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Adam Bede
By
George Eliot
Contents
Chapter III - After The Preaching<=
/span>
Chapter IV - Home And Its Sorrows<=
/span>
Chapter X - Dinah Visits Lisbeth=
span>
Chapter XIII - Evening In The Wood=
Chapter XV - The Two Bed-Chambers<=
/span>
Chapter XVII - In Which The Story =
Pauses A
Little
Chapter XIX - Adam On A Working Da=
y
Chapter XX - Adam Visits The Hall =
Farm
Chapter XXI - The Night-School And=
The
Schoolmaster
Chapter XXII - Going To The Birthd=
ay Feast
Chapter XXIV - The Health-Drinking=
Chapter XXIX - The Next Morning
Chapter XXX - The Delivery Of The =
Letter
Chapter XXXI - In Hetty's Bed-Cham=
ber
Chapter XXXII - Mrs Poyser ‘=
Has Her
Say Out’
Chapter XXXV - The Hidden Dread
Chapter XXXVI - The Journey Of Hop=
e
Chapter XXXVII - The Journey In De=
spair
Chapter XL - The Bitter Waters Spr=
ead
Chapter XLI - The Eve Of The Trial=
Chapter XLII - The Morning Of The =
Trial
Chapter XLIV - Arthur's Return
Chapter XLVI - The Hours Of Suspen=
se
Chapter XLVII - The Last Moment
Chapter XLVIII - Another Meeting I=
n The
Wood
Chapter XLIX - At The Hall Farm
Chapter LIII - The Harvest Supper<=
/span>
Chapter LIV - The Meeting On The H=
ill
With a single drop of ink for a
mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer
far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you,
reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roo=
my
workshop of Mr Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of
Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord
1799.
The afternoon sun was warm on the =
five
workmen there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of
pine-wood from a tentlike pile of planks outside the open door mingled itse=
lf
with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow c=
lose
to the open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through the
transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine
grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap =
of
those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog had made himself a pleasant =
bed,
and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling h=
is
brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a
shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that t=
he
strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer
singing -
Awake, my soul, and with the sun T=
hy
daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth...
Here some measurement was to be ta=
ken
which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided
into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour - =
Let all thy converse be sincere, T=
hy
conscience as the noonday clear.
Such a voice could only come from a
broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large-boned, muscular man ne=
arly
six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he d=
rew
himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a
soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm
that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the long supple
hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his t=
all
stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name; but the jet-bla=
ck
hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and
the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked,
prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face
was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than suc=
h as
belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelligence.
It is clear at a glance that the n=
ext
workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of
features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the fami=
ly
likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of
expression both in form and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoo=
p;
his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than h=
is
brother's; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. =
He
has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and
straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact
contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow.
The idle tramps always felt sure t=
hey
could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.
The concert of the tools and Adam's
voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been
working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, ‘There! I've
finished my door to-day, anyhow.’
The workmen all looked up; Jim Sal=
t, a
burly, red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam
said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise, ‘What! Dost think thee=
'st
finished the door?’
‘Aye, sure,’ said Seth,
with answering surprise; ‘what's awanting to't?’
A loud roar of laughter from the o=
ther
three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the
laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler
tone than before, ‘Why, thee'st forgot the panels.’
The laughter burst out afresh as S=
eth
clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown.
‘Hoorray!’ shouted a s=
mall
lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door. ‘=
We'll
hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an' write on't 'Seth Bede, the Meth=
ody,
his work.' Here, Jim, lend's hould o' th' red pot.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Adam.=
‘Let
it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some da=
y;
you'll laugh o' th' other side o' your mouth then.’
‘Catch me at it, Adam. It'll=
be
a good while afore my head's full o' th' Methodies,’ said Ben.
‘Nay, but it's often full o'
drink, and that's worse.’
Ben, however, had now got the R=
16;red
pot’ in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, mak=
ing,
by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air.
‘Let it alone, will you?R=
17;
Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his
right shoulder. ‘Let it alone, or I'll shake the soul out o' your bod=
y.’
Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, bu=
t,
like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left
hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as=
if
he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned=
him
round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against
the wall. But now Seth spoke.
‘Let be, Addy, let be. Ben w=
ill
be joking. Why, he's i' the right to laugh at me - I canna help laughing at
myself.’
‘I shan't loose him till he
promises to let the door alone,’ said Adam.
‘Come, Ben, lad,’ said
Seth, in a persuasive tone, ‘don't let's have a quarrel about it. You
know Adam will have his way. You may's well try to turn a waggon in a narrow
lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, and make an end on't.’
‘I binna frighted at Adam,=
8217;
said Ben, ‘but I donna mind sayin' as I'll let 't alone at your askin=
',
Seth.’
‘Come, that's wise of you, B=
en,’
said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp.
They all returned to their work no=
w;
but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on
retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm.
‘Which was ye thinkin' on, S=
eth,’
he began - ‘the pretty parson's face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot t=
he
panels?’
‘Come and hear her, Ben,R=
17;
said Seth, good-humouredly; ‘she's going to preach on the Green to-ni=
ght;
happen ye'd get something to think on yourself then, instead o' those wicked
songs you're so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that 'ud be the best da=
y's
earnings y' ever made.’
‘All i' good time for that,
Seth; I'll think about that when I'm a-goin' to settle i' life; bachelors
doesn't want such heavy earnin's. Happen I shall do the coortin' an' the
religion both together, as YE do, Seth; but ye wouldna ha' me get converted=
an'
chop in atween ye an' the pretty preacher, an' carry her aff?’
‘No fear o' that, Ben; she's
neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and=
you
won't speak lightly on her again.’
‘Well, I'm half a mind t' ha=
' a
look at her to-night, if there isn't good company at th' Holly Bush. What'll
she take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna =
come
up i' time for't. Will't be - what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Ye=
a, I
say unto you, and more than a prophetess - a uncommon pretty young woman.=
8217;
‘Come, Ben,’ said Adam,
rather sternly, ‘you let the words o' the Bible alone; you're going t=
oo
far now.’
‘What! Are YE a-turnin' roun=
',
Adam? I thought ye war dead again th' women preachin', a while agoo?’=
‘Nay, I'm not turnin' noway.=
I
said nought about the women preachin'. I said, You let the Bible alone: you=
've
got a jest-book, han't you, as you're rare and proud on? Keep your dirty
fingers to that.’
‘Why, y' are gettin' as big a
saint as Seth. Y' are goin' to th' preachin' to-night, I should think. Ye'l=
l do
finely t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at =
his
gran' favright Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody.’
‘Never do you bother yourself
about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are - tho=
ugh
it's like enough you'll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine's got more s=
ense
nor to meddle wi' people's doing as they like in religion. That's between
themselves and God, as he's said to me many a time.’
‘Aye, aye; but he's none so =
fond
o' your dissenters, for all that.’
‘Maybe; I'm none so fond o' =
Josh
Tod's thick ale, but I don't hinder you from making a fool o' yourself wi't=
.’
There was a laugh at this thrust of
Adam's, but Seth said, very seriously. ‘Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna s=
ay
as anybody's religion's like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the
dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o' the matter as well as the
church folks.’
‘Nay, Seth, lad; I'm not for
laughing at no man's religion. Let 'em follow their consciences, that's all.
Only I think it 'ud be better if their consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i'
the church - there's a deal to be learnt there. And there's such a thing as
being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel i' this world. Lo=
ok
at the canals, an' th' aqueduc's, an' th' coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's
mills there at Cromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them
things, I reckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man =
must
be doing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and looking what's agoing on
inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, and the Bib=
le's
God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as God put his sperrit
into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work
and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o' looking at it: ther=
e's
the sperrit o' God in all things and all times - weekday as well as Sunday =
- and
i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics. A=
nd
God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; a=
nd
if a man does bits o' jobs out o' working hours - builds a oven for 's wife=
to
save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and ma=
kes
two potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doin' more good, and he's just as nea=
r to
God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning.=
’
‘Well done, Adam!’ said
Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam w=
as
speaking; ‘that's the best sarmunt I've heared this long while. By th'
same token, my wife's been a-plaguin' on me to build her a oven this
twelvemont.’
‘There's reason in what thee
say'st, Adam,’ observed Seth, gravely. ‘But thee know'st thysel=
f as
it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so much fault with has turned many =
an
idle fellow into an industrious un. It's the preacher as empties th' alehou=
se;
and if a man gets religion, he'll do his work none the worse for that.̵=
7;
‘On'y he'll lave the panels =
out
o' th' doors sometimes, eh, Seth?’ said Wiry Ben.
‘Ah, Ben, you've got a joke
again' me as 'll last you your life. But it isna religion as was i' fault t=
here;
it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gathering chap, and religion hasna c=
ured
him, the more's the pity.’
‘Ne'er heed me, Seth,’
said Wiry Ben, ‘y' are a down-right good-hearted chap, panels or no
panels; an' ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o' fun, like some o'
your kin, as is mayhap cliverer.’
‘Seth, lad,’ said Adam,
taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, ‘thee mustna take me
unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some 's got one wa=
y o'
looking at things and some 's got another.’
‘Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean's=
t me
no unkindness,’ said Seth, ‘I know that well enough. Thee't like
thy dog Gyp - thee bark'st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick'st my hand
after.’
All hands worked on in silence for
some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first
stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his
jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver
into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence
throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in
the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was
putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his
work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, =
he
looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, ‘Look there, now! I ca=
n't
abide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the clock
begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work and was afraid =
o'
doing a stroke too much.’
Seth looked a little conscious, and
began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silenc=
e,
and said, ‘Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are
six-an'-forty like me, istid o' six-an'-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' wor=
kin'
for nought.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Adam,
still wrathful; ‘what's age got to do with it, I wonder? Ye arena get=
ting
stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms drop down as if he was shot,
before the clock's fairly struck, just as if he'd never a bit o' pride and
delight in 's work. The very grindstone 'ull go on turning a bit after you
loose it.’
‘Bodderation, Adam!’
exclaimed Wiry Ben; ‘lave a chap aloon, will 'ee? Ye war afinding fau=
t wi'
preachers a while agoo - y' are fond enough o' preachin' yoursen. Ye may li=
ke
work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; that'll 'commodate y=
e - it
laves ye th' more to do.’
With this exit speech, which he
considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop,
quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistf=
ully
at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.
‘Shalt go home before thee g=
o'st
to the preaching?’ Adam asked, looking up.
‘Nay; I've got my hat and th=
ings
at Will Maskery's. I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see D=
inah
Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from
Poyser's, thee know'st.’
‘Then I'll tell mother not to
look for thee,’ said Adam.
‘Thee artna going to Poyser's
thyself to-night?’ said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the
workshop.
‘Nay, I'm going to th' schoo=
l.’
Hitherto Gyp had kept his comforta=
ble
bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed =
the
other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket,
and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and look=
ed
up in his master's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he
would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his
emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more
phlegmatic than nature had made him.
‘What! Art ready for the bas=
ket,
eh, Gyp?’ said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when=
he
spoke to Seth.
Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, =
as
much as to say, ‘Of course.’ Poor fellow, he had not a great ra=
nge
of expression.
The basket was the one which on
workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner; and no official, walking in process=
ion,
could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with h=
is
basket, trotting at his master's heels.
On leaving the workshop Adam locked
the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of
the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls,
looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were
bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at=
ebb
tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen go=
wn,
a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appea=
red
to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes =
or
barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognize A=
dam
till he said, ‘Here's the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house,
will you?’
‘Aye, sure; but wunna ye come
in, Adam? Miss Mary's i' th' house, and Mester Burge 'ull be back anon; he'=
d be
glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm, I'll be's warrand.’
‘No, Dolly, thank you; I'm o=
ff
home. Good evening.’
Adam hastened with long strides, G=
yp
close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad leading away
from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slop=
e,
an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his
horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look =
at
the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted
stockings.
Adam, unconscious of the admiratio=
n he
was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the
tune which had all day long been running in his head:
Let all thy converse be sincere, T=
hy
conscience as the noonday clear; For God's all-seeing eye surveys Thy secre=
t thoughts,
thy works and ways.
About a quarter to seven there was=
an
unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the
whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchy=
ard
gate, the inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by somet=
hing
more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne
Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackya=
rd
which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached =
to
the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his hors=
e,
which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten =
sign
left him as to the heraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithorn=
es. Mr
Casson, the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his
hands in his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking
towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, whi=
ch
he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men and women whom he
had observed passing at intervals.
Mr Casson's person was by no means=
of
that common type which can be allowed to pass without description. On a fro=
nt
view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the s=
ame
relation to each other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower
sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the
upper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tribut=
ary.
But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr Casson's head was not at all a
melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a ‘spotty globe,’ as Mi=
lton
has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and face could l=
ook
more sleek and healthy, and its expression - which was chiefly confined to a
pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and interruptions forming t=
he
nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention - was one of jolly contentment, =
only
tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in
his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered
excessive in a man who had been butler to ‘the family’ for fift=
een
years, and who, in his present high position, was necessarily very much in
contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfact=
ion
of his curiosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr Casson
had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but when he had
partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and thrusting them
into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and
providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever might
fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the
horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have another look at our friend Adam,
and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne Arms.
‘Take off the bridle and give
him a drink, ostler,’ said the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock,=
who
had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse's hoofs.
‘Why, what's up in your pret=
ty
village, landlord?’ he continued, getting down. ‘There seems to=
be
quite a stir.’
‘It's a Methodis' preaching,
sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's a-going to preach on the Green,&=
#8217;
answered Mr Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing
accent. ‘Will you please to step in, sir, an' tek somethink?’
‘No, I must be getting on to
Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I
wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose?’
‘Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't
live here; he lives at Brox'on, over the hill there. The parsonage here's a
tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to pre=
ach
of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir,
an' he sets great store by't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver s=
ince
before I hed the Donnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by=
my
tongue, sir. They're cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir; the gentry's hard
work to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an' got t=
he
turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here
says for 'hevn't you?' - the gentry, you know, says, 'hevn't you' - well, t=
he
people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is sp=
oke
hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared Squire Donnithorne say many a time;
it's the dileck, says he.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said the
stranger, smiling. ‘I know it very well. But you've not got many
Methodists about here, surely - in this agricultural spot? I should have
thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be found about
here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists can seldom lay much ho=
ld
on THEM.’
‘Why, sir, there's a pretty =
lot
o' workmen round about, sir. There's Mester Burge as owns the timber-yard o=
ver
there, he underteks a good bit o' building an' repairs. An' there's the
stone-pits not far off. There's plenty of emply i' this countryside, sir. A=
n'
there's a fine batch o' Methodisses at Treddles'on - that's the market town
about three mile off - you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty
nigh a score of 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our
people gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope: th=
at's
Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the
carpenterin'.’
‘The preacher comes from
Treddleston, then, does she?’
‘Nay, sir, she comes out o'
Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she's a-visitin' hereabout at
Mester Poyser's at the Hall Farm - it's them barns an' big walnut-trees, ri=
ght
away to the left, sir. She's own niece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine
an' vexed at her for making a fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared =
as
there's no holding these Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their he=
ad:
many of 'em goes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young
woman's quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I've not seen her
myself.’
‘Well, I wish I had time to =
wait
and see her, but I must get on. I've been out of my way for the last twenty
minutes to have a look at that place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne=
's,
I suppose?’
‘Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne
Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't there, sir? I should know what it i=
s,
sir, for I've lived butler there a-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain
Donnithorne as is th' heir, sir - Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be
comin' of hage this 'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doin's. He owns=
all
the land about here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does.’
