that my soul had lost its freedom, and was becoming\nenslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and careful\nabout what should befall myself. For in all other affection I had been\ncontent with any small return, or with none; but my heart was beginning\nto hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt that I must\nwrestle against that as a great temptation, and the command was clear\nthat I must go away.\"\n\n\"But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better than you love\nme...it's all different now. You won't think o' going. You'll stay, and\nbe my dear wife, and I shall thank God for giving me my life as I never\nthanked him before.\"\n\n\"Adam, it's hard to me to turn a deaf ear...you know it's hard; but a\ngreat fear is upon me. It seems to me as if you were stretching out your\narms to me, and beckoning me to come and take my ease and live for my\nown delight, and Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towards\nme, and pointing to the sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. I have\nseen that again and again when I have been sitting in stillness and\ndarkness, and a great terror has come upon me lest I should become hard,\nand a lover of self, and no more bear willingly the Redeemer's cross.\"\n\nDinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through her. \"Adam,\"\nshe went on, \"you wouldn't desire that we should seek a good through\nany unfaithfulness to the light that is in us; you wouldn't believe that\ncould be a good. We are of one mind in that.\"\n\n\"Yes, Dinah,\" said Adam sadly, \"I'll never be the man t' urge you\nagainst your conscience. But I can't give up the hope that you may come\nto see different. I don't believe your loving me could shut up your\nheart--it's only adding to what you've been before, not taking away from\nit. For it seems to me it's the same with love and happiness as with\nsorrow--the more we know of it the better we can feel what other\npeople's lives are or might be, and so we shall only be more tender to\n'em, and wishful to help 'em. The more knowledge a man has, the better\nhe'll do's work; and feeling's a sort o' knowledge.\"\n\nDinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of something\nvisible only to herself. Adam went on presently with his pleading, \"And\nyou can do almost as much as you do now. I won't ask you to go to church\nwith me of a Sunday. You shall go where you like among the people, and\nteach 'em; for though I like church best, I don't put my soul above\nyours, as if my words was better for you to follow than your own\nconscience. And you can help the sick just as much, and you'll have more\nmeans o' making 'em a bit comfortable; and you'll be among all your\nown friends as love you, and can help 'em and be a blessing to 'em till\ntheir dying day. Surely, Dinah, you'd be as near to God as if you was\nliving lonely and away from me.\"\n\nDinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still holding her hands and\nlooking at her with almost trembling anxiety, when she turned her grave\nloving eyes on his and said, in rather a sad voice, \"Adam there is truth\nin what you say, and there's many of the brethren and sisters who have\ngreater strength than I have, and find their hearts enlarged by the\ncares of husband and kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so\nwith me, for since my affections have been set above measure on you, I\nhave had less peace and joy in God. I have felt as it were a division\nin my heart. And think how it is with me, Adam. That life I have led is\nlike a land I have trodden in blessedness since my childhood; and if\nI long for a moment to follow the voice which calls me to another land\nthat I know not, I cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearn\nfor that early blessedness which I had forsaken; and where doubt enters\nthere is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer guidance. I must go\nfrom you, and we must submit ourselves entirely to the Divine Will.\nWe are sometimes required to lay our natural lawful affections on the\naltar.\"\n\nAdam dared not plead again, for Dinah's was not the voice of caprice or\ninsincerity. But it was very hard for him; his eyes got dim as he looked\nat her.\n\n\"But you may come to feel satisfied...to feel that you may come to me\nagain, and we may never part, Dinah?\"\n\n\"We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty will be made clear.\nIt may be when I have entered on my former life, I shall find all these\nnew thoughts and wishes vanish, and become as things that were not. Then\nI shall know that my calling is not towards marriage. But we must wait.\"\n\n\"Dinah,\" said Adam mournfully, \"you can't love me so well as I love you,\nelse you'd have no doubts. But it's natural you shouldn't, for I'm not\nso good as you. I can't doubt it's right for me to love the best thing\nGod's ever given me to know.\"\n\n\"Nay, Adam. It seems to me that my love for you is not weak, for my\nheart waits on your words and looks, almost as a little child waits on\nthe help and tenderness of the strong on whom it depends. If the thought\nof you took slight hold of me, I should not fear that it would be an\nidol in the temple. But you will strengthen me--you will not hinder me\nin seeking to obey to the uttermost.\"\n\n\"Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I'll speak\nno word to disturb you.\"\n\nThey went out and walked towards the fields, where they would meet the\nfamily coming from church. Adam said, \"Take my arm, Dinah,\" and she took\nit. That was the only change in their manner to each other since they\nwere last walking together. But no sadness in the prospect of her going\naway--in the uncertainty of the issue--could rob the sweetness from\nAdam's sense that Dinah loved him. He thought he would stay at the Hall\nFarm all that evening. He would be near her as long as he could.\n\n\"Hey-day! There's Adam along wi' Dinah,\" said Mr. Poyser, as he opened\nthe far gate into the Home Close. \"I couldna think how he happened away\nfrom church. Why,\" added good Martin, after a moment's pause, \"what dost\nthink has just jumped into my head?\"\n\n\"Summat as hadna far to jump, for it's just under our nose. You mean as\nAdam's fond o' Dinah.\"\n\n\"Aye! hast ever had any notion of it before?\"\n\n\"To be sure I have,\" said Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if possible,\nto be taken by surprise. \"I'm not one o' those as can see the cat i' the\ndairy an' wonder what she's come after.\"\n\n\"Thee never saidst a word to me about it.\"\n\n\"Well, I aren't like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle when the\nwind blows on me. I can keep my own counsel when there's no good i'\nspeaking.\"\n\n\"But Dinah 'll ha' none o' him. Dost think she will?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard against a\npossible surprise, \"she'll never marry anybody, if he isn't a Methodist\nand a cripple.\"\n\n\"It 'ud ha' been a pretty thing though for 'em t' marry,\" said Martin,\nturning his head on one side, as if in pleased contemplation of his new\nidea. \"Thee'dst ha' liked it too, wouldstna?\"\n\n\"Ah! I should. I should ha' been sure of her then, as she wouldn't\ngo away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile off, and me not got a\ncreatur to look to, only neighbours, as are no kin to me, an' most of\n'em women as I'd be ashamed to show my face, if my dairy things war like\ntheir'n. There may well be streaky butter i' the market. An' I should be\nglad to see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, with a\nhouse of her own over her head; and we'd stock her well wi' linen and\nfeathers, for I love her next to my own children. An' she makes one feel\nsafer when she's i' the house, for she's like the driven snow: anybody\nmight sin for two as had her at their elbow.\"\n\n\"Dinah,\" said Tommy, running forward to meet her, \"mother says you'll\nnever marry anybody but a Methodist cripple. What a silly you must be!\"\na comment which Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, and\ndancing along by her side with incommodious fondness.