‘Well, it's a pretty spot,
whoever may own it,’ said the traveller, mounting his horse; ‘a=
nd
one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fell=
ow
as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill=
- a
carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes,
marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the Frenc=
h.’
‘Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede,
that is, I'll be bound - Thias Bede's son everybody knows him hereabout. He=
's
an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir=
- if
you'll hexcuse me for saying so - he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a
matter o' sixty ston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir: Capt=
ain
Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a little
lifted up an' peppery-like.’
‘Well, good evening to you,
landlord; I must get on.’
‘Your servant, sir; good
evenin'.’
The traveller put his horse into a
quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of =
the
view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the gro=
ups
of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet mo=
re,
curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety=
to
get to the end of his journey, and he paused.
The Green lay at the extremity of =
the
village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading
farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards
the valley. On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken
line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but =
on
the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of
gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill.
That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged lies
close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a
pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged,
tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours' ride the traveller might
exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, =
for
one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills,
muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn; and where at e=
very
turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crown=
ing the
slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden
ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and
thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that
Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the gentle s=
lope
leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station near the Green he=
had
before him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasa=
nt
land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of hill, like
giant mounds intended to fortify this region of corn and grass against the =
keen
and hungry winds of the north; not distant enough to be clothed in purple
mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose
motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to
day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves - le=
ft
for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of t=
he
April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And
directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods,
divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened
into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the warm
tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came =
the
valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried
together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the
better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint
blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and=
a
broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow
would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead=
a
foreground which was just as lovely - the level sunlight lying like transpa=
rent
gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red
sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It=
was
that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us c=
ast
more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows.
He might have seen other beauties =
in
the landscape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward,
beyond Jonathan Burge's pasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields =
and
walnut-trees of the Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for h=
im
in the living groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was the=
re,
from old ‘Feyther Taft’ in his brown worsted night-cap, who was
bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long whil=
e,
leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round heads
lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a new arrival;
perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to loo=
k at
the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what any one had=
to
say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question.=
But
all took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and identify themsel=
ves
in that way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of them that
would not have disclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the =
216;preacher
woman’ - they had only come out to see ‘what war a-goin' on, li=
ke.’
The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop.
But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: a whispe=
r is
unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an undertone as a =
cow
or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a
question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer, and
walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the dialogue culmina=
tes.
So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was by no means a clo=
se
one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself,=
who
stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and
occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a
marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the
pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form. B=
ut
both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr Joshua Rann. Mr
Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt t=
hat
he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin and stomach and =
the
twirling of his thumbs are more subtle indications, intended to prepare unw=
ary
strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of the parish cle=
rk. ‘Old
Joshway,’ as he is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a sta=
te
of simmering indignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say,=
in
a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, ‘Sehon,
King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the King of
Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever’ - a quotation which may seem =
to
have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anoma=
ly,
adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr Rann was inwar=
dly
maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irrupt=
ion
of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own sonorous uttera=
nce
of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psa=
lm
he had read the last Sunday afternoon.
The stronger curiosity of the women
had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more
closely the Quakerlike costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists.
Underneath the maple there was a small cart, which had been brought from the
wheelwright's to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and =
a few
chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with
their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to
continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a =
look
of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the
blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad's Bess, who
wondered ‘why the folks war amakin' faces a that'ns.’ Chad's Be=
ss
was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back
under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an orname=
nt
of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks - namely, a pair of la=
rge
round ear-rings with false garnets in them, ornaments condemned not only by=
the
Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with mu=
ch
cousinly feeling, often wished ‘them ear-rings’ might come to g=
ood.
Timothy's Bess, though retaining h=
er
maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim,
and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to
mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of
five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his nec=
k by
way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier. This y=
oung
olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess's Ben, being of an
inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond =
the
group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking =
up
in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the
milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bend=
ing
down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timoth=
y's
Bess's Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought
refuge behind his father's legs.
‘Ye gallows young dog,’
said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, ‘if ye donna keep that stick
quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What dy'e mane by kickin' foulks?’
‘Here! Gie him here to me, J=
im,’
said Chad Cranage; ‘I'll tie hirs up an' shoe him as I do th' hosses.
Well, Mester Casson,’ he continued, as that personage sauntered up
towards the group of men, ‘how are ye t' naight? Are ye coom t' help
groon? They say folks allays groon when they're hearkenin' to th' Methodys,=
as
if they war bad i' th' inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th'
other naight, an' then the praicher 'ull think I'm i' th' raight way.’=
;
‘I'd advise you not to be up=
to
no nonsense, Chad,’ said Mr Casson, with some dignity; ‘Poyser
wouldn't like to hear as his wife's niece was treated any ways disrespectfu=
l,
for all he mayn't be fond of her taking on herself to preach.’
‘Aye, an' she's a
pleasant-looked un too,’ said Wiry Ben. ‘I'll stick up for the
pretty women preachin'; I know they'd persuade me over a deal sooner nor th'
ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the night's out, an' be=
gin
to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede.’
‘Why, Seth's looking rether =
too
high, I should think,’ said Mr Casson. ‘This woman's kin wouldn=
't
like her to demean herself to a common carpenter.’
‘Tchu!’ said Ben, with=
a
long treble intonation, ‘what's folks's kin got to do wi't? Not a chi=
p.
Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget bygones, but this Dinah Morri=
s,
they tell me, 's as poor as iver she was - works at a mill, an's much ado to
keep hersen. A strappin' young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like S=
eth,
wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Be=
de
as if he war a nevvy o' their own.’
‘Idle talk! idle talk!’
said Mr Joshua Rann. ‘Adam an' Seth's two men; you wunna fit them two=
wi'
the same last.’
‘Maybe,’ said Wiry Ben,
contemptuously, ‘but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody t=
wice
o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've been teasin' him iver sin' we've been
workin' together, an' he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a
stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all afire a-comin'
across the fields one night, an' we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no
more ado, but he up to't as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o'
Will Maskery's; an' there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna
knock a nail o' the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preac=
her
woman! My eye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer.’
Several of the men followed Ben's
lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked
rather quickly and in advance of her companions towards the cart under the
maple-tree. While she was near Seth's tall figure, she looked short, but wh=
en
she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above
the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it - an ef=
fect
which was due to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black
stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach a=
nd
mount the cart - surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her
appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in her demeanour.=
He
had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step and a demure
solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled w=
ith
the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bittern=
ess.
He knew but two types of Methodist - the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah
walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious =
of
her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousnes=
s,
which said, ‘I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach&=
#8217;;
no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitu=
de
of the arms that said, ‘But you must think of me as a saint.’ S=
he
held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed
before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was =
no
keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making
observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of
what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She sto=
od
with her left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy boughs screened her
from its rays; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face
seemed to gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small =
oval
face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and
chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular br=
ow,
surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish
hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except=
for
an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the sa=
me
colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled; the eye=
lashes,
though no darker, were long and abundant - nothing was left blurred or
unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers =
with
light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beau=
ty,
beyond that of expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely lov=
ing,
that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their
glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in
order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranage lifted up h=
is
leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had
the pluck to think of courting her.
‘A sweet woman,’ the
stranger said to himself, ‘but surely nature never meant her for a
preacher.’
Perhaps he was one of those who th=
ink
that nature has theatrical properties and, with the considerate view of
facilitating art and psychology, ‘makes up,’ her characters, so
that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to speak.
‘Dear friends,’ she sa=
id
in a clear but not loud voice ‘let us pray for a blessing.’
She closed her eyes, and hanging h=
er
head down a little continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to s=
ome
one quite near her: ‘Saviour of sinners! When a poor woman laden with
sins, went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the wel=
l.
She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was
unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show =
her
that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that
blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us, and
Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor woman - if their
minds are dark, their lives unholy - if they have come out not seeking Thee,
not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to the free mercy which
Thou didst show to her Speak to them, Lord, open their ears to my message,
bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation wh=
ich
Thou art ready to give.
‘Lord, Thou art with Thy peo=
ple
still: they see Thee in the night-watches, and their hearts burn within the=
m as
Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not
known Thee: open their eyes that they may see Thee - see Thee weeping over
them, and saying 'Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life' - see T=
hee
hanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not w=
hat
they do' - see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to judge them at t=
he
last. Amen.’
Dinah opened her eyes again and
paused, looking at the group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more
closely on her right hand.
‘Dear friends,’ she be=
gan,
raising her voice a little, ‘you have all of you been to church, and I
think you must have heard the clergyman read these words: 'The Spirit of the
Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the po=
or.'
Jesus Christ spoke those words - he said he came TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE
POOR. I don't know whether you ever thought about those words much, but I w=
ill
tell you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of
evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up too=
k me
to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I remember his
face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white hair; his voice w=
as
very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a
little girl and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed to me such a
different sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen before that I thought =
he
had perhaps come down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, 'Aunt, will=
he
go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the Bible?'
‘That man of God was Mr Wesl=
ey,
who spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord did - preaching the Gospe=
l to
the poor - and he entered into his rest eight years ago. I came to know more
about him years after, but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I
remembered only one thing he told us in his sermon. He told us as 'Gospel'
meant 'good news.' The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about G=
od.
‘Think of that now! Jesus Ch=
rist
did really come down from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr Wesl=
ey
did; and what he came down for was to tell good news about God to the poor.
Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor
cottages and have been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven't
been to school much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything =
but
what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear
good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about hearing =
news
from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble and has hard wo=
rk
to make out a living, they like to have a letter to tell 'em they've got a
friend as will help 'em. To be sure, we can't help knowing something about =
God,
even if we've never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought
us. For we know everything comes from God: don't you say almost every day,
'This and that will happen, please God,' and 'We shall begin to cut the gra=
ss
soon, please God to send us a little more sunshine'? We know very well we a=
re
altogether in the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves into the world, we
can't keep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind,
and the corn, and the cows to give us milk - everything we have comes from =
God.
And he gave us our souls and put love between parents and children, and hus=
band
and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God? We see he is gr=
eat
and mighty, and can do what he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling in
great waters, when we try to think of him.
‘But perhaps doubts come into
your mind like this: Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he
only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost
him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but =
how
do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in
the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us =
when
we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helples=
s?
Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight come, and the b=
ad
harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is
full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is=
it?
How is it?
‘Ah, dear friends, we are in=
sad
want of good news about God; and what does other good news signify if we
haven't that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave=
it
all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is =
not
our friend?’
Then Dinah told how the good news =
had
been brought, and how the mind of God towards the poor had been made manife=
st
in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy.
‘So you see, dear friends,=
8217;
she went on, ‘Jesus spent his time almost all in doing good to poor
people; he preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workm=
en,
and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did good to the r=
ich
too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor were more =
in
want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he
worked miracles to feed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them;=
and
he was very kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost th=
eir
friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for the=
ir
sins.
‘Ah, wouldn't you love such a
man if you saw him - if he were here in this village? What a kind heart he =
must
have! What a friend he would be to go to in trouble! How pleasant it must b=
e to
be taught by him.
‘Well, dear friends, who WAS
this man? Was he only a good man - a very good man, and no more - like our =
dear
Mr Wesley, who has been taken from us?...He was the Son of God - 'in the im=
age
of the Father,' the Bible says; that means, just like God, who is the begin=
ning
and end of all things - the God we want to know about. So then, all the love
that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can
understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and spoke w=
ords
such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before=
- the
God who made the world and the sky and the thunder and lightning. We could
never see him; we could only see the things he had made; and some of these
things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of hi=
m.
But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way us poor ignorant
people can understand; he has showed us what God's heart is, what are his
feelings towards us.
‘But let us see a little more
about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, 'I came to seek a=
nd
to save that which was lost'; and another time, 'I came not to call the
righteous but sinners to repentance.'
‘The LOST!...SINNERS!...Ah, =
dear
friends, does that mean you and me?’
Hitherto the traveller had been ch=
ained
to the spot against his will by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, w=
hich
had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the
unconscious skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed li=
ke
novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by
the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with wh=
ich
she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw
that she had thoroughly arrested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nea=
rer
to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. =
She
spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or bef=
ore
any transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; the
effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice,=
and
when she came to the question, ‘Will God take care of us when we die?=
’
she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that the tears came into =
some
of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the
first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but
still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more
violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a
Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, ‘Lost! - Sinners!=
217;
when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long
pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating
thoughts that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler;
the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gather wit=
hout
falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if
she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the
people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there was still no gesture.
Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of the Ranter than Dinah. She =
was
not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own
emotions and under the inspiration of her own simple faith.
But now she had entered into a new
current of feeling. Her manner became less calm, her utterance more rapid a=
nd
agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt their wilful
darkness, their state of disobedience to God - as she dwelt on the hatefuln=
ess
of sin, the Divine holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a =
way
had been opened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearni=
ng desire
to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hea=
rers
as a body. She appealed first to one and then to another, beseeching them w=
ith
tears to turn to God while there was yet time; painting to them the desolat=
ion
of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, =
far
away from God their Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiti=
ng
and watching for their return.
There was many a responsive sigh a=
nd
groan from her fellow-Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take
fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety that might easily die out again
was the utmost effect Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet=
no
one had retired, except the children and ‘old Feyther Taft,’ wh=
o being
too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook.
Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come=
to
hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn=
't
help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment
that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in particular. She had
already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wi=
fe,
and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with=
a
confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly Bush d=
own
by the Stone-pits, and cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday.
In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's
Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since
Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested=
her
at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and
satisfaction there could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like
Dinah's. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's no=
se,
eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a s=
ort
of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like her own. =
But
gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon her, and she became
conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persuasion,
did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came she began to be
frightened. Poor Bessy had always been considered a naughty girl; she was
conscious of it; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must=
be
in a bad way. She couldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, s=
he
had often been tittering when she ‘curcheyed’ to Mr Irwine; and=
these
religious deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the
minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class=
of
feminine characters with whom you may venture to ‘eat an egg, an appl=
e,
or a nut.’ All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had =
not
been greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if the
constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice for some
undefined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom she had always
thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that Jesus was close =
by
looking at her, though she could not see him. For Dinah had that belief in
visible manifestations of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and =
she
communicated it irresistibly to her hearers: she made them feel that he was
among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way
that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts.
‘See!’ she exclaimed,
turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above the heads of the
people. ‘See where our blessed Lord stands and weeps and stretches out
his arms towards you. Hear what he says: 'How often would I have gathered y=
ou
as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!'...and ye
would not,’ she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her
eyes on the people again. ‘See the print of the nails on his dear han=
ds
and feet. It is your sins that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He
has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was
exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like
blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him,
they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then t=
hey
nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and they mo=
ck
him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips he prays for the=
m,
'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' Then a horror of gr=
eat
darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel when they are for ever
shut out from God. That was the last drop in the cup of bitterness. 'My God=
, my
God!' he cries, 'why hast Thou forsaken me?'
‘All this he bore for you! F=
or
you - and you never think of him; for you - and you turn your backs on him;=
you
don't care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling=
for
you: he has risen from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of=
God
- 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon th=
is
earth too; he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his wounded =
body
and his look of love.’
Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage,
whose bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity.
‘Poor child! Poor child! He =
is
beseeching you, and you don't listen to him. You think of ear-rings and fine
gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save your
precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, your hair will be gr=
ey,
your poor body will be thin and tottering! Then you will begin to feel that
your soul is not saved; then you will have to stand before God dressed in y=
our
sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to
help you now, won't help you then; because you won't have him to be your
Saviour, he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy and
says, 'Come to me that you may have life'; then he will turn away from you,=
and
say, 'Depart from me into ever-lasting fire!'‘
Poor Bessy's wide-open black eyes
began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, =
and
her face was distorted like a little child's before a burst of crying.