\n\n\"Why, Adam, we missed you i' the singing to-day,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"How\nwas it?\"\n\n\"I wanted to see Dinah--she's going away so soon,\" said Adam.\n\n\"Ah, lad! Can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find her a good husband\nsomewhere i' the parish. If you'll do that, we'll forgive you for\nmissing church. But, anyway, she isna going before the harvest supper\no' Wednesday, and you must come then. There's Bartle Massey comin', an'\nhappen Craig. You'll be sure an' come, now, at seven? The missis wunna\nhave it a bit later.\"\n\n\"Aye,\" said Adam, \"I'll come if I can. But I can't often say what I'll\ndo beforehand, for the work often holds me longer than I expect. You'll\nstay till the end o' the week, Dinah?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes!\" said Mr. Poyser. \"We'll have no nay.\"\n\n\"She's no call to be in a hurry,\" observed Mrs. Poyser. \"Scarceness\no' victual 'ull keep: there's no need to be hasty wi' the cooking. An'\nscarceness is what there's the biggest stock of i' that country.\"\n\nDinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked of other\nthings through the rest of the walk, lingering in the sunshine to look\nat the great flock of geese grazing, at the new corn-ricks, and at the\nsurprising abundance of fruit on the old pear-tree; Nancy and Molly\nhaving already hastened home, side by side, each holding, carefully\nwrapped in her pocket-handkerchief, a prayer-book, in which she could\nread little beyond the large letters and the Amens.\n\nSurely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through the\nfields from \"afternoon church\"--as such walks used to be in those old\nleisurely times, when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, was\nthe newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday books had most of them old\nbrown-leather covers, and opened with remarkable precision always in one\nplace. Leisure is gone--gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the\npack-horses, and the slow waggons, and the pedlars, who brought bargains\nto the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you,\nperhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure\nfor mankind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for eager\nthought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now--eager for amusement;\nprone to excursion-trains, art museums, periodical literature, and\nexciting novels; prone even to scientific theorizing and cursory peeps\nthrough microscopes. Old Leisure was quite a different personage. He\nonly read one newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was free from\nthat periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. He was a\ncontemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion; of quiet\nperceptions, undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his inability to know\nthe causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chiefly\nin the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond of\nsauntering by the fruit-tree wall and scenting the apricots when they\nwere warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself under\nthe orchard boughs at noon, when the summer pears were falling. He knew\nnothing of weekday services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday\nsermon if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing; liking\nthe afternoon service best, because the prayers were the shortest,\nand not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience,\nbroad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or\nport-wine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty\naspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered the\nguineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of the\nirresponsible, for had he not kept up his character by going to church\non the Sunday afternoons?\n\nFine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modern\nstandard. He never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, or\nread Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus.\n\n\n\nChapter LIII\n\nThe Harvest Supper\n\n\nAs Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clock\nsunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its way\ntowards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of \"Harvest\nHome!\" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more\nmusical through the growing distance, the falling dying sound still\nreached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shone\nright on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscious\nsheep into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the cottage\ntoo, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber or\namethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple,\nand that the distant chant was a sacred song.\n\n\"It's wonderful,\" he thought, \"how that sound goes to one's heart almost\nlike a funeral bell, for all it tells one o' the joyfullest time o' the\nyear, and the time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it's\na bit hard to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives; and\nthere's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like what I feel\nabout Dinah. I should never ha' come to know that her love 'ud be the\ngreatest o' blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't been\nwrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need, so as I\ncould crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort.\"\n\nHe expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompany\nher as far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to fix some time when\nhe might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that had\nbeen born to him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do\nat home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before he\nwas on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was questionable whether,\nwith his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time even\nfor the roast beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser's\nsupper would be punctual.\n\nGreat was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adam\nentered the house, but there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment:\nthe eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was too\nserious a business to those good farm-labourers to be performed with\na divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to each\nother--which they had not. And Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, was\ntoo busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr. Craig's\nready talk.\n\n\"Here, Adam,\" said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to see\nthat Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, \"here's a place kept for\nyou between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't come\nto see the pudding when it was whole.\"\n\nAdam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinah\nwas not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides, his\nattention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope that\nDinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the\neve of her departure.\n\nIt was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round\ngood-humoured face and large person at the head of it helping his\nservants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty plates\ncame again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really\nforgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him to\nlook on in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed their\nsupper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year except\nChristmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner,\nunder the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles--with\nrelish certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after a\nfashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had\nsome faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast\nbeef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwed\nup his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted Tom\nTholer, otherwise known as \"Tom Saft,\" receiving his second plateful of\nbeef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set down\nbefore him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if\nthey had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continue\nsmouldering in a grin--it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn\n\"haw, haw!\" followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the\nknife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large person\nshook with his silent unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to\nsee if she too had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and\nwife met in a glance of good-natured amusement.\n\n\"Tom Saft\" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part\nof the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by his\nsuccess in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which\nfalls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then.\nThey were much quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaking times, but I\nrefrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to be\nlike that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day--rather of a\ntemporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations\nof things.\n\nTom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and\nlabourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worth\ntheir pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example\n(Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, and\nwas not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter), the old man with the\nclose leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face.\nWas there any man in Loamshire who knew better the \"natur\" of all\nfarming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who can not only\nturn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn their\nhand to. It is true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time,\nand he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most\nreverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that the\nobject of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he performed\nsome rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the ricks--for\nif anything were his forte more than another, it was thatching--and when\nthe last touch had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home\nlay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yard\nin his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a due\ndistance, to contemplate his own thatching, walking about to get each\nrick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his eyes\nupturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits\nof the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you might\nhave imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration.\nKester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin,\nconcerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay-night:\nnot a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried\nmany times before and had worn well. \"Th' young measter's a merry mon,\"\nKester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by frightening\naway the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could never\ncease to account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamed\nof commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands of\nsuch men--hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so\nfaithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits,\nand receiving the smallest share as their own wages.\n\nThen, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, the\nshepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not on\nthe best terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confined\nto an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed little\nconcerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was a\nprofound difference of opinion between them as to their own respective\nmerits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, they\nare not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not by\nany means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl\nin it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog\nexpression--\"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you.\" But\nhe was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather than he\nwould take beyond his acknowledged share, and as \"close-fisted\" with\nhis master's property as if it had been his own--throwing very small\nhandfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handful\naffected his imagination painfully with a sense of profusion.\nGood-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge\nagainst Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other,\nand never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes;\nbut then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind,\nit would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits\nof unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive,\nwas not of that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently\nobserved in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a\nsmile was a rare sight on a field-labourer's face, and there was seldom\nany gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourer\nso honest as our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser's\nmen, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but\ndetected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in his\npockets--an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly be\nascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him, and\ncontinued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common time\nout of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I\ndaresay, society was not much the worse because Ben had not six months\nof it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, and\nthe House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his\nroast beef to-night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more\nthan a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last harvest\nsupper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, for\never upon him, was an injury to his innocence.\n\nBut NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving\na fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and the foaming\nbrown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. NOW,\nthe great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest-song,\nin which every man must join. He might be in tune, if he liked to be\nsingular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged\nto be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum.\n\nAs to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state from\nthe brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school\nor succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp of\nunity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former\nhypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that this unity\nmay rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a\ncondition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness.\nSome will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain\nan indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in\nimaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration.\nOthers, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an\noriginal felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can be\ninsensible.\n\nThe ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That\nis perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our\nforefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly\nforte, no can was filled.\n\n     Here's a health unto our master,\n     The founder of the feast;\n     Here's a health unto our master\n     And to our mistress!\n\n     And may his doings prosper,\n     Whate'er he takes in hand,\n     For we are all his servants,\n     And are at his command.\n\nBut now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung\nfortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect of\ncymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound to\nempty it before the chorus ceased.