‘Ah, poor blind child!’
Dinah went on, ‘think if it should happen to you as it once happened =
to a
servant of God in the days of her vanity. SHE thought of her lace caps and
saved all her money to buy 'em; she thought nothing about how she might get=
a
clean heart and a right spirit - she only wanted to have better lace than o=
ther
girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she=
saw
a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now’=
- here
Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy - ‘Ah, tear off those
follies! Cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They
Bessy could bear it no longer: a g=
reat
terror was upon her, and wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw t=
hem
down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should=
be ‘laid
hold on’ too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as
nothing less than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to work at his a=
nvil
by way of reassuring himself. ‘Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' or=
no
praichin': the divil canna lay hould o' me for that,’ he muttered to
himself.
But now Dinah began to tell of the
joys that were in store for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way=
the
divine peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled - how t=
he
sense of God's love turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so tha=
t no
uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it: how, at last, the very temptatio=
n to
sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes
between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun.
‘Dear friends,’ she sa=
id
at last, ‘brothers and sisters, whom I love as those for whom my Lord=
has
died, believe me, I know what this great blessedness is; and because I know=
it,
I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you: I have to get my living wit=
h my
hands; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the =
love
of God in their souls. Think what it is - not to hate anything but sin; to =
be
full of love to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that
all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's
will; to know that nothing - no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the
waters come and drown us - nothing could part us from God who loves us, and=
who
fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that whatever he wi=
lls
is holy, just, and good.
‘Dear friends, come and take
this blessedness; it is offered to you; it is the good news that Jesus came=
to
preach to the poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that the mo=
re
one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end; his love is without
end - ‘
Its streams the whole creation rea=
ch,
So plenteous is the store; Enough for all, enough for each, Enough for
evermore.
Dinah had been speaking at least an
hour, and the reddening light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn
emphasis to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested in the
course of her sermon as if it had been the development of a drama - for the=
re
is this sort of fascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which
opens to one the inward drama of the speaker's emotions - now turned his ho=
rse
aside and pursued his way, while Dinah said, ‘Let us sing a little, d=
ear
friends’; and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of t=
he
Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of exul=
tation
and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn.
IN less than an hour from that tim=
e,
Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerow-path that skirted =
the
pastures and green corn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall F=
arm.
Dinah had taken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in h=
er
hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, a=
nd
Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her
side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expres=
sion
of unconscious placid gravity - of absorption in thoughts that had no
connection with the present moment or with her own personality - an express=
ion
that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging=
: it
had that quiet elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he
said to himself, ‘She's too good and holy for any man, let alone me,&=
#8217;
and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reach=
ed
his lips. But another thought gave him courage: ‘There's no man could
love her better and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work.’ They =
had
been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy C=
ranage;
Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace was
becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a few minutes' =
walk
from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak.
‘You've quite made up your m=
ind
to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah?’
‘Yes,’ said Dinah,
quietly. ‘I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was
meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need=
of
me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting up h=
er
poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I opened the Bible
for direction, the first words my eyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen=
the
vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for =
that
clear showing of the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yea=
rns
over my aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel.
I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a t=
oken
that there may be mercy in store for her.’
‘God grant it,’ said S=
eth.
‘For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybo=
dy
else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna thi=
nk
as she'd make him happy. It's a deep mystery - the way the heart of man tur=
ns
to one woman out of all the rest he's seen i' the world, and makes it easier
for him to work seven year for HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than =
have
any other woman for th' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob ser=
ved
seven years for Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love =
he
had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd
give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you thin=
k a
husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St. Paul says, =
'She
that's married careth for the things of the world how she may please her
husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you about it
again, after what you told me o' your mind last Saturday. But I've been
thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've prayed not to be blind=
ed
by my own desires, to think what's only good for me must be good for you to=
o.
And it seems to me there's more texts for your marrying than ever you can f=
ind
against it. For St. Paul says as plain as can be in another place, 'I will =
that
the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion=
to
the adversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one'; =
and
that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we should b=
e o'
one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are
striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim=
on
you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd
make a shift, and fend indoor and out, to give you more liberty - more than=
you
can have now, for you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong eno=
ugh
to work for us both.’
When Seth had once begun to urge h=
is
suit, he went on earnestly and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak so=
me
decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments he had prepared.=
His
cheeks became flushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, a=
nd
his voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of t=
hose
very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the office of a
stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in
her tender but calm treble notes, ‘Seth Bede, I thank you for your lo=
ve
towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a Christian brothe=
r, I
think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for
other women, and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother;=
but
'as God has distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so=
let
him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or
sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep wi=
th
those that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly own=
ed
my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the
brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of this
world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might count them, and
there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has been given me to
help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there and to call in many
wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising up till my
lying down. My life is too short, and God's work is too great for me to thi=
nk
of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf ear to yo=
ur
words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it migh=
t be
a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should=
be
fellow-helpers; and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tri=
ed
to fix my mind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always =
came
in - the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours =
I've
had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given t=
o me
abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for direction, I've always light=
ed
on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you say, Se=
th,
that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work; but I see t=
hat
our marriage is not God's will - He draws my heart another way. I desire to
live and die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul=
for
wants and fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with=
the
wants and sufferings of his poor people.’
Seth was unable to reply, and they
walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yard-gate, he sai=
d, ‘Well,
Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who=
is
invisible. But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are
gone, I could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing
the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without your
marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield and be near you. I trusted =
as
the strong love God has given me towards you was a leading for us both; but=
it
seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ou=
ght
to feel for any creature, for I often can't help saying of you what the hymn
says -
In darkest shades if she appear, My
dawning is begun; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising s=
un.
That may be wrong, and I am to be
taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things turned out =
so
as I could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield?’
‘No, Seth; but I counsel you=
to
wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do
nothing without the Lord's clear bidding. It's a bleak and barren country
there, not like this land of Goshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a
hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be guided.’
‘But you'd let me write you a
letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to tell you?’
‘Yes, sure; let me know if
you're in any trouble. You'll be continually in my prayers.’
They had now reached the yard-gate,
and Seth said, ‘I won't go in, Dinah, so farewell.’ He paused a=
nd
hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then said, ‘There's no
knowing but what you may see things different after a while. There may be a=
new
leading.’
‘Let us leave that, Seth. It=
's
good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr Wesley's bo=
oks.
It isn't for you and me to lay plans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to
trust. Farewell.’
Dinah pressed his hand with rather=
a
sad look in her loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth
turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road=
, he
chose to turn back along the fields through which he and Dinah had already
passed; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long
before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face
steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned =
what
it is to love - to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a wo=
man
whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is
hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is=
so,
whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words,=
our
still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or
calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the
consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean=
of
love and beauty; our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression i=
nto
silence, our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses
itself in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating =
love
has been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began for us to
feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist
carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow fr=
om
the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the
Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine mess=
age
to the poor.
That afterglow has long faded away;
and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an
amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, w=
here
a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a
rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their
imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suffused
their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as
summer to the houseless needy. It is too possible that to some of my readers
Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, s=
leek
grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon - elements which are
regarded as an exhaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarter=
s.
That would be a pity; for I cannot
pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Methodists - not indeed=
of
that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with
pillared porticoes, but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in pres=
ent
miracles, in instantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and vision=
s;
they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at haza=
rd;
having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all
sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossible for me to represe=
nt
their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still - if I have
read religious history aright - faith, hope, and charity have not always be=
en
found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords, and it is
possible - thank Heaven! - to have very erroneous theories and very sublime
feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store
that she may carry it to her neighbour's child to ‘stop the fits,R=
17;
may be a piteously inefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of
neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that=
is
not lost.
Considering these things, we can
hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to
weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and=
of
heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions.=
Poor Seth! He was never on horseba=
ck
in his life except once, when he was a little lad, and Mr Jonathan Burge to=
ok
him up behind, telling him to ‘hold on tight’; and instead of
bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is
resolving, as he now walks homewards under the solemn starlight, to repress=
his
sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for other=
s,
as Dinah does.
A GREEN valley with a brook running
through it, full almost to overflowing with the late rains, overhung by low
stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank =
Adam
Bede is passing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the
basket; evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of tim=
ber
by the side of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope.
The door of the house is open, and=
an
elderly woman is looking out; but she is not placidly contemplating the eve=
ning
sunshine; she has been watching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck
which for the last few minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son A=
dam.
Lisbeth Bede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born =
has
come late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman, clean =
as a
snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly back under a pure linen cap with a
black band round it; her broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and
below this you see a sort of short bedgown made of blue-checkered linen, ti=
ed
round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence there is a consider=
able
length of linsey-woolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points
too there is a strong likeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes =
are
somewhat dim now - perhaps from too much crying - but her broadly marked
eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting
rapidly and unconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly
upright an attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from
the spring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of
temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his
well-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence.
Family likeness has often a deep
sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bo=
ne
and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning
and repulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at
every movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering t=
he
thoughts we despise; we see eyes - ah, so like our mother's! - averted from=
us
in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us with the air and
gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The fat=
her
to whom we owe our best heritage - the mechanical instinct, the keen
sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling hand - galls=
us
and puts us to shame by his daily errors; the long-lost mother, whose face =
we
begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles come, once fretted our young
souls with her anxious humours and irrational persistence.
It is such a fond anxious mother's
voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says, ‘Well, my lad, it's gone seven =
by
th' clock. Thee't allays stay till the last child's born. Thee wants thy
supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth? Gone arter some o's chapellin', I recko=
n?’
‘Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm,
mother, thee mayst be sure. But where's father?’ said Adam quickly, a=
s he
entered the house and glanced into the room on the left hand, which was use=
d as
a workshop. ‘Hasn't he done the coffin for Tholer? There's the stuff
standing just as I left it this morning.’
‘Done the coffin?’ said
Lisbeth, following him, and knitting uninterruptedly, though she looked at =
her
son very anxiously. ‘Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles'on this
forenoon, an's niver come back. I doubt he's got to th' 'Waggin Overthrow'
again.’
A deep flush of anger passed rapid=
ly
over Adam's face. He said nothing, but threw off his jacket and began to ro=
ll
up his shirt-sleeves again.
‘What art goin' to do, Adam?=
’
said the mother, with a tone and look of alarm. ‘Thee wouldstna go to
work again, wi'out ha'in thy bit o' supper?’
Adam, too angry to speak, walked i=
nto
the workshop. But his mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after h=
im,
took hold of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, ‘=
;Nay,
my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi'out thy supper; there's the taters wi' the
gravy in 'em, just as thee lik'st 'em. I saved 'em o' purpose for thee. Come
an' ha' thy supper, come.’
‘Let be!’ said Adam
impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one of the planks that stood again=
st
the wall. ‘It's fine talking about having supper when here's a coffin
promised to be ready at Brox'on by seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and oug=
ht
to ha' been there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat's too full to
swallow victuals.’
‘Why, thee canstna get the
coffin ready,’ said Lisbeth. ‘Thee't work thyself to death. It =
'ud
take thee all night to do't.’
‘What signifies how long it
takes me? Isn't the coffin promised? Can they bury the man without a coffin?
I'd work my right hand off sooner than deceive people with lies i' that way=
. It
makes me mad to think on't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've
stood enough of 'em.’
Poor Lisbeth did not hear this thr=
eat
for the first time, and if she had been wise she would have gone away quiet=
ly
and said nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a woman most rar=
ely
learns is never to talk to an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on t=
he
chopping bench and began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to ma=
ke
her voice very piteous, she burst out into words.
‘Nay, my lad, my lad, thee
wouldstna go away an' break thy mother's heart, an' leave thy feyther to ru=
in.
Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me to th' churchyard, an' thee not to follow m=
e. I
shanna rest i' my grave if I donna see thee at th' last; an' how's they to =
let
thee know as I'm a-dyin', if thee't gone a-workin' i' distant parts, an' Se=
th
belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for's hand
shakin', besides not knowin' where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther - =
thee
munna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took =
to
th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade, remember, an's
niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word - no, not even in 's drink. =
Thee
wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus - thy own feyther - an' him as was a
fine-growed man an' handy at everythin' amost as thee art thysen,
five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a baby at the breast.’
Lisbeth's voice became louder, and
choked with sobs - a sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where =
real
sorrows are to be borne and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently=
.
‘Now, Mother, don't cry and =
talk
so. Haven't I got enough to vex me without that? What's th' use o' telling =
me
things as I only think too much on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why
should I do as I do, for the sake o' keeping things together here? But I ha=
te
to be talking where it's no use: I like to keep my breath for doing i'stead=
o'
talking.’
‘I know thee dost things as
nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But thee't allays so hard upo' thy feyther, Ada=
m.
Thee think'st nothing too much to do for Seth: thee snapp'st me up if iver I
find faut wi' th' lad. But thee't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi'
anybody else.’
‘That's better than speaking
soft and letting things go the wrong way, I reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't s=
harp
with him he'd sell every bit o' stuff i' th' yard and spend it on drink. I =
know
there's a duty to be done by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage h=
im
in running headlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it? The lad d=
oes
no harm as I know of. But leave me alone, Mother, and let me get on with the
work.’
Lisbeth dared not say any more; but
she got up and called Gyp, thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam's
refusal of the supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of looki=
ng
at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But Gyp
was watching his master with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this
unusual course of things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called =
him,
and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him to
supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on his haunc=
hes,
again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp's mental
conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender than usual to his
mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as usual for his dog. We=
are
apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us than to the women that love us.=
Is
it because the brutes are dumb?
‘Go, Gyp; go, lad!’ Ad=
am
said, in a tone of encouraging command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that =
duty
and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place.
But no sooner had he licked up his
supper than he went back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry
over her knitting. Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the m=
ost
querulous; and if Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure t=
hat
when he compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy
day, he had not a vixen in his eye - a fury with long nails, acrid and self=
ish.
Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happine=
ss
of the loved ones whom she contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all
the tid-bits for them and spending nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisb=
eth,
for example - at once patient and complaining, self-renouncing and exacting,
brooding the livelong day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to
happen to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. Bu=
t a
certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he sa=
id, ‘Leave
me alone,’ she was always silenced.
So the hours passed, to the loud
ticking of the old day-clock and the sound of Adam's tools. At last he call=
ed
for a light and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on
holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, ‘Thy supper
stan's ready for thee, when thee lik'st.’
‘Donna thee sit up, mother,&=
#8217;
said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked off his anger now, and whenever =
he
wished to be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest nati=
ve
accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech was less deeply
tinged. ‘I'll see to Father when he comes home; maybe he wonna come at
all to-night. I shall be easier if thee't i' bed.’
‘Nay, I'll bide till Seth co=
mes.
He wonna be long now, I reckon.’
It was then past nine by the clock,
which was always in advance of the days, and before it had struck ten the l=
atch
was lifted and Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was
approaching.
‘Why, Mother,’ he said=
, ‘how
is it as Father's working so late?’
‘It's none o' thy feyther as=
is
a-workin' - thee might know that well anoof if thy head warna full o'
chapellin' - it's thy brother as does iverything, for there's niver nobody =
else
i' th' way to do nothin'.’
Lisbeth was going on, for she was =
not
at all afraid of Seth, and usually poured into his ears all the querulousne=
ss
which was repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a
harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness o=
n the
gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and sa=
id, ‘Addy,
how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?’
‘Aye, lad, th' old tale; but=
I
shall get it done,’ said Adam, looking up and casting one of his brig=
ht
keen glances at his brother. ‘Why, what's the matter with thee? Thee'=
t in
trouble.’
Seth's eyes were red, and there wa=
s a
look of deep depression on his mild face.
‘Yes, Addy, but it's what mu=
st
be borne, and can't be helped. Why, thee'st never been to the school, then?=
’
‘School? No, that screw can
wait,’ said Adam, hammering away again.
‘Let me take my turn now, an=
d do
thee go to bed,’ said Seth.
‘No, lad, I'd rather go on, =
now
I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carry it to Brox'on when it's done. I'll =
call
thee up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't
hear Mother's talk.’
Seth knew that Adam always meant w=
hat
he said, and was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turn=
ed,
with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place.
‘Adam's niver touched a bit =
o'
victual sin' home he's come,’ said Lisbeth. ‘I reckon thee'st h=
ed
thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks.’
‘Nay, Mother,’ said Se=
th, ‘I've
had no supper yet.’
‘Come, then,’ said Lisbeth, ‘but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam 'ull happen ate 'em= if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' taters an' gravy. But he's been so = sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, for all I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for = him. An' he's been a-threatenin' to go away again,’ she went on, whimperin= g, ‘an' I'm fast sure he'll go some dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll niver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd bet= ter niver ha' had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th' handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright like a poplar-tree, an' me to be parted from him an' niver see 'm no more.’<= o:p>
‘Come, Mother, donna grieve
thyself in vain,’ said Seth, in a soothing voice. ‘Thee'st not =
half
so good reason to think as Adam 'ull go away as to think he'll stay with th=
ee.
He may say such a thing when he's in wrath - and he's got excuse for being
wrathful sometimes - but his heart 'ud never let him go. Think how he's sto=
od
by us all when it's been none so easy - paying his savings to free me from
going for a soldier, an' turnin' his earnin's into wood for father, when he=
's
got plenty o' uses for his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been
married and settled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his o=
wn
work, and forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by.R=
17;
‘Donna talk to me about's
marr'in',’ said Lisbeth, crying afresh. ‘He's set's heart on th=
at
Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull niver save a penny, an' 'ull toss up her head at's old
mother. An' to think as he might ha' Mary Burge, an' be took partners, an' =
be a
big man wi' workmen under him, like Mester Burge - Dolly's told me so o'er =
and
o'er again - if it warna as he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is =
o'
no more use nor the gillyflower on the wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an'
figurin', an' not to know no better nor that!’
‘But, Mother, thee know'st we
canna love just where other folks 'ud have us. There's nobody but God can
control the heart of man. I could ha' wished myself as Adam could ha' made =
another
choice, but I wouldn't reproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure
but what he tries to o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be
spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.=
217;
‘Aye, thee't allays ready en=
ough
at prayin', but I donna see as thee gets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna g=
et
double earnin's o' this side Yule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half t=
he
man thy brother is, for all they're a-makin' a preacher on thee.’
‘It's partly truth thee spea=
k'st
there, Mother,’ said Seth, mildly; ‘Adam's far before me, an's =
done
more for me than I can ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man
according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna
bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy - a power to keep from =
sin
and be content with God's will, whatever He may please to send. If thee wou=
ldst
pray to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so
uneasy about things.’
‘Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on=
't
to be unaisy. It's well seen on THEE what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee't =
gi'
away all thy earnin's, an' niver be unaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again=
' a
rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to=
pay
for thee. Take no thought for the morrow - take no thought - that's what th=
ee't
allays sayin'; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for th=
ee.’
‘Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother,’ said Seth. ‘They don't mean as we should be idl= e. They mean we shouldn't be overanxious and worreting ourselves about what'll happen to-morrow, but do our duty and leave the rest to God's will.’<= o:p>
‘Aye, aye, that's the way wi'
thee: thee allays makes a peck o' thy own words out o' a pint o' the Bible'=
s. I
donna see how thee't to know as 'take no thought for the morrow' means all
that. An' when the Bible's such a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't,=
an'
ha' the pick o' the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words =
as
donna mean so much more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can
understan' the tex as he's allays a-sayin', 'God helps them as helps
theirsens.'‘
‘Nay, Mother,’ said Se=
th, ‘that's
no text o' the Bible. It comes out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall=
at
Treddles'on. It was wrote by a knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. Howev=
er,
that saying's partly true; for the Bible tells us we must be workers togeth=
er
with God.’
‘Well, how'm I to know? It
sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi' th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a=
bit
o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no more nor that bit o' oat-cake? An' thee lo=
okst
as white as a flick o' new bacon. What's th' matter wi' thee?’
‘Nothing to mind about, Moth=
er;
I'm not hungry. I'll just look in at Adam again, and see if he'll let me go=
on
with the coffin.’
‘Ha' a drop o' warm broth?=
8217;
said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got the better of her ‘natte=
ring’
habit. ‘I'll set two-three sticks a-light in a minute.’
‘Nay, Mother, thank thee; th=
ee't
very good,’ said Seth, gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of
tenderness, he went on: ‘Let me pray a bit with thee for Father, and
Adam, and all of us - it'll comfort thee, happen, more than thee thinkst.=
8217;
‘Well, I've nothin' to say
again' it.’
Lisbeth, though disposed always to
take the negative side in her conversations with Seth, had a vague sense th=
at
there was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that it som=
ehow
relieved her from the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her own beha=
lf.
So the mother and son knelt down
together, and Seth prayed for the poor wandering father and for those who w=
ere
sorrowing for him at home. And when he came to the petition that Adam might
never be called to set up his tent in a far country, but that his mother mi=
ght
be cheered and comforted by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage,
Lisbeth's ready tears flowed again, and she wept aloud.
When they rose from their knees, S=
eth
went to Adam again and said, ‘Wilt only lie down for an hour or two, =
and
let me go on the while?’
‘No, Seth, no. Make Mother g=
o to
bed, and go thyself.’
Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eye=
s,
and now followed Seth, holding something in her hands. It was the
brown-and-yellow platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy in th=
em
and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among them. Those were dear ti=
mes,
when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies to working people. She set
the dish down rather timidly on the bench by Adam's side and said, ‘T=
hee
canst pick a bit while thee't workin'. I'll bring thee another drop o' wate=
r.’
‘Aye, Mother, do,’ said
Adam, kindly; ‘I'm getting very thirsty.’
In half an hour all was quiet; no
sound was to be heard in the house but the loud ticking of the old day-clock
and the ringing of Adam's tools. The night was very still: when Adam opened=
the
door to look out at twelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the
glowing, twinkling stars; every blade of grass was asleep.
Bodily haste and exertion usually
leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination; =
and
it was so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his m=
ind
seemed as passive as a spectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad past, and
probably sad future, floating before him and giving place one to the other =
in
swift succession.
He saw how it would be to-morrow
morning, when he had carried the coffin to Broxton and was at home again,
having his breakfast: his father perhaps would come in ashamed to meet his
son's glance - would sit down, looking older and more tottering than he had
done the morning before, and hang down his head, examining the floor-quarri=
es;
while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready, =
that
he had slinked off and left undone - for Lisbeth was always the first to ut=
ter
the word of reproach, although she cried at Adam's severity towards his fat=
her.
‘So it will go on, worsening=
and
worsening,’ thought Adam; ‘there's no slipping uphill again, an=
d no
standing still when once you 've begun to slip down.’ And then the day
came back to him when he was a little fellow and used to run by his father's
side, proud to be taken out to work, and prouder still to hear his father
boasting to his fellow-workmen how ‘the little chap had an uncommon
notion o' carpentering.’ What a fine active fellow his father was the=
n! When
people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinction as=
he
answered, ‘I'm Thias Bede's lad.’ He was quite sure everybody k=
new
Thias Bede - didn't he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxton parsonage?
Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the younge=
r,
began to go out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a
learner. But then came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway on in his
teens, and Thias began to loiter at the public-houses, and Lisbeth began to=
cry
at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam
remembered well the night of shame and anguish when he first saw his father
quite wild and foolish, shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken
companions at the ‘Waggon Overthrown.’ He had run away once whe=
n he
was only eighteen, making his escape in the morning twilight with a little =
blue
bundle over his shoulder, and his ‘mensuration book’ in his poc=
ket,
and saying to himself very decidedly that he could bear the vexations of ho=
me
no longer - he would go and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at the
crossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got to
Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endure everyth=
ing
without him, became too importunate, and his resolution failed him. He came
back the next day, but the misery and terror his mother had gone through in
those two days had haunted her ever since.
‘No!’ Adam said to him=
self
to-night, ‘that must never happen again. It 'ud make a poor balance w=
hen
my doings are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother stood o' the wrong
side. My back's broad enough and strong enough; I should be no better than a
coward to go away and leave the troubles to be borne by them as aren't half=
so
able. 'They that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are
weak, and not to please themselves.' There's a text wants no candle to show=
't;
it shines by its own light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i'
this life if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making things
easy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough and
think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's heart and soul in yo=
u,
you can't be easy a-making your own bed an' leaving the rest to lie on the
stones. Nay, nay, I'll never slip my neck out o' the yoke, and leave the lo=
ad
to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sore cross to me, an's likely to be=
for
many a long year to come. What then? I've got th' health, and the limbs, and
the sperrit to bear it.’
At this moment a smart rap, as if =
with
a willow wand, was given at the house door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as
might have been expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went =
at
once to the door and opened it. Nothing was there; all was still, as when he
opened it an hour before; the leaves were motionless, and the light of the
stars showed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty of
visible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw nothing except a r=
at
which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He went in again, wondering; t=
he
sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it it called up the image of=
the
willow wand striking the door. He could not help a little shudder, as he re=
membered
how often his mother had told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when
some one was dying. Adam was not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, bu=
t he
had the blood of the peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant
can no more help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can h=
elp
trembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination whi=
ch
is at once humble in the region of mystery and keen in the region of knowle=
dge:
it was the depth of his reverence quite as much as his hard common sense wh=
ich
gave him his disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked Set=
h's
argumentative spiritualism by saying, ‘Eh, it's a big mystery; thee
know'st but little about it.’ And so it happened that Adam was at once
penetrating and credulous. If a new building had fallen down and he had been
told that this was a divine judgment, he would have said, ‘May be; but
the bearing o' the roof and walls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come d=
own’;
yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he bated his
breath a little when he told the story of the stroke with the willow wand. I
tell it as he told it, not attempting to reduce it to its natural elements =
- in
our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our hold of the sympathy
that comprehends them.
But he had the best antidote again=
st
imaginative dread in the necessity for getting on with the coffin, and for =
the
next ten minutes his hammer was ringing so uninterruptedly, that other soun=
ds,
if there were any, might well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he
had to take up his ruler, and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp
howled. Adam was at the door without the loss of a moment; but again all was
still, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-laden grass in
front of the cottage.
Adam for a moment thought
uncomfortably about his father; but of late years he had never come home at
dark hours from Treddleston, and there was every reason for believing that =
he
was then sleeping off his drunkenness at the ‘Waggon Overthrown.̵=
7;
Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was so inseparable from the
painful image of his father that the fear of any fatal accident to him was
excluded by the deeply infixed fear of his continual degradation. The next
thought that occurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes and t=
read
lightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and his mot=
her
were breathing regularly.
Adam came down and set to work aga=
in,
saying to himself, ‘I won't open the door again. It's no use staring
about to catch sight of a sound. Maybe there's a world about us as we can't
see, but th' ear's quicker than the eye and catches a sound from't now and
then. Some people think they get a sight on't too, but they're mostly folks
whose eyes are not much use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think i=
t's
better to see when your perpendicular's true than to see a ghost.’
Such thoughts as these are apt to =
grow
stronger and stronger as daylight quenches the candles and the birds begin =
to
sing. By the time the red sunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the
initials on the lid of the coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound =
of
the willow wand was merged in satisfaction that the work was done and the
promise redeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving
overhead, and presently came downstairs.
‘Now, lad,’ said Adam,=
as
Seth made his appearance, ‘the coffin's done, and we can take it over=
to
Brox'on, and be back again before half after six. I'll take a mouthful o'
oat-cake, and then we'll be off.’
The coffin was soon propped on the
tall shoulders of the two brothers, and they were making their way, followed
close by Gyp, out of the little woodyard into the lane at the back of the
house. It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton over the opposite slop=
e,
and their road wound very pleasantly along lanes and across fields, where t=
he
pale woodbines and the dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds
were twittering and trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It wa=
s a
strangely mingled picture - the fresh youth of the summer morning, with its
Edenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothers in
their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They
paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside the village of
Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done the coffin nailed down, and Adam =
and
Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorter way homewards, which would
take them across the fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had n=
ot
mentioned to Seth what had happened in the night, but he still retained
sufficient impression from it himself to say, ‘Seth, lad, if Father i=
sn't
come home by the time we've had our breakfast, I think it'll be as well for
thee to go over to Treddles'on and look after him, and thee canst get me the
brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at thy work; we can make
that up. What dost say?’
‘I'm willing,’ said Se=
th. ‘But
see what clouds have gathered since we set out. I'm thinking we shall have =
more
rain. It'll be a sore time for th' haymaking if the meadows are flooded aga=
in.
The brook's fine and full now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and =
we
should have to go round by the road.’
They were coming across the valley
now, and had entered the pasture through which the brook ran.
‘Why, what's that sticking
against the willow?’ continued Seth, beginning to walk faster. Adam's
heart rose to his mouth: the vague anxiety about his father was changed int=
o a
great dread. He made no answer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who
began to bark uneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.
This was what the omen meant, then!
And the grey-haired father, of whom he had thought with a sort of hardness a
few hours ago, as certain to live to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even
then struggling with that watery death! This was the first thought that fla=
shed
through Adam's conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out
the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and when th=
ey
had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt and looked with =
mute
awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was need for action - forgett=
ing
everything but that their father lay dead before them. Adam was the first to
speak.
‘I'll run to Mother,’ =
he
said, in a loud whisper. ‘I'll be back to thee in a minute.’
Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her
sons' breakfast, and their porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her
kitchen always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was more
than usually bent on making her hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable=
and
inviting.
‘The lads 'ull be fine an'
hungry,’ she said, half-aloud, as she stirred the porridge. ‘It=
's a
good step to Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'er the hill - wi' that heavy co=
ffin
too. Eh! It's heavier now, wi' poor Bob Tholer in't. Howiver, I've made a d=
rap
more porridge nor common this mornin'. The feyther 'ull happen come in arte=
r a
bit. Not as he'll ate much porridge. He swallers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' s=
aves
a hap'orth o' por-ridge - that's his way o' layin' by money, as I've told h=
im
many a time, an' am likely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh, poor =
mon,
he takes it quiet enough; there's no denyin' that.’
But now Lisbeth heard the heavy =
8216;thud’
of a running footstep on the turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, s=
he
saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and
rushed towards him before he had time to speak.
‘Hush, Mother,’ Adam s=
aid,
rather hoarsely, ‘don't be frightened. Father's tumbled into the wate=
r.
Belike we may bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him in.=
Get
a blanket and make it hot as the fire.’
In reality Adam was convinced that=
his
father was dead but he knew there was no other way of repressing his mother=
's
impetuous wailing grief than by occupying her with some active task which h=
ad
hope in it.
He ran back to Seth, and the two s=
ons
lifted the sad burden in heart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes =
were
grey, like Seth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before w=
hom
Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was awe and
distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's soul; but Adam's mind
rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity. When death, the
great Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, b=
ut
our severity.
BEFORE twelve o'clock there had be=
en
some heavy storms of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters on the sides of
the gravel walks in the garden of Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence ros=
es
had been cruelly tossed by the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the
delicate-stemmed border flowers had been dashed down and stained with the w=
et
soil. A melancholy morning - because it was nearly time hay-harvest should
begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded.