\n\n     Then drink, boys, drink!\n     And see ye do not spill,\n     For if ye do, ye shall drink two,\n     For 'tis our master's will.\n\nWhen Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed\nmanliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on,\ntill every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the\nchorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;\nbut Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent the\nexaction of the penalty.\n\nTo any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of\nobvious why the \"Drink, boys, drink!\" should have such an immediate and\noften-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all\nfaces were at present sober, and most of them serious--it was the\nregular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do,\nas much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their\nwine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had\ngone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the\nceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence of\nfive minutes declared that \"Drink, boys, drink!\" was not likely to\nbegin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys\nand Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious\nthumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's knee,\ncontributed with her small might and small fist.\n\nWhen Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desire\nfor solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggoner\nknew a song and was \"allays singing like a lark i' the stable,\"\nwhereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, \"Come, Tim, lad, let's hear\nit.\" Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't\nsing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all\nround the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could\nsay, \"Come, Tim,\" except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of\nunnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began\nto give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather\nsavage, said, \"Let me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye\nwonna like.\" A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was\nnot to be urged further.\n\n\"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing,\" said Ben, willing to show\nthat he was not discomfited by this check. \"Sing 'My loove's a roos\nwi'out a thorn.'\"\n\nThe amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted\nexpression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity\nrather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to\nBen's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his\nmouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for some\ntime the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear\nDavid's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellar\nat present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.\n\nMeanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken a\npolitical turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally,\nthough he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specific\ninformation. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that really\nit was superfluous to know them.\n\n\"I'm no reader o' the paper myself,\" he observed to-night, as he filled\nhis pipe, \"though I might read it fast enough if I liked, for there's\nMiss Lyddy has 'em and 's done with 'em i' no time. But there's Mills,\nnow, sits i' the chimney-corner and reads the paper pretty nigh\nfrom morning to night, and when he's got to th' end on't he's more\naddle-headed than he was at the beginning. He's full o' this peace now,\nas they talk on; he's been reading and reading, and thinks he's got to\nthe bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no more\ninto this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell\nyou what it is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'm\nnot again' it--mark my words--I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion as\nthere's them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies to us\nnor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back; for as for the\nmounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'em at once as if they war\nfrogs.'\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much\nintelligence and edification, \"they ne'er ate a bit o' beef i' their\nlives. Mostly sallet, I reckon.\"\n\n\"And says I to Mills,\" continued Mr. Craig, \"'Will you try to make me\nbelieve as furriners like them can do us half th' harm them ministers\ndo with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn 'em all away and\ngovern by himself, he'd see everything righted. He might take on Billy\nPitt again if he liked; but I don't see myself what we want wi' anybody\nbesides King and Parliament. It's that nest o' ministers does the\nmischief, I tell you.'\"\n\n\"Ah, it's fine talking,\" observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated near\nher husband, with Totty on her lap--\"it's fine talking. It's hard work\nto tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots on.\"\n\n\"As for this peace,\" said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side in\na dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe between\neach sentence, \"I don't know. Th' war's a fine thing for the country,\nan' how'll you keep up prices wi'out it? An' them French are a wicked\nsort o' folks, by what I can make out. What can you do better nor fight\n'em?\"\n\n\"Ye're partly right there, Poyser,\" said Mr. Craig, \"but I'm not again'\nthe peace--to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like,\nan' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so much o' his cliverness.\nThat's what I says to Mills this morning. Lor' bless you, he sees no\nmore through Bony!...why, I put him up to more in three minutes than he\ngets from's paper all the year round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knows\nhis business, or arn't I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To be sure y' are,\nCraig,' says he--he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a butler, but\nweak i' the head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; would\nit be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but a\nquagmire to work on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's just\nwhat it is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit cliver--he's\nno Frenchman born, as I understand--but what's he got at's back but\nmounseers?'\"\n\nMr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphant\nspecimen of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping the table rather\nfiercely, \"Why, it's a sure thing--and there's them 'ull bear witness\nto't--as i' one regiment where there was one man a-missing, they put\nthe regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as the shell fits the\nwalnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounseers!\"\n\n\"Ah! Think o' that, now!\" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with the\npolitical bearings of the fact and with its striking interest as an\nanecdote in natural history.\n\n\"Come, Craig,\" said Adam, \"that's a little too strong. You don't believe\nthat. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr.\nIrwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says they've plenty o'\nfine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge, and contrivances, and\nmanufactures, there's a many things as we're a fine sight behind 'em in.\nIt's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and the\nrest of 'em 'ud have no merit i' beating 'em, if they were such offal as\nfolks pretend.\"\n\nMr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition of\nauthorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony was not to be disputed; but, on the\nother hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling.\nMartin had never \"heard tell\" of the French being good for much. Mr.