But people who have pleasant homes=
get
indoor enjoyments that they would never think of but for the rain. If it had
not been a wet morning, Mr Irwine would not have been in the dining-room
playing at chess with his mother, and he loves both his mother and chess qu=
ite
well enough to pass some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take
you into that dining-room and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of
Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the
severest Church reformer would have found it difficult to look sour. We will
enter very softly and stand still in the open doorway, without awaking the
glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her two puppies
beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black muzzle aloft, like a
sleepy president.
The room is a large and lofty one,
with an ample mullioned oriel window at one end; the walls, you see, are ne=
w,
and not yet painted; but the furniture, though originally of an expensive s=
ort,
is old and scanty, and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cl=
oth
over the large dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasan=
tly
enough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth the=
re
is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the same patt=
ern
as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboard with a coat of arms
conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once that the inhabitants of th=
is
room have inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised to f=
ind
that Mr Irwine had a finely cut nostril and upper lip; but at present we can
only see that he has a broad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, a=
ll
thrown backward and tied behind with a black ribbon - a bit of conservatism=
in
costume which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn ro=
und
by and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his
mother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well set =
off
by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about her head and =
neck.
She is as erect in her comely embonpoint as a statue of Ceres; and her dark
face, with its delicate aquiline nose, firm proud mouth, and small, intense,
black eye, is so keen and sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively
substitute a pack of cards for the chess-men and imagine her telling your
fortune. The small brown hand with which she is lifting her queen is laden =
with
pearls, diamonds, and turquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully
adjusted over the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white
folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old lady in the
morning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so: she is
clearly one of those children of royalty who have never doubted their right
divine and never met with any one so absurd as to question it.
‘There, Dauphin, tell me what
that is!’ says this magnificent old lady, as she deposits her queen v=
ery
quietly and folds her arms. ‘I should be sorry to utter a word
disagreeable to your feelings.’
‘Ah, you witch-mother, you
sorceress! How is a Christian man to win a game off you? I should have
sprinkled the board with holy water before we began. You've not won that ga=
me
by fair means, now, so don't pretend it.’
‘Yes, yes, that's what the b=
eaten
have always said of great conquerors. But see, there's the sunshine falling=
on
the board, to show you more clearly what a foolish move you made with that
pawn. Come, shall I give you another chance?’
‘No, Mother, I shall leave y=
ou
to your own conscience, now it's clearing up. We must go and plash up the m=
ud a
little, mus'n't we, Juno?’ This was addressed to the brown setter, who
had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid her nose in an insinuating
way on her master's leg. ‘But I must go upstairs first and see Anne. I
was called away to Tholer's funeral just when I was going before.’
‘It's of no use, child; she
can't speak to you. Kate says she has one of her worst headaches this morni=
ng.’
‘Oh, she likes me to go and =
see
her just the same; she's never too ill to care about that.’
If you know how much of human spee=
ch
is mere purposeless impulse or habit, you will not wonder when I tell you t=
hat
this identical objection had been made, and had received the same kind of
answer, many hundred times in the course of the fifteen years that Mr Irwin=
e's
sister Anne had been an invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time =
to
dress in the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters.
But while Mr Irwine was still seat=
ed,
leaning back in his chair and stroking Juno's head, the servant came to the
door and said, ‘If you please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with =
you,
if you are at liberty.’
‘Let him be shown in here,=
8217;
said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting. ‘I always like to hear what=
Mr
Rann has got to say. His shoes will be dirty, but see that he wipes them
Carroll.’
In two minutes Mr Rann appeared at=
the
door with very deferential bows, which, however, were far from conciliating
Pug, who gave a sharp bark and ran across the room to reconnoitre the
stranger's legs; while the two puppies, regarding Mr Rann's prominent calf =
and
ribbed worsted stockings from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and
growled over them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr Irwine turned round his
chair and said, ‘Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that
you've come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs;
give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!’
It is very pleasant to see some men
turn round; pleasant as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of
firelight in the chill dusk. Mr Irwine was one of those men. He bore the sa=
me
sort of resemblance to his mother that our loving memory of a friend's face
often bears to the face itself: the lines were all more generous, the smile
brighter, the expression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut,=
his
face might have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for its
mixture of bonhomie and distinction.
‘Thank Your Reverence,’
answered Mr Rann, endeavouring to look unconcerned about his legs, but shak=
ing
them alternately to keep off the puppies; ‘I'll stand, if you please,=
as
more becoming. I hope I see you an' Mrs. Irwine well, an' Miss Irwine - an'
Miss Anne, I hope's as well as usual.’
‘Yes, Joshua, thank you. You=
see
how blooming my mother looks. She beats us younger people hollow. But what's
the matter?’
‘Why, sir, I had to come to
Brox'on to deliver some work, and I thought it but right to call and let you
know the goins-on as there's been i' the village, such as I hanna seen i' my
time, and I've lived in it man and boy sixty year come St. Thomas, and
collected th' Easter dues for Mr Blick before Your Reverence come into the
parish, and been at the ringin' o' every bell, and the diggin' o' every gra=
ve,
and sung i' the choir long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where,
wi' his counter-singin' and fine anthems, as puts everybody out but himself=
- one
takin' it up after another like sheep a-bleatin' i' th' fold. I know what
belongs to bein' a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin' i' respe=
ct
to Your Reverence, an' church, an' king, if I was t' allow such goins-on wi=
'out
speakin'. I was took by surprise, an' knowed nothin' on it beforehand, an' I
was so flustered, I was clean as if I'd lost my tools. I hanna slep' more n=
or
four hour this night as is past an' gone; an' then it was nothin' but
nightmare, as tired me worse nor wakin'.’
‘Why, what in the world is t=
he
matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been at the church lead again?’
‘Thieves! No, sir - an' yet,=
as
I may say, it is thieves, an' a-thievin' the church, too. It's the Methodis=
ses
as is like to get th' upper hand i' th' parish, if Your Reverence an' His
Honour, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think well to say the word an' forbid it.
Not as I'm a-dictatin' to you, sir; I'm not forgettin' myself so far as to =
be
wise above my betters. Howiver, whether I'm wise or no, that's neither here=
nor
there, but what I've got to say I say - as the young Methodis woman as is at
Mester Poyser's was a-preachin' an' a-prayin' on the Green last night, as s=
ure
as I'm a-stannin' afore Your Reverence now.’
‘Preaching on the Green!R=
17;
said Mr Irwine, looking surprised but quite serene. ‘What, that pale
pretty young woman I've seen at Poyser's? I saw she was a Methodist, or Qua=
ker,
or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn't know she was a preach=
er.’
‘It's a true word as I say, =
sir,’
rejoined Mr Rann, compressing his mouth into a semicircular form and pausing
long enough to indicate three notes of exclamation. ‘She preached on =
the
Green last night; an' she's laid hold of Chad's Bess, as the girl's been i'
fits welly iver sin'.’
‘Well, Bessy Cranage is a
hearty-looking lass; I daresay she'll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody
else go into fits?’
‘No, sir, I canna say as they
did. But there's no knowin' what'll come, if we're t' have such preachin's =
as
that a-goin' on ivery week - there'll be no livin' i' th' village. For them
Methodisses make folks believe as if they take a mug o' drink extry, an' ma=
ke
theirselves a bit comfortable, they'll have to go to hell for't as sure as
they're born. I'm not a tipplin' man nor a drunkard - nobody can say it on =
me -
but I like a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat'ral when we=
're
goin' the rounds a-singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin'; or when I'm
a-collectin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' a neighbourly cha=
t at
Mester Casson's now an' then, for I was brought up i' the Church, thank God,
an' ha' been a parish clerk this two-an'-thirty year: I should know what the
church religion is.’
‘Well, what's your advice,
Joshua? What do you think should be done?’
‘Well, Your Reverence, I'm n=
ot
for takin' any measures again' the young woman. She's well enough if she'd =
let
alone preachin'; an' I hear as she's a-goin' away back to her own country s=
oon.
She's Mr Poyser's own niece, an' I donna wish to say what's anyways
disrespectful o' th' family at th' Hall Farm, as I've measured for shoes,
little an' big, welly iver sin' I've been a shoemaker. But there's that Will
Maskery, sir as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an' I make no doub=
t it
was him as stirred up th' young woman to preach last night, an' he'll be
a-bringin' other folks to preach from Treddles'on, if his comb isn't cut a =
bit;
an' I think as he should be let know as he isna t' have the makin' an' mend=
in'
o' church carts an' implemen's, let alone stayin' i' that house an' yard as=
is
Squire Donnithorne's.’
‘Well, but you say yourself,
Joshua, that you never knew any one come to preach on the Green before; why
should you think they'll come again? The Methodists don't come to preach in
little villages like Hayslope, where there's only a handful of labourers, t=
oo
tired to listen to them. They might almost as well go and preach on the Bin=
ton
Hills. Will Maskery is no preacher himself, I think.’
‘Nay, sir, he's no gift at
stringin' the words together wi'out book; he'd be stuck fast like a cow i' =
wet
clay. But he's got tongue enough to speak disrespectful about's neebors, fo=
r he
said as I was a blind Pharisee - a-usin' the Bible i' that way to find
nick-names for folks as are his elders an' betters! - and what's worse, he's
been heard to say very unbecomin' words about Your Reverence; for I could b=
ring
them as 'ud swear as he called you a 'dumb dog,' an' a 'idle shepherd.' You=
'll
forgi'e me for sayin' such things over again.’
‘Better not, better not, Jos=
hua.
Let evil words die as soon as they're spoken. Will Maskery might be a great
deal worse fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecti=
ng
his work and beating his wife, they told me; now he's thrifty and decent, a=
nd
he and his wife look comfortable together. If you can bring me any proof th=
at
he interferes with his neighbours and creates any disturbance, I shall thin=
k it
my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But it wouldn't become
wise people like you and me to be making a fuss about trifles, as if we tho=
ught
the Church was in danger because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather
foolishly, or a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people on
the Green. We must 'live and let live,' Joshua, in religion as well as in o=
ther
things. You go on doing your duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as well as
you've always done it, and making those capital thick boots for your
neighbours, and things won't go far wrong in Hayslope, depend upon it.̵=
7;
‘Your Reverence is very good=
to
say so; an' I'm sensable as, you not livin' i' the parish, there's more upo=
' my
shoulders.’
‘To be sure; and you must mi=
nd
and not lower the Church in people's eyes by seeming to be frightened about=
it
for a little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now to take no
notice at all of what Will Maskery says, either about you or me. You and yo=
ur
neighbours can go on taking your pot of beer soberly, when you've done your
day's work, like good churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn't like to join y=
ou,
but to go to a prayer-meeting at Treddleston instead, let him; that's no
business of yours, so long as he doesn't hinder you from doing what you lik=
e.
And as to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that, a=
ny
more than the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will Mask=
ery
comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his wheelwright's business
steadily in the weekdays, and as long as he does that he must be let alone.=
’
‘Ah, sir, but when he comes =
to
church, he sits an' shakes his head, an' looks as sour an' as coxy when we'=
re
a-singin' as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowl - God forgi'e=
me
- an' Mrs. Irwine, an' Your Reverence too, for speakin' so afore you. An' he
said as our Christmas singin' was no better nor the cracklin' o' thorns und=
er a
pot.’
‘Well, he's got a bad ear for
music, Joshua. When people have wooden heads, you know, it can't be helped.=
He
won't bring the other people in Hayslope round to his opinion, while you go=
on
singing as well as you do.’
‘Yes, sir, but it turns a ma=
n's
stomach t' hear the Scripture misused i' that way. I know as much o' the wo=
rds
o' the Bible as he does, an' could say the Psalms right through i' my sleep=
if
you was to pinch me; but I know better nor to take 'em to say my own say wi=
'. I
might as well take the Sacriment-cup home and use it at meals.’
‘That's a very sensible rema=
rk
of yours, Joshua; but, as I said before -&=
nbsp;
- ‘
While Mr Irwine was speaking, the
sound of a booted step and the clink of a spur were heard on the stone floo=
r of
the entrance-hall, and Joshua Rann moved hastily aside from the doorway to =
make
room for some one who paused there, and said, in a ringing tenor voice,
‘Godson Arthur - may he come=
in?’
‘Come in, come in, godson!=
8217;
Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deep half-masculine tone which belongs to the
vigorous old woman, and there entered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, =
with
his right arm in a sling; whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of
laughing interjections, and hand-shakings, and ‘How are you's?’
mingled with joyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the can=
ine
members of the family, which tells that the visitor is on the best terms wi=
th
the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, known in Hayslope,
variously, as ‘the young squire,’ ‘the heir,’ and &=
#8216;the
captain.’ He was only a captain in the Loamshire Militia, but to the
Hayslope tenants he was more intensely a captain than all the young gentlem=
en
of the same rank in his Majesty's regulars - he outshone them as the planet
Jupiter outshines the Milky Way. If you want to know more particularly how =
he
looked, call to your remembrance some tawny-whiskered, brown-locked,
clear-complexioned young Englishman whom you have met with in a foreign tow=
n,
and been proud of as a fellow-countryman - well-washed, high-bred,
white-handed, yet looking as if he could deliver well from 'the left should=
er
and floor his man: I will not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your
imagination with the difference of costume, and insist on the striped
waistcoat, long-tailed coat, and low top-boots.
Turning round to take a chair, Cap=
tain
Donnithorne said, ‘But don't let me interrupt Joshua's business - he =
has
something to say.’
‘Humbly begging Your Honour's
pardon,’ said Joshua, bowing low, ‘there was one thing I had to=
say
to His Reverence as other things had drove out o' my head.’
‘Out with it, Joshua, quickl=
y!’
said Mr Irwine.
‘Belike, sir, you havena hea=
red
as Thias Bede's dead - drownded this morning, or more like overnight, i' the
Willow Brook, again' the bridge right i' front o' the house.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed both t=
he
gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal interested in the informatio=
n.
‘An' Seth Bede's been to me =
this
morning to say he wished me to tell Your Reverence as his brother Adam begg=
ed
of you particular t' allow his father's grave to be dug by the White Thorn,
because his mother's set her heart on it, on account of a dream as she had;=
an'
they'd ha' come theirselves to ask you, but they've so much to see after wi=
th
the crowner, an' that; an' their mother's took on so, an' wants 'em to make
sure o' the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An' if Your Reveren=
ce
sees well and good, I'll send my boy to tell 'em as soon as I get home; an'
that's why I make bold to trouble you wi' it, His Honour being present.R=
17;
‘To be sure, Joshua, to be s=
ure,
they shall have it. I'll ride round to Adam myself, and see him. Send your =
boy,
however, to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should happen to
detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua; go into the kitchen and have some
ale.’
‘Poor old Thias!’ said=
Mr
Irwine, when Joshua was gone. ‘I'm afraid the drink helped the brook =
to drown
him. I should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my friend
Adam's shoulders in a less painful way. That fine fellow has been propping =
up
his father from ruin for the last five or six years.’
‘He's a regular trump, is Ad=
am,’
said Captain Donnithorne. ‘When I was a little fellow, and Adam was a
strapping lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used to think if ev=
er I
was a rich sultan, I would make Adam my grand-vizier. And I believe now he
would bear the exaltation as well as any poor wise man in an Eastern story.=
If
ever I live to be a large-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged
allowance of pocket-money, I'll have Adam for my right hand. He shall manag=
e my
woods for me, for he seems to have a better notion of those things than any=
man
I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the money of them that my
grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to manage, who understan=
ds
no more about timber than an old carp. I've mentioned the subject to my
grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or other he has a dislike to
Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, Your Reverence, are you for a ride wi=
th
me? It's splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam's together, if you li=
ke;
but I want to call at the Hall Farm on my way, to look at the whelps Poyser=
is
keeping for me.’
‘You must stay and have lunch
first, Arthur,’ said Mrs. Irwine. ‘It's nearly two. Carroll will
bring it in directly.’
‘I want to go to the Hall Fa=
rm
too,’ said Mr Irwine, ‘to have another look at the little Metho=
dist
who is staying there. Joshua tells me she was preaching on the Green last
night.’
‘Oh, by Jove!’ said
Captain Donnithorne, laughing. ‘Why, she looks as quiet as a mouse.
There's something rather striking about her, though. I positively felt quite
bashful the first time I saw her - she was sitting stooping over her sewing=
in
the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up and called out, without noti=
cing
that she was a stranger, 'Is Martin Poyser at home?' I declare, when she go=
t up
and looked at me and just said, 'He's in the house, I believe: I'll go and =
call
him,' I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to her. She looked =
like
St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It's a type of face one rarely sees among =
our
common people.’
‘I should like to see the yo=
ung
woman, Dauphin,’ said Mrs. Irwine. ‘Make her come here on some
pretext or other.’
‘I don't know how I can mana=
ge
that, Mother; it will hardly do for me to patronize a Methodist preacher, e=
ven
if she would consent to be patronized by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery
calls me. You should have come in a little sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua's
denunciation of his neighbour Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to
excommunicate the wheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm -=
that
is to say, to your grandfather - to be turned out of house and yard. If I c=
hose
to interfere in this business, now, I might get up as pretty a story of hat=
red
and persecution as the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number=
of
their magazine. It wouldn't take me much trouble to persuade Chad Cranage a=
nd
half a dozen other bull-headed fellows that they would be doing an acceptab=
le
service to the Church by hunting Will Maskery out of the village with rope-=
ends
and pitchforks; and then, when I had furnished them with half a sovereign to
get gloriously drunk after their exertions, I should have put the climax to=
as
pretty a farce as any of my brother clergy have set going in their parishes=
for
the last thirty years.’
‘It is really insolent of the
man, though, to call you an 'idle shepherd' and a 'dumb dog,'‘ said M=
rs.
Irwine. ‘I should be inclined to check him a little there. You are too
easy-tempered, Dauphin.’
‘Why, Mother, you don't thin=
k it
would be a good way of sustaining my dignity to set about vindicating myself
from the aspersions of Will Maskery? Besides, I'm not so sure that they
‘Miss Irwine told Bridget to
take her lunch upstairs,’ said Carroll; ‘she can't leave Miss A=
nne.’
‘Oh, very well. Tell Bridget=
to
say I'll go up and see Miss Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite
well now, Arthur,’ Mr Irwine continued, observing that Captain
Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the sling.
‘Yes, pretty well; but Godwin
insists on my keeping it up constantly for some time to come. I hope I shal=
l be
able to get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August. It's a
desperately dull business being shut up at the Chase in the summer months, =
when
one can neither hunt nor shoot, so as to make one's self pleasantly sleepy =
in
the evening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My
grandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you the
entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. The world will not see the g=
rand
epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall have a lofty throne for you,
Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another in the ballroom, that =
you
may sit and look down upon us like an Olympian goddess.’
‘I mean to bring out my best
brocade, that I wore at your christening twenty years ago,’ said Mrs.
Irwine. ‘Ah, I think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in h=
er
white dress, which looked to me almost like a shroud that very day; and it =
WAS
her shroud only three months after; and your little cap and christening dre=
ss
were buried with her too. She had set her heart on that, sweet soul! Thank =
God
you take after your mother's family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry,
yellow baby, I wouldn't have stood godmother to you. I should have been sure
you would turn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broad-faced,
broad-chested, loud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a
Tradgett.’
‘But you might have been a
little too hasty there, Mother,’ said Mr Irwine, smiling. ‘Don't
you remember how it was with Juno's last pups? One of them was the very ima=
ge
of its mother, but it had two or three of its father's tricks notwithstandi=
ng.
Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, Mother.’
‘Nonsense, child! Nature nev=
er
makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You'll never persuade me that I c=
an't
tell what men are by their outsides. If I don't like a man's looks, depend =
upon
it I shall never like HIM. I don't want to know people that look ugly and
disagreeable, any more than I want to taste dishes that look disagreeable. =
If
they make me shudder at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly,
piggish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite ill; it's like a bad smell.=
’
‘Talking of eyes,’ said
Captain Donnithorne, ‘that reminds me that I've got a book I meant to
bring you, Godmamma. It came down in a parcel from London the other day. I =
know
you are fond of queer, wizardlike stories. It's a volume of poems, 'Lyrical
Ballads.' Most of them seem to be twaddling stuff, but the first is in a
different style - 'The Ancient Mariner' is the title. I can hardly make hea=
d or
tail of it as a story, but it's a strange, striking thing. I'll send it ove=
r to
you; and there are some other books that you may like to see, Irwine - pamp=
hlets
about Antinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can't think
what the fellow means by sending such things to me. I've written to him to
desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or pamphlet on anything
that ends in ISM.’
‘Well, I don't know that I'm
very fond of isms myself; but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let=
one
see what is going on. I've a little matter to attend to, Arthur,’
continued Mr Irwine, rising to leave the room, ‘and then I shall be r=
eady
to set out with you.’
The little matter that Mr Irwine h=
ad
to attend to took him up the old stone staircase (part of the house was very
old) and made him pause before a door at which he knocked gently. ‘Co=
me
in,’ said a woman's voice, and he entered a room so darkened by blinds
and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin middle-aged lady standing by the beds=
ide,
would not have had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting
which lay on the little table near her. But at present she was doing what
required only the dimmest light - sponging the aching head that lay on the
pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poor sufferer;
perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate =
came
towards her brother and whispered, ‘Don't speak to her; she can't bea=
r to
be spoken to to-day.’ Anne's eyes were closed, and her brow contracte=
d as
if from intense pain. Mr Irwine went to the bedside and took up one of the
delicate hands and kissed it, a slight pressure from the small fingers told=
him
that it was worth-while to have come upstairs for the sake of doing that. He
lingered a moment, looking at her, and then turned away and left the room,
treading very gently - he had taken off his boots and put on slippers befor=
e he
came upstairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to do even=
for
himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off his boots,
will not think this last detail insignificant. And Mr Irwine's sisters, as =
any
person of family within ten miles of Broxton could have testified, were such
stupid, uninteresting women! It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwi=
ne
should have had such commonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was
worth driving ten miles to see, any day; her beauty, her well-preserved
faculties, and her old-fashioned dignity made her a graceful subject for
conversation in turn with the King's health, the sweet new patterns in cott=
on
dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey's lawsuit, which was fretting =
poor
Lady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss Irwines,
except the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded them as deep in the
science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as ‘the gentlefolks.=
8217;
If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his flannel jacket, he w=
ould
have answered, ‘the gentlefolks, last winter’; and widow Steene
dwelt much on the virtues of the ‘stuff’ the gentlefolks gave h=
er
for her cough. Under this name too, they were used with great effect as a m=
eans
of taming refractory children, so that at the sight of poor Miss Anne's sal=
low
face, several small urchins had a terrified sense that she was cognizant of=
all
their worst misdemeanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which
they had intended to hit Farmer Britton's ducks. But for all who saw them
through a less mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous
existences - inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without adequate
effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have been account=
ed
for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might have had some romantic
interest attached to her: but no such story had either been known or invent=
ed
concerning her, and the general impression was quite in accordance with the
fact, that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason that they=
had
never received an eligible offer.
Nevertheless, to speak paradoxical=
ly,
the existence of insignificant people has very important consequences in the
world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of wages, =
to
call forth many evil tempers from the selfish and many heroisms from the
sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of li=
fe.
And if that handsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine,=
had
not had these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would have been shaped
quite differently: he would very likely have taken a comely wife in his you=
th,
and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, would have had ta=
ll
sons and blooming daughters - such possessions, in short, as men commonly t=
hink
will repay them for all the labour they take under the sun. As it was - hav=
ing
with all his three livings no more than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no=
way
of keeping his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a second
sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such ladylike e=
ase
as became their birth and habits, and at the same time providing for a fami=
ly
of his own - he remained, you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelo=
r,
not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one
alluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a wife
would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person in the wor=
ld
who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous; for his was on=
e of
those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never know a narrow or a
grudging thought; Epicurean, if you will, with no enthusiasm, no self-scour=
ging
sense of duty; but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fi=
bre
to have an unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffering. It w=
as
his large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore his mother's hardness tow=
ards
her daughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her doting
fondness towards himself; he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable fau=
lts.
See the difference between the
impression a man makes on you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or
look at him in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a lofty
historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical neighbour who thinks of=
him
as an embodied system or opinion rather than as a man. Mr Roe, the ‘t=
ravelling
preacher’ stationed at Treddleston, had included Mr Irwine in a gener=
al
statement concerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom he
described as men given up to the lusts of the flesh and the pride of life;
hunting and shooting, and adorning their own houses; asking what shall we e=
at,
and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed? - careless of
dispensing the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best but a carnal
and soul-benumbing morality, and trafficking in the souls of men by receivi=
ng
money for discharging the pastoral office in parishes where they did not so
much as look on the faces of the people more than once a-year. The
ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that
period, finds honourable members zealous for the Church, and untainted with=
any
sympathy for the ‘tribe of canting Methodists,’ making statemen=
ts
scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr Roe. And it is impossible for me to
say that Mr Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification assi=
gned
him. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: if I were
closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that he felt no serious
alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have thought it a mere
loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening manner to old ‘Feyt=
her
Taft,’ or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in the
habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said that the only
healthy form religion could take in such minds was that of certain dim but
strong emotions, suffusing themselves as a hallowing influence over the fam=
ily
affections and neighbourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more
important than its doctrine, and that the religious benefits the peasant dr=
ew
from the church where his fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf w=
here
they lay buried were but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the
Liturgy or the sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these d=
ays
an ‘earnest’ man: he was fonder of church history than of divin=
ity,
and had much more insight into men's characters than interest in their
opinions; he was neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very
copious in alms-giving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental
palate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotation fr=
om
Sophocles or Theocritus that was quite absent from any text in Isaiah or Am=
os.
But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its
retaining a relish for uncooked partridge in after-life? And Mr Irwine's
recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition were all associated with poe=
try
and ethics that lay aloof from the Bible.
On the other hand, I must plead, f=
or I
have an affectionate partiality towards the rector's memory, that he was not
vindictive - and some philanthropists have been so; that he was not intoler=
ant
- and there is a rumour that some zealous theologians have not been altoget=
her
free from that blemish; that although he would probably have declined to gi=
ve
his body to be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing all h=
is
goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimes been lackin=
g to
very illustrious virtue - he was tender to other men's failings, and unwill=
ing
to impute evil. He was one of those men, and they are not the commonest, of
whom we can know the best only by following them away from the marketplace,=
the
platform, and the pulpit, entering with them into their own homes, hearing =
the
voice with which they speak to the young and aged about their own hearthsto=
ne,
and witnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants of everyday
companions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and not as a
subject for panegyric.
Such men, happily, have lived in t=
imes
when great abuses flourished, and have sometimes even been the living
representatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort us a
little under the opposite fact - that it is better sometimes NOT to follow
great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold of their homes.
But whatever you may think of Mr
Irwine now, if you had met him that June afternoon riding on his grey cob, =
with
his dogs running beside him - portly, upright, manly, with a good-natured s=
mile
on his finely turned lips as he talked to his dashing young companion on the
bay mare, you must have felt that, however ill he harmonized with sound
theories of the clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with =
that
peaceful landscape.
See them in the bright sunlight,
interrupted every now and then by rolling masses of cloud, ascending the sl=
ope
from the Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory
predominate over the tiny whitewashed church. They will soon be in the pari=
sh
of Hayslope; the grey church-tower and village roofs lie before them to the
left, and farther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the H=
all
Farm.
EVIDENTLY that gate is never opene=
d,
for the long grass and the great hemlocks grow close against it, and if it =
were
opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn it on its hinges wo=
uld
be likely to pull down the square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of =
the
two stone lionesses which grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability above=
a
coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by t=
he
aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick wall with its
smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to the rusty bars of the
gate, we can see the house well enough, and all but the very corners of the
grassy enclosure.
It is a very fine old place, of red
brick, softened by a pale powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with h=
appy
irregularity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly companion=
ship
with the limestone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and=
the
door-place. But the windows are patched with wooden panes, and the door, I
think, is like the gate - it is never opened. How it would groan and grate
against the stone floor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome door,
and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a sonorous bang behin=
d a
liveried lackey, who had just seen his master and mistress off the grounds =
in a
carriage and pair.
But at present one might fancy the
house in the early stage of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that g=
rand
double row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and
rot among the grass, if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs
echoing from great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned calves th=
at
have been sheltering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against the left-hand
wall come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless
supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk.
Yes, the house must be inhabited, =
and
we will see by whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fe=
ar
of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put
your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand window: what do you s=
ee?
A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded floor; at=
the
far end, fleeces of wool stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty
corn-bags. That is the furniture of the dining-room. And what through the
left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and =
an
old box wide open and stuffed full of coloured rags. At the edge of this box
there lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as mutilation is concerned, b=
ears
a strong resemblance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the t=
otal
loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt end of a bo=
y's
leather long-lashed whip.
The history of the house is plain =
now.
It was once the residence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwind=
ling
down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of
Donnithorne. It was once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in
some coast town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where the
genteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses bu=
sy
and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer
radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the farmyard.
Plenty of life there, though this =
is
the drowsiest time of the year, just before hay-harvest; and it is the
drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and i=
t is
half-past three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is alw=
ays
a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is
pouring down his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighti=
ng
up every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and
turning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the drain
into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing the opportunity =
of
getting a drink with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a conce=
rt
of noises; the great bull-dog, chained against the stables, is thrown into
furious exasperation by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of=
his
kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by two fox-hou=
nds
shut up in the opposite cow-house; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with
their chicks among the straw, set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfi=
ted
cock joins them; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and
curled as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the
calves are bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a fine ear discerns
the continuous hum of human voices.
For the great barn-doors are thrown
wide open, and men are busy there mending the harness, under the
superintendence of Mr Goby, the ‘whittaw,’ otherwise saddler, w=
ho
entertains them with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather =
an
unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whittaw=
s,
since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pr=
etty
strongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men's shoes brought into =
the
house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equanimity on the
subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner, and the house-fl=
oor
is perfectly clean again; as clean as everything else in that wonderful
house-place, where the only chance of collecting a few grains of dust would=
be
to climb on the salt-coffer, and put your finger on the high mantel-shelf on
which the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure;=
for
at this time of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet ligh=
t,
or at least light enough to discern the outline of objects after you have b=
ruised
your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an=
oak
table have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine ‘elbow polish,=
8217;
as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any of your
varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took the opportunity, wh=
en
her aunt's back was turned, of looking at the pleasing reflection of hersel=
f in
those polished surfaces, for the oak table was usually turned up like a scr=
een,
and was more for ornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes=
in
the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves above the long
deal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone like jas=
per.
Everything was looking at its
brightest at this moment, for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and
from their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow=
oak
and bright brass - and on a still pleasanter object than these, for some of=
the
rays fell on Dinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her pale red hair to
auburn, as she bent over the heavy household linen which she was mending for
her aunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was
ironing a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had not be=
en
making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to and fro whenever she
wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her blue-grey eye from the
kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was making up the butter, and from the da=
iry
to the back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the oven. Do not
suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearanc=
e;
she was a good-looking woman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair
complexion and sandy hair, well-shapen, light-footed. The most conspicuous
article in her attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost cove=
red
her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and
gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than feminine
vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The family likeness betw=
een
her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and
Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an
excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes were just of the same
colour, but a striking test of the difference in their operation was seen in
the demeanour of Trip, the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspec=
ted
dog unwarily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's
glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel c=
ame
within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ
takes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off.