\nCraig had found no answer but such as was implied in taking a long\ndraught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the proportions of his\nown leg, which he turned a little outward for that purpose, when Bartle\nMassey returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking his\nfirst pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his\nforefinger into the canister, \"Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at\nchurch on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limping\nwithout you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old\nage?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Massey,\" said Adam. \"Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I\nwas. I was in no bad company.\"\n\n\"She's gone, Adam--gone to Snowfield,\" said Mr. Poyser, reminded of\nDinah for the first time this evening. \"I thought you'd ha' persuaded\nher better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. The\nmissis has hardly got over it. I thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th'\nharvest supper.\"\n\nMrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in,\nbut she had had \"no heart\" to mention the bad news.\n\n\"What!\" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. \"Was there a woman\nconcerned? Then I give you up, Adam.\"\n\n\"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle,\" said Mr. Poyser. \"Come\nnow, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha' been a bad\ninvention if they'd all been like Dinah.\"\n\n\"I meant her voice, man--I meant her voice, that was all,\" said Bartle.\n\"I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As\nfor other things, I daresay she's like the rest o' the women--thinks\ntwo and two 'll come to make five, if she cries and bothers enough about\nit.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye!\" said Mrs. Poyser; \"one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk,\nas the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi'\nonly smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door, they can. Perhaps\nthat's the reason THEY can see so little o' this side on't.\"\n\nMartin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much\nas to say the schoolmaster was in for it now.\n\n\"Ah!\" said Bartle sneeringly, \"the women are quick enough--they're quick\nenough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and can\ntell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself.\"\n\n\"Like enough,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"for the men are mostly so slow, their\nthoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can\ncount a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready an' when he\nouts wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It's\nyour dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' the\nwomen are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men.\"\n\n\"Match!\" said Bartle. \"Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a man\nsays a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction; if he's a\nmind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs,\nshe'll match him with whimpering. She's such a match as the horse-fly\nis to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him with--the right\nvenom to sting him with.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Poyser, \"I know what the men like--a poor soft, as 'ud\nsimper at 'em like the picture o' the sun, whether they did right or\nwrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know which\nend she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That's what a man\nwants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o' one fool as 'ull tell\nhim he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that--they think so\nmuch o' themselves a'ready. An' that's how it is there's old bachelors.\"\n\n\"Come, Craig,\" said Mr. Poyser jocosely, \"you mun get married pretty\nquick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you see what the\nwomen 'ull think on you.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a\nhigh value on his own compliments, \"I like a cleverish woman--a woman o'\nsperrit--a managing woman.\"\n\n\"You're out there, Craig,\" said Bartle, dryly; \"you're out there. You\njudge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You pick the\nthings for what they can excel in--for what they can excel in. You don't\nvalue your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now,\nthat's the way you should choose women. Their cleverness 'll never come\nto much--never come to much--but they make excellent simpletons, ripe\nand strong-flavoured.\"\n\n\"What dost say to that?\" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and\nlooking merrily at his wife.\n\n\"Say!\" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her\neye. \"Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as run\non strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there's\nsummat wrong i' their own inside...\"\n\nMrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a further\nclimax, if every one's attention had not at this moment been called to\nthe other end of the table, where the lyricism, which had at first only\nmanifested itself by David's sotto voce performance of \"My love's a rose\nwithout a thorn,\" had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complex\ncharacter. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelled\nto supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of \"Three Merry\nMowers,\" but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed himself\ncapable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whether\nthe rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, with\nan entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quavering\ntreble--as if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him to go\noff.\n\nThe company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocal\nentertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from musical\nprejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers in\nhis ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever since he had heard\nDinah was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night.\n\n\"I'll go with you, lad,\" said Bartle; \"I'll go with you before my ears\nare split.\"\n\n\"I'll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. Massey,\"\nsaid Adam.\n\n\"Aye, aye!\" said Bartle; \"then we can have a bit o' talk together. I\nnever get hold of you now.\"\n\n\"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out,\" said Martin Poyser. \"They'll all\ngo soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay past ten.\"\n\nBut Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two friends\nturned out on their starlight walk together.\n\n\"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home,\" said Bartle.\n\"I can never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck with\nMrs. Poyser's eye, and the poor bitch might go limping for ever after.\"\n\n\"I've never any need to drive Gyp back,\" said Adam, laughing. \"He always\nturns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming here.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said Bartle. \"A terrible woman!--made of needles, made of\nneedles. But I stick to Martin--I shall always stick to Martin. And\nhe likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion made on purpose for\n'em.\"\n\n\"But she's a downright good-natur'd woman, for all that,\" said Adam,\n\"and as true as the daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the dogs when they\noffer to come in th' house, but if they depended on her, she'd take care\nand have 'em well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I've\nseen that in times o' trouble. She's one o' those women as are better\nthan their word.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Bartle, \"I don't say th' apple isn't sound at the\ncore; but it sets my teeth on edge--it sets my teeth on edge.\"\n\n\n\nChapter LIV\n\nThe Meeting on the Hill\n\n\nADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather than\ndiscouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feeling\ntowards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully for\nthe ultimate guiding voice from within.