The fact that it was churning day =
was
another reason why it was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why,
consequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual
severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after-dinner work in =
an
exemplary manner, had ‘cleaned herself’ with great dispatch, and
now came to ask, submissively, if she should sit down to her spinning till
milking time. But this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shroude=
d a
secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth and hel=
d up
to Molly's view with cutting eloquence.
‘Spinning, indeed! It isn't
spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, and let you have your own way. I ne=
ver
knew your equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting to=
go
and sit with half-a-dozen men! I'd ha' been ashamed to let the words pass o=
ver
my lips if I'd been you. And you, as have been here ever since last Michael=
mas,
and I hired you at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character - as I =
say,
you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place; and y=
ou
knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come here than the mawkin i' =
the
field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. Who taug=
ht
you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in h=
eaps
i' the corners - anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought up among
Christians. And as for spinning, why, you've wasted as much as your wage i'=
the
flax you've spoiled learning to spin. And you've a right to feel that, and =
not
to go about as gaping and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody.
Comb the wool for the whittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to be doing,=
is
it? That's the way with you - that's the road you'd all like to go, headlon=
gs
to ruin. You're never easy till you've got some sweetheart as is as big a f=
ool
as yourself: you think you'll be finely off when you're married, I daresay,=
and
have got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover you, =
and
a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are a-snatching at.=
217;
‘I'm sure I donna want t' go=
wi'
the whittaws,’ said Molly, whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dan=
tean
picture of her future, ‘on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at
Mester Ottley's; an' so I just axed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the
whittaws again; I wish I may never stir if I do.’
‘Mr Ottley's, indeed! It's f=
ine
talking o' what you did at Mr Ottley's. Your missis there might like her fl=
oors
dirted wi' whittaws for what I know. There's no knowing what people WONNA l=
ike
- such ways as I've heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seem=
ed
to know what cleaning was; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And =
as
to that Betty as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' =
left
the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end, and the dairy
thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come downstairs after my
illness, as the doctor said it was inflammation - it was a mercy I got well=
of
it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, and been here a-going i'
nine months, and not for want o' talking to, neither - and what are you
stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o' getting your whe=
el
out? You're a rare un for sitting down to your work a little while after it=
's
time to put by.’
‘Munny, my iron's twite told;
pease put it down to warm.’
The small chirruping voice that
uttered this request came from a little sunny-haired girl between three and
four, who, seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing table, was
arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, =
and
ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her little red tong=
ue
out as far as anatomy would allow.
‘Cold, is it, my darling? Bl=
ess
your sweet face!’ said Mrs. Poyser, who was remarkable for the facili=
ty
with which she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondne=
ss
or of friendly converse. ‘Never mind! Mother's done her ironing now.
She's going to put the ironing things away.’
‘Munny, I tould 'ike to do i=
nto
de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd.’
‘No, no, no; Totty 'ud get h=
er
feet wet,’ said Mrs. Poyser, carrying away her iron. ‘Run into =
the
dairy and see cousin Hetty make the butter.’
‘I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-t=
ake,’
rejoined Totty, who seemed to be provided with several relays of requests; =
at
the same time, taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure to put her
fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it down so as to empty the contents
with tolerable completeness on to the ironing sheet.
‘Did ever anybody see the li=
ke?’
screamed Mrs. Poyser, running towards the table when her eye had fallen on =
the
blue stream. ‘The child's allays i' mischief if your back's turned a
minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell?’
Totty, however, had descended from=
her
chair with great swiftness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy wi=
th a
sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck which ma=
de
her look like the metamorphosis of a white suckling pig.
The starch having been wiped up by
Molly's help, and the ironing apparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her
knitting which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked best,
because she could carry it on automatically as she walked to and fro. But n=
ow
she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative wa=
y,
as she knitted her grey worsted stocking.
‘You look th' image o' your =
Aunt
Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty ye=
ars
back, and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her
work, after she'd done the house up; only it was a little cottage, Father's
was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you
clean it in another - but for all that, I could fancy you was your Aunt Jud=
ith,
only her hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broader=
i'
the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she had such queer
ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, your mother little tho=
ught
as she'd have a daughter just cut out after the very pattern o' Judith, and
leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, and bring up with a s=
poon
when SHE was in the graveyard at Stoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as
she'd bear a pound weight any day to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And
she was just the same from the first o' my remembering her; it made no
difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she
talked a bit different and wore a different sort o' cap; but she'd never in=
her
life spent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent.’
‘She was a blessed woman,=
217;
said Dinah; ‘God had given her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and =
He
perfected it by grace. And she was very fond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I oft=
en
heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When she had that bad illnes=
s,
and I was only eleven years old, she used to say, 'You'll have a friend on
earth in your Aunt Rachel, if I'm taken from you, for she has a kind heart,'
and I'm sure I've found it so.’
‘I don't know how, child;
anybody 'ud be cunning to do anything for you, I think; you're like the bir=
ds
o' th' air, and live nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you l=
ike
a mother's sister, if you'd come and live i' this country where there's some
shelter and victual for man and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hi=
lls,
like poultry a-scratching on a gravel bank. And then you might get married =
to
some decent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only lea=
ve
off that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judith ev=
er
did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodi=
st
and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your uncle 'ud help you
with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's allays been good-natur'd to my ki=
n,
for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome to the house; and 'ud do for you,
I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though she's his own niec=
e.
And there's linen in the house as I could well spare you, for I've got lots=
o'
sheeting and table-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a pie=
ce
o' sheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun - she was a rare =
girl
to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her; and, you
know, the spinning's going on constant, and there's new linen wove twice as
fast as the old wears out. But where's the use o' talking, if ye wonna be
persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in her senses, i'stead o'
wearing yourself out with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny
you get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness; and all the things yo=
u've
got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a do=
uble
cheese. And all because you've got notions i' your head about religion more=
nor
what's i' the Catechism and the Prayer-book.’
‘But not more than what's in=
the
Bible, Aunt,’ said Dinah.
‘Yes, and the Bible too, for
that matter,’ Mrs. Poyser rejoined, rather sharply; ‘else why
shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible - the parsons and people as
have got nothing to do but learn it - do the same as you do? But, for the
matter o' that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to a
standstill; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with p=
oor
eating and drinking, and was allays talking as we must despise the things o'
the world as you say, I should like to know where the pick o' the stock, and
the corn, and the best new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody 'ud be
wanting bread made o' tail ends and everybody 'ud be running after everybody
else to preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying by
against a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the right religi=
on.’
‘Nay, dear aunt, you never h=
eard
me say that all people are called to forsake their work and their families.
It's quite right the land should be ploughed and sowed, and the precious co=
rn
stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that people should
rejoice in their families, and provide for them, so that this is done in the
fear of the Lord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while
they are caring for the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lo=
t is
cast, but He gives us different sorts of work, according as He fits us for =
it
and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying to do wha=
t I
can for the souls of others, than you could help running if you heard little
Totty crying at the other end of the house; the voice would go to your hear=
t,
you would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't
rest without running to help her and comfort her.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door, ‘I know it 'ud be just the same = if I was to talk to you for hours. You'd make me the same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brook and tell it to stan' still.’<= o:p>
The causeway outside the kitchen d=
oor
was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see =
what
was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a steady progres=
s in
her hands all the while. But she had not been standing there more than five
minutes before she came in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried,
awe-stricken tone, ‘If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr Irwine
a-coming into the yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your
preaching on the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've
said enough a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle's fam=
ily.
I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr Poyser's own niece - folks must put =
up
wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their own noses - it's their own flesh
and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o' my husband's being
turned out of his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savin's - - ‘
‘Nay, dear Aunt Rachel,̵=
7;
said Dinah gently, ‘you've no cause for such fears. I've strong assur=
ance
that no evil will happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything
I've done. I didn't preach without direction.’
‘Direction! I know very well
what you mean by direction,’ said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and
agitated manner. ‘When there's a bigger maggot than usual in your head
you call it 'direction'; and then nothing can stir you - you look like the
statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether
it's fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with you.’
By this time the two gentlemen had
reached the palings and had got down from their horses: it was plain they m=
eant
to come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low and
trembling between anger with Dinah and anxiety to conduct herself with perf=
ect
propriety on the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds f=
elt
a whispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt when t=
hey
stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human shape.
‘Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are =
you
after this stormy morning?’ said Mr Irwine, with his stately cordiali=
ty. ‘Our
feet are quite dry; we shall not soil your beautiful floor.’
‘Oh, sir, don't mention it,&=
#8217;
said Mrs. Poyser. ‘Will you and the captain please to walk into the
parlour?’
‘No, indeed, thank you, Mrs.
Poyser,’ said the captain, looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if h=
is
eye were seeking something it could not find. ‘I delight in your kitc=
hen.
I think it is the most charming room I know. I should like every farmer's w=
ife
to come and look at it for a pattern.’
‘Oh, you're pleased to say s=
o,
sir. Pray take a seat,’ said Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this
compliment and the captain's evident good-humour, but still glancing anxiou=
sly
at Mr Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her.=
‘Poyser is not at home, is h=
e?’
said Captain Donnithorne, seating himself where he could see along the short
passage to the open dairy-door.
‘No, sir, he isn't; he's gon=
e to
Rosseter to see Mr West, the factor, about the wool. But there's Father i' =
the
barn, sir, if he'd be of any use.’
‘No, thank you; I'll just lo=
ok
at the whelps and leave a message about them with your shepherd. I must come
another day and see your husband; I want to have a consultation with him ab=
out
horses. Do you know when he's likely to be at liberty?’
‘Why, sir, you can hardly mi=
ss
him, except it's o' Treddles'on market-day - that's of a Friday, you know. =
For
if he's anywhere on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got r=
id
o' the Scantlands, we should have no outlying fields; and I should be glad =
of
it, for if ever anything happens, he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands.
Things allays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance; and it's an unnat'r=
al
thing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest in anothe=
r.’
‘Ah, the Scantlands would go
much better with Choyce's farm, especially as he wants dairyland and you've=
got
plenty. I think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though; and do y=
ou
know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle, I should be tempted=
to
turn you out, and do up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself.’=
‘Oh, sir,’ said Mrs.
Poyser, rather alarmed, ‘you wouldn't like it at all. As for farming,
it's putting money into your pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out=
wi'
your left. As fur as I can see, it's raising victual for other folks and ju=
st
getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along. Not as y=
ou'd
be like a poor man as wants to get his bread - you could afford to lose as =
much
money as you liked i' farming - but it's poor fun losing money, I should th=
ink,
though I understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more than
anything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son had lost
thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they said my lady was
going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know more about that than I
do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think as you'd like it; and this
house - the draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and it's my opini=
on
the floors upstairs are very rotten, and the rats i' the cellar are beyond
anything.’
‘Why, that's a terrible pict=
ure,
Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doing you a service to turn you out of suc=
h a
place. But there's no chance of that. I'm not likely to settle for the next
twenty years, till I'm a stout gentleman of forty; and my grandfather would
never consent to part with such good tenants as you.’
‘Well, sir, if he thinks so =
well
o' Mr Poyser for a tenant I wish you could put in a word for him to allow us
some new gates for the Five closes, for my husband's been asking and asking
till he's tired, and to think o' what he's done for the farm, and's never h=
ad a
penny allowed him, be the times bad or good. And as I've said to my husband
often and often, I'm sure if the captain had anything to do with it, it
wouldn't be so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o' them as have got the
power i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'ull bear sometime=
s,
to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, and hardly sleeping=
a
wink when you lie down for thinking as the cheese may swell, or the cows may
slip their calf, or the wheat may grow green again i' the sheaf - and after
all, at th' end o' the year, it's like as if you'd been cooking a feast and=
had
got the smell of it for your pains.’
Mrs. Poyser, once launched into
conversation, always sailed along without any check from her preliminary aw=
e of
the gentry. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition was a
motive force that overcame all resistance.
‘I'm afraid I should only do
harm instead of good, if I were to speak about the gates, Mrs. Poyser,̵=
7;
said the captain, ‘though I assure you there's no man on the estate I
would sooner say a word for than your husband. I know his farm is in better
order than any other within ten miles of us; and as for the kitchen,’=
he
added, smiling, ‘I don't believe there's one in the kingdom to beat i=
t.
By the by, I've never seen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser.&=
#8217;
‘Indeed, sir, it's not fit f=
or
you to go in, for Hetty's in the middle o' making the butter, for the churn=
ing
was thrown late, and I'm quite ashamed.’ This Mrs. Poyser said blushi=
ng,
and believing that the captain was really interested in her milk-pans, and
would adjust his opinion of her to the appearance of her dairy.
‘Oh, I've no doubt it's in c=
apital
order. Take me in,’ said the captain, himself leading the way, while =
Mrs.
Poyser followed.
THE dairy was certainly worth look=
ing
at: it was a scene to sicken for with a sort of calenture in hot and dusty
streets - such coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed
cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water;
such soft colouring of red earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood and
polished tin, grey limestone and rich orange-red rust on the iron weights a=
nd
hooks and hinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details when
they surround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, standing on little
pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of the s=
cale.
Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour w=
hen
Captain Donnithorne entered the dairy and spoke to her; but it was not at a=
ll a
distressed blush, for it was inwreathed with smiles and dimples, and with
sparkles from under long, curled, dark eyelashes; and while her aunt was
discoursing to him about the limited amount of milk that was to be spared f=
or
butter and cheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large
quantity but inferior quality of milk yielded by the shorthorn, which had b=
een
bought on experiment, together with other matters which must be interesting=
to
a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and patted =
her
pound of butter with quite a self-possessed, coquettish air, slyly conscious
that no turn of her head was lost.
There are various orders of beauty,
causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, from the despera=
te
to the sheepish; but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn =
the
heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is=
a
beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippli=
ng
noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to eng=
age
in conscious mischief - a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that
you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into
which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sort of beauty. Her aunt, Mrs.
Poyser, who professed to despise all personal attractions and intended to be
the severest of mentors, continually gazed at Hetty's charms by the sly,
fascinated in spite of herself; and after administering such a scolding as
naturally flowed from her anxiety to do well by her husband's niece - who h=
ad
no mother of her own to scold her, poor thing! - she would often confess to=
her
husband, when they were safe out of hearing, that she firmly believed, R=
16;the
naughtier the little huzzy behaved, the prettier she looked.’
It is of little use for me to tell=
you
that Hetty's cheek was like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pou=
ting
lips, that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lash=
es,
and that her curly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while s=
he
was at work, stole back in dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about h=
er white
shell-like ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the conto=
ur
of her pink-and-white neckerchief, tucked into her low plum-coloured stuff
bodice, or how the linen butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a thing =
to
be imitated in silk by duchesses, since it fell in such charming lines, or =
how
her brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes lost all that clumsiness
which they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and ankle - of li=
ttle
use, unless you have seen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her
beholders, for otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely
woman, she would not in the least resemble that distracting kittenlike maid=
en.
I might mention all the divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you had
never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after =
the
mounting lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when the fresh-opened
blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty like that of fretted aisles,
where would be the use of my descriptive catalogue? I could never make you =
know
what I meant by a bright spring day. Hetty's was a spring-tide beauty; it w=
as
the beauty of young frisking things, round-limbed, gambolling, circumventing
you by a false air of innocence - the innocence of a young star-browed calf,
for example, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a
severe steeplechase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the
middle of a bog.
And they are the prettiest attitud=
es
and movements into which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter - toss=
ing
movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination=
of
the round white neck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of=
the
hand, and nice adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effected
without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then the
butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm - it is so pure, so
sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surfac=
e,
like marble in a pale yellow light! Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever=
at
making up the butter; it was the one performance of hers that her aunt allo=
wed
to pass without severe criticism; so she handled it with all the grace that
belongs to mastery.
‘I hope you will be ready fo=
r a
great holiday on the thirtieth of July, Mrs. Poyser,’ said Captain
Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admired the dairy and given several
improvised opinions on Swede turnips and shorthorns. ‘You know what i=
s to
happen then, and I shall expect you to be one of the guests who come earlie=
st
and leave latest. Will you promise me your hand for two dances, Miss Hetty?=
If
I don't get your promise now, I know I shall hardly have a chance, for all =
the
smart young farmers will take care to secure you.’
Hetty smiled and blushed, but befo=
re
she could answer, Mrs. Poyser interposed, scandalized at the mere suggestion
that the young squire could be excluded by any meaner partners.
‘Indeed, sir, you are very k=
ind
to take that notice of her. And I'm sure, whenever you're pleased to dance =
with
her, she'll be proud and thankful, if she stood still all the rest o' th'
evening.’
‘Oh no, no, that would be too
cruel to all the other young fellows who can dance. But you will promise me=
two
dances, won't you?’ the captain continued, determined to make Hetty l=
ook
at him and speak to him.
Hetty dropped the prettiest little
curtsy, and stole a half-shy, half-coquettish glance at him as she said, =
8216;Yes,
thank you, sir.’
‘And you must bring all your
children, you know, Mrs. Poyser; your little Totty, as well as the boys. I =
want
all the youngest children on the estate to be there - all those who will be
fine young men and women when I'm a bald old fellow.’
‘Oh dear, sir, that 'ull be a
long time first,’ said Mrs. Poyser, quite overcome at the young squir=
e's
speaking so lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be
interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen of high-born hum=
our.
The captain was thought to be ‘very full of his jokes,’ and was=
a
great favourite throughout the estate on account of his free manners. Every
tenant was quite sure things would be different when the reins got into his
hands - there was to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of
lime, and returns of ten per cent.
‘But where is Totty to-day?&=
#8217;
he said. ‘I want to see her.’
‘Where IS the little un, Het=
ty?’
said Mrs. Poyser. ‘She came in here not long ago.’
‘I don't know. She went into=
the
brewhouse to Nancy, I think.’
The proud mother, unable to resist=
the
temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen, in sear=
ch
of her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should have happene=
d to
render her person and attire unfit for presentation.
‘And do you carry the butter=
to
market when you've made it?’ said the Captain to Hetty, meanwhile.
‘Oh no, sir; not when it's so
heavy. I'm not strong enough to carry it. Alick takes it on horseback.̵=
7;
‘No, I'm sure your pretty ar=
ms
were never meant for such heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes th=
ese
pleasant evenings, don't you? Why don't you have a walk in the Chase someti=
mes,
now it's so green and pleasant? I hardly ever see you anywhere except at ho=
me
and at church.’
‘Aunt doesn't like me to go
a-walking only when I'm going somewhere,’ said Hetty. ‘But I go
through the Chase sometimes.’
‘And don't you ever go to see
Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? I think I saw you once in the housekeeper's roo=
m.’
‘It isn't Mrs. Best, it's Mr=
s.
Pomfret, the lady's maid, as I go to see. She's teaching me tent-stitch and=
the
lace-mending. I'm going to tea with her to-morrow afternoon.’
The reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can only be known by looking into the back kitchen, wh= ere Totty had been discovered rubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in= the same moment allowing some liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared holding her mother's hand - the end of her r= ound nose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and water.<= o:p>
‘Here she is!’ said the
captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low stone shelf. ‘Here=
's
Totty! By the by, what's her other name? She wasn't christened Totty.’=
;
‘Oh, sir, we call her sadly =
out
of her name. Charlotte's her christened name. It's a name i' Mr Poyser's
family: his grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with calling her
Lotty, and now it's got to Totty. To be sure it's more like a name for a dog
than a Christian child.’
‘Totty's a capital name. Why,
she looks like a Totty. Has she got a pocket on?’ said the captain,
feeling in his own waistcoat pockets.
Totty immediately with great gravi=
ty
lifted up her frock, and showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of
collapse.
‘It dot notin' in it,’=
she
said, as she looked down at it very earnestly.
‘No! What a pity! Such a pre=
tty
pocket. Well, I think I've got some things in mine that will make a pretty
jingle in it. Yes! I declare I've got five little round silver things, and =
hear
what a pretty noise they make in Totty's pink pocket.’ Here he shook =
the
pocket with the five sixpences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkl=
ed
her nose in great glee; but, divining that there was nothing more to be got=
by
staying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket in the =
hearing
of Nancy, while her mother called after her, ‘Oh for shame, you naugh=
ty
gell! Not to thank the captain for what he's given you I'm sure, sir, it's =
very
kind of you; but she's spoiled shameful; her father won't have her said nay=
in
anything, and there's no managing her. It's being the youngest, and th' only
gell.’
‘Oh, she's a funny little fa=
tty;
I wouldn't have her different. But I must be going now, for I suppose the
rector is waiting for me.’
With a ‘good-bye,’ a
bright glance, and a bow to Hetty Arthur left the dairy. But he was mistake=
n in
imagining himself waited for. The rector had been so much interested in his
conversation with Dinah that he would not have chosen to close it earlier; =
and
you shall hear now what they had been saying to each other.
DINAH, who had risen when the
gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsi=
ed
respectfully when she saw Mr Irwine looking at her and advancing towards he=
r.
He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face to face with her, and her fir=
st
thought, as her eyes met his, was, ‘What a well-favoured countenance!=
Oh
that the good seed might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish.=
8217;
The agreeable impression must have been mutual, for Mr Irwine bowed to her =
with
a benignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had be=
en
the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.
‘You are only a visitor in t=
his
neighbourhood, I think?’ were his first words, as he seated himself
opposite to her.
‘No, sir, I come from Snowfi=
eld,
in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very kind, wanting me to have rest from my w=
ork
there, because I'd been ill, and she invited me to come and stay with her f=
or a
while.’
‘Ah, I remember Snowfield ve=
ry
well; I once had occasion to go there. It's a dreary bleak place. They were
building a cotton-mill there; but that's many years ago now. I suppose the
place is a good deal changed by the employment that mill must have brought.=
’
‘It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a
livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the
tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for there=
by I
have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you say, sir - v=
ery
different from this country.’
‘You have relations living
there, probably, so that you are attached to the place as your home?’=
‘I had an aunt there once; s=
he
brought me up, for I was an orphan. But she was taken away seven years ago,=
and
I have no other kindred that I know of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very
good to me, and would have me come and live in this country, which to be su=
re
is a good land, wherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free=
to
leave Snowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, li=
ke
the small grass on the hill-top.’
‘Ah, I daresay you have many
religious friends and companions there; you are a Methodist - a Wesleyan, I
think?’
‘Yes, my aunt at Snowfield
belonged to the Society, and I have cause to be thankful for the privileges=
I
have had thereby from my earliest childhood.’
‘And have you been long in t=
he
habit of preaching? For I understand you preached at Hayslope last night.=
8217;
‘I first took to the work fo=
ur
years since, when I was twenty-one.’
‘Your Society sanctions wome=
n's
preaching, then?’
‘It doesn't forbid them, sir,
when they've a clear call to the work, and when their ministry is owned by =
the
conversion of sinners and the strengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher,=
as
you may have heard about, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I
believe, before she was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr Wesley
approved of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are m=
any
others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the minist=
ry.
I understand there's been voices raised against it in the Society of late, =
but
I cannot but think their counsel will come to nought. It isn't for men to m=
ake
channels for God's Spirit, as they make channels for the watercourses, and =
say,
'Flow here, but flow not there.'‘
‘But don't you find some dan=
ger
among your people - I don't mean to say that it is so with you, far from it=
- but
don't you find sometimes that both men and women fancy themselves channels =
for
God's Spirit, and are quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for whi=
ch
they are unfit and bring holy things into contempt?’
‘Doubtless it is so sometime=
s;
for there have been evil-doers among us who have sought to deceive the
brethren, and some there are who deceive their own selves. But we are not
without discipline and correction to put a check upon these things. There's=
a
very strict order kept among us, and the brethren and sisters watch for each
other's souls as they that must give account. They don't go every one his o=
wn
way and say, 'Am I my brother's keeper?'‘
‘But tell me - if I may ask,=
and
I am really interested in knowing it - how you first came to think of
preaching?’
‘Indeed, sir, I didn't think=
of
it at all - I'd been used from the time I was sixteen to talk to the little
children, and teach them, and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to spea=
k in
class, and was much drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no ca=
ll
to preach, for when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit
still and keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long wi=
th
the thought of God overflowing my soul - as the pebbles lie bathed in the
Willow Brook. For thoughts are so great - aren't they, sir? They seem to lie
upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where I am and
everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could give no accou=
nt
of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of them in words. That =
was
my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes it seemed as if speech came=
to
me without any will of my own, and words were given to me that came out as =
the
tears come, because our hearts are full and we can't help it. And those were
always times of great blessing, though I had never thought it could be so w=
ith
me before a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little
children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite suddenly,=
and
since then I have never been left in doubt about the work that was laid upon
me.’
‘But tell me the circumstanc=
es -
just how it was, the very day you began to preach.’
‘It was one Sunday I walked =
with
brother Marlowe, who was an aged man, one of the local preachers, all the w=
ay
to Hetton-Deeps - that's a village where the people get their living by wor=
king
in the lead-mines, and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live =
like
sheep without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, so =
we
set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a wonderful
sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where there's no tree=
s,
you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look smaller, but you see =
the
heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel the everlasting arms around
you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe was seized with a dizzine=
ss
that made him afraid of falling, for he overworked himself sadly, at his ye=
ars,
in watching and praying, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as we=
ll
as carrying on his trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, =
the
people were expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he
was there before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were
assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might be
drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and he was fo=
rced
to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So I went to tell the
people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I would read and pray =
with
them. But as I passed along by the cottages and saw the aged and trembling
women at the doors, and the hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their
eyes no more filled with the sight of the Sabbath morning than if they had =
been
dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement in my so=
ul,
and I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak
body. And I went to where the little flock of people was gathered together,=
and
stepped on the low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I sp=
oke
the words that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out =
of
all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined=
to
the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I've preached ev=
er
since.’
Dinah had let her work fall during
this narrative, which she uttered in her usual simple way, but with that
sincere articulate, thrilling treble by which she always mastered her audie=
nce.
She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then went on with it as before=
. Mr
Irwine was deeply interested. He said to himself, ‘He must be a miser=
able
prig who would act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the
trees for growing in their own shape.’
‘And you never feel any
embarrassment from the sense of your youth - that you are a lovely young wo=
man
on whom men's eyes are fixed?’ he said aloud.
‘No, I've no room for such
feelings, and I don't believe the people ever take notice about that. I thi=
nk,
sir, when God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning b=
ush:
Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was - he only saw the bright=
ness
of the Lord. I've preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the
villages about Snowfield - men that looked very hard and wild - but they ne=
ver
said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way fo=
r me
to pass through the midst of them.’
‘THAT I can believe - that I=
can
well believe,’ said Mr Irwine, emphatically. ‘And what did you
think of your hearers last night, now? Did you find them quiet and attentiv=
e?’
‘Very quiet, sir, but I saw =
no
signs of any great work upon them, except in a young girl named Bessy Crana=
ge,
towards whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her bloom=
ing
youth, given up to folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with
her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed that in
these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green pastures =
and
the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, there's a stra=
nge
deadness to the Word, as different as can be from the great towns, like Lee=
ds,
where I once went to visit a holy woman who preaches there. It's wonderful =
how
rich is the harvest of souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed=
to
walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly
toil. I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when this life is =
so
dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease.=
’
‘Why, yes, our farm-labourers
are not easily roused. They take life almost as slowly as the sheep and cow=
s.
But we have some intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bed=
es;
Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist.’
‘Yes, I know Seth well, and = his brother Adam a little. Seth is a gracious young man - sincere and without offence; and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he shows to his brother and his parents.’<= o:p>
‘Perhaps you don't know the
trouble that has just happened to them? Their father, Matthias Bede, was
drowned in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. I'm going
now to see Adam.’
‘Ah, their poor aged mother!=
’
said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking before her with pitying eyes, as=
if
she saw the object of her sympathy. ‘She will mourn heavily, for Seth=
has
told me she's of an anxious, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give
her any help.’
As she rose and was beginning to f= old up her work, Captain Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts f= or remaining among the milk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poys= er. Mr Irwine now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said, ‘Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not be= the last visit you will pay your aunt - so we shall meet again, I hope.’<= o:p>
His cordiality towards Dinah set a=
ll
Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as s=
he
said, ‘I've never asked after Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I
hope they're as well as usual.’
‘Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser,
except that Miss Anne has one of her bad headaches to-day. By the by, we all
liked that nice cream-cheese you sent us - my mother especially.’
‘I'm very glad, indeed, sir.=
It
is but seldom I make one, but I remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Ple=
ase
to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been =
to
look at my poultry this long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled
chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst
hers.’
‘Well, I'll tell her; she mu=
st
come and see them. Good-bye,’ said the rector, mounting his horse.
‘Just ride slowly on, Irwine=
,’
said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also. ‘I'll overtake you in three
minutes. I'm only going to speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye,
Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I shall come and have a long talk with him s=
oon.’
Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and wat=
ched
the two horses until they had disappeared from the yard, amidst great
excitement on the part of the pigs and the poultry, and under the furious
indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every mome=
nt
seemed to threaten the breaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this
noisy exit; it was a fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well gua=
rded,
and that no loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate=
had
closed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where Din=
ah
stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before she=
set
out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage.
Mrs. Poyser, however, though she
noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking on it until she had disburdened hers=
elf
of her surprise at Mr Irwine's behaviour.
‘Why, Mr Irwine wasn't angry,
then? What did he say to you, Dinah? Didn't he scold you for preaching?R=
17;
‘No, he was not at all angry=
; he
was very friendly to me. I was quite drawn out to speak to him; I hardly kn=
ow
how, for I had always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his counten=
ance
is as pleasant as the morning sunshine.’
‘Pleasant! And what else did=
y'
expect to find him but pleasant?’ said Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resum=
ing
her knitting. ‘I should think his countenance is pleasant indeed! And=
him
a gentleman born, and's got a mother like a picter. You may go the country
round and not find such another woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to=
see
such a man as that i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like
looking at a full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in =
it;
it makes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as
you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o' bare-ribbed r=
unts
on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's right, as look as if th=
ey'd
never tasted nothing better than bacon-sword and sour-cake i' their lives. =
But
what did Mr Irwine say to you about that fool's trick o' preaching on the
Green?’
‘He only said he'd heard of =
it;
he didn't seem to feel any displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don't think
any more about that. He told me something that I'm sure will cause you sorr=
ow,
as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I=
'm
thinking that the aged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I=
can
be of use to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out.̵=
7;
‘Dear heart, dear heart! But=
you
must have a cup o' tea first, child,’ said Mrs. Poyser, falling at on=
ce
from the key of B with five sharps to the frank and genial C. ‘The
kettle's boiling - we'll have it ready in a minute; and the young uns 'ull =
be
in and wanting theirs directly. I'm quite willing you should go and see th'=
old
woman, for you're one as is allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no
Methodist; but, for the matter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are =
made
on as makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some =
o'
new milk, and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which=
by
the look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way no=
r in
- God forgi' me for saying so - for he's done little this ten year but make
trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be well for you to =
take
a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresay she's got never a d=
rop
o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you sha=
n't
stir out till you've had a cup o' tea, and so I tell