\n\n\"I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though,\" he thought. \"And yet even\nthat might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quiet\nin her old way for a while. And I've no right to be impatient and\ninterrupting her with my wishes. She's told me what her mind is,\nand she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another. I'll wait\npatiently.\"\n\nThat was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the first\ntwo or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance of\nDinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amount\nof sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards the middle\nof October the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showed\ndangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinah\nmust surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let a\nwoman say what she will after she has once told a man that she loves\nhim, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught she\noffers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads the\nearth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes\nlight of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory gets\nsadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. Adam\nwas no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhaps\nDinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any new\nfeeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely have\nwritten to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she held\nit right to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patience\nwaned with it, and he thought he must write himself. He must ask Dinah\nnot to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat up\nlate one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it,\nafraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answer\nby letter than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her\nwill.\n\nYou perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, and\nwhen that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely to\nstill it though he may have to put his future in pawn.\n\nBut what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not be\ndispleased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She must\nsurely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday in\nOctober this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he was\nalready on his way to Snowfield, on horseback this time, for his hours\nwere precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for the\njourney.\n\nWhat keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been to\nOakbourne and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyond\nOakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees,\nseemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which he\nknew so well by heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse of\ntime--or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters--and\nAdam this morning brought with him new thoughts through that grey\ncountry, thoughts which gave an altered significance to its story of the\npast.\n\nThat is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoices\nand is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or crushed another,\nbecause it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adam\ncould never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which had\nbeen brought so close to him; he could never thank God for another's\nmisery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam's\nbehalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself.\nHe would have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, \"Evil's\nevil, and sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrapping\nit up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I\nshould think all square when things turn out well for me.\"\n\nBut it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad\nexperience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain.\nSurely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it would be\npossible for a man with cataract to regret the painful process by which\nhis dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged for\nclear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling within\nus is like the growth of faculty, bringing with it a sense of added\nstrength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy than\na painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a\nphilosopher to his less complete formula.\n\nSomething like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind this\nSunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. His\nfeeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had been\nthe distant unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfield\neighteen months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his love\nfor Hetty had been--so deep that the roots of it would never be torn\naway--his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for it\nwas the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from his\nacquaintance with deep sorrow. \"It's like as if it was a new strength to\nme,\" he said to himself, \"to love her and know as she loves me. I shall\nlook t' her to help me to see things right. For she's better than I\nam--there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as gives\nyou a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you've\nmore trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've always been\nthinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poor\nsort o' life, when you can't look to them nearest to you t' help you\nwith a bit better thought than what you've got inside you a'ready.\"\n\nIt was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came in sight of\nthe grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly towards the green\nvalley below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near the\nugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine\nthan it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one grand charm\nit possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless regions--that\nit filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky--had a\nmilder, more soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudless\nday. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicate\nweblike clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him.\nHe seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone,\nof all he longed to know.\n\nHe did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down from\nhis horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might ask where she\nwas gone to-day. He had set his mind on following her and bringing her\nhome. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about three miles off, over\nthe hill, the old woman told him--had set off directly after morning\nchapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at the\ntown would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horse\nagain and rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking a\nhasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whose\nfriendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as\npossible and set out towards Sloman's End. With all his haste it was\nnearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought that as\nDinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning.\nThe little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by sheltering\ntrees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near he\ncould hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. \"Perhaps that's the last\nhymn before they come away,\" Adam thought. \"I'll walk back a bit and\nturn again to meet her, farther off the village.\" He walked back till he\ngot nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loose\nstone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the little\nblack figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose\nthis spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from all\neyes--no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near--no presence\nbut the still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky.\n\nShe was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at\nleast watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadows\nlengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black\nfigure coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching the\nfoot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought, but Dinah was really walking at\nher usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to wind\nalong the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would not\nmeet her too soon; he had set his heart on meeting her in this assured\nloneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should startle her too\nmuch. \"Yet,\" he thought, \"she's not one to be overstartled; she's always\nso calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything.\"\n\nWhat was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found\ncomplete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of his\nlove. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses with\nfluttering wings.\n\nBut now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall.\nIt happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah had paused and turned\nround to look back at the village--who does not pause and look back in\nmounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with the fine instinct of a lover,\nhe felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice before she\nsaw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, \"Dinah!\" She\nstarted without looking round, as if she connected the sound with no\nplace. \"Dinah!\" Adam said again. He knew quite well what was in her\nmind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual\nmonitions that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of the\nvoice.\n\nBut this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it\nwas that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed man! She did\nnot start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towards\nhim so that his arm could clasp her round.\n\nAnd they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was\ncontent, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first.\n\n\"Adam,\" she said, \"it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yours\nthat it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, now\nyou are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same\nlove. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father's\nWill that I had lost before.\"\n\nAdam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.\n\n\"Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us.\"\n\nAnd they kissed each other with a deep joy.\n\nWhat greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they\nare joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest on\neach other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be\none with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the\nlast parting?\n\n\n\nChapter LV\n\nMarriage Bells\n\n\nIN little more than a month after that meeting on the hill--on a rimy\nmorning in departing November--Adam and Dinah were married.\n\nIt was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's men had\na holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and most of those who had a holiday\nappeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think there was hardly\nan inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in this history and still\nresident in the parish on this November morning who was not either in\nchurch to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church door to greet\nthem as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at\nthe churchyard gates in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) to\nshake hands with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the\nabsence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, and\nMr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent \"the family\" at the\nChase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was quite lined with familiar\nfaces, many of them faces that had first looked at Dinah when she\npreached on the Green. And no wonder they showed this eager interest on\nher marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history which had\nbrought her and Adam Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the\nmemory of man.\n\nBessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though she did\nnot exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who stood near her,\njudiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away, and if Bessy was in low\nspirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Dinah's example and\nmarry an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, just\nwithin the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping round\nthe corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious ceremony;\nTotty's face wearing an unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing\ncousin Dinah come back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no\nmarried people were young.\n\nI envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly ended\nand Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this morning,\nfor her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk of incurring bad\nluck, and had herself made a present of the wedding dress, made all of\ngrey, though in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah could not\ngive way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from under\na grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips\ntrembling a little under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as he\npressed her arm to his side, walked with his old erectness and his head\nthrown rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it was\nnot because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont of\nbridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little reference\nto men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in his deep joy;\nDinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.\n\nThere were three other couples, following the bride and bridegroom:\nfirst, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright fire on this rimy\nmorning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; then came Seth serenely\nhappy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, with\nLisbeth--Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride in\nher son and her delight in possessing the one daughter she had desired\nto devise a single pretext for complaint.\n\nBartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's earnest\nrequest, under protest against marriage in general and the marriage of a\nsensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against\nhim after the wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had\ngiven the bride one more kiss than was necessary.\n\nBehind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this good\nmorning's work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen Adam in the\nworst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest from that painful\nseed-time could there be than this? The love that had brought hope and\ncomfort in the hour of despair, the love that had found its way to the\ndark prison cell and to poor Hetty's darker soul--this strong gentle\nlove was to be Adam's companion and helper till death.\n\nThere was much shaking of hands mingled with \"God bless you's\" and other\ngood wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr. Poyser\nanswering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue, for he had\nall the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his command. And the women, he\nobserved, could never do anything but put finger in eye at a wedding.\nEven Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the neighbours\nshook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to cry in the face of the very\nfirst person who told her she was getting young again.\n\nMr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join\nin the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with some\ncontempt at these informal greetings which required no official\nco-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical bass, \"Oh what\na joyful thing it is,\" by way of preluding a little to the effect he\nintended to produce in the wedding psalm next Sunday.\n\n\"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur,\" said Mr. Irwine to his\nmother, as they drove off. \"I shall write to him the first thing when we\nget home.\"\n\n\n\n\nEpilogue\n\n\nIT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut\nup half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used to\nbe Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on the\npleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much\nas it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening\nnine years ago.\n\nThere is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading\nher eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, for\nthe rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair\nare very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks\ntowards the door.\n\nWe can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all\naltered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronly\nfigure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain black\ndress.\n\n\"I see him, Seth,\" Dinah said, as she looked into the house. \"Let us go\nand meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother.\"\n\nThe last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with\npale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ran\nout silently and put her hand into her mother's.\n\n\"Come, Uncle Seth,\" said Dinah.\n\n\"Aye, aye, we're coming,\" Seth answered from within, and presently\nappeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the\nblack head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by\ndemanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder.\n\n\"Better take him on thy arm, Seth,\" said Dinah, looking fondly at the\nstout black-eyed fellow. \"He's troublesome to thee so.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a\nbit.\" A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels\nwith promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by Dinah's\nside, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's children, was Uncle\nSeth's earthly happiness.\n\n\"Where didst see him?\" asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining\nfield. \"I can't catch sight of him anywhere.\"\n\n\"Between the hedges by the roadside,\" said Dinah. \"I saw his hat and his\nshoulder. There he is again.\"\n\n\"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen,\" said\nSeth, smiling. \"Thee't like poor mother used to be. She was always on\nthe look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for\nall her eyes got dim.\"\n\n\"He's been longer than he expected,\" said Dinah, taking Arthur's watch\nfrom a small side pocket and looking at it; \"it's nigh upon seven now.\"\n\n\"Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another,\" said Seth, \"and the\nmeeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting on towards\neight years since they parted.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dinah, \"Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought\nof the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he\nhas undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the\ndeath of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been\nsorrow upon sorrow.\"\n\n\"See, Addy,\" said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and\npointing, \"there's Father coming--at the far stile.\"\n\nDinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed\ntill she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and lifted her\nup to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face\nas she approached him, and he put her arm within his in silence.\n\n\"Well, youngster, must I take you?\" he said, trying to smile, when Addy\nstretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, to\ngive up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at\nhand.\n\n\"It's cut me a good deal, Dinah,\" Adam said at last, when they were\nwalking on.\n\n\"Didst find him greatly altered?\" said Dinah.\n\n\"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him anywhere.\nBut his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However, the doctors say\nhe'll soon be set right in his own country air. He's all sound in th'\ninside; it's only the fever shattered him so. But he speaks just the\nsame, and smiles at me just as he did when he was a lad. It's wonderful\nhow he's always had just the same sort o' look when he smiles.\"\n\n\"I've never seen him smile, poor young man,\" said Dinah.\n\n\"But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow,\" said Adam. \"He asked after\nthee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk to\none another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said, 'I remember her face\nso well.' I told him 'no,'\" Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes\nthat were turned towards his, \"only a bit plumper, as thee'dst a right\nto be after seven year. 'I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he\nsaid; 'I long to tell her how I've thought of her all these years.'\"\n\n\"Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?\" said Dinah.\n\n\"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman\na bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day,' he said, 'when she\npreaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I said, 'Nay, sir, you\ncan't do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she's\ngiven it up, all but talking to the people a bit in their houses.'\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, \"and a\nsore pity it was o' Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we'd ha'\nleft the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no bonds on Christian\nliberty.\"\n\n\"Nay, lad, nay,\" said Adam, \"she was right and thee wast wrong. There's\nno rules so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or other. Most o'\nthe women do more harm nor good with their preaching--they've not got\nDinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's seen that, and she thought it\nright to set th' example o' submitting, for she's not held from other\nsorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o' what she did.\"\n\nSeth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely\nalluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, \"Didst\nremember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and\naunt entrusted to thee?\"\n\n\"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after\nto-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and he\nwould have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. He\nsaid--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad for him t' have his\nfeelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. 'We must\nget you strong and hearty,' he said, 'that's the first thing to be done\nArthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you\nunder your old tutor's thumb till then.' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful at\nhaving him home again.\"\n\nAdam was silent a little while, and then said, \"It was very cutting when\nwe first saw one another. He'd never heard about poor Hetty till Mr.\nIrwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey.\nThe first thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one another's hands\nwas, 'I could never do anything for her, Adam--she lived long enough\nfor all the suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might do\nsomething for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once,\n\"There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for.\"'\"\n\n\"Why, there's Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,\" said\nSeth.\n\n\"So there is,\" said Dinah. \"Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come\nin, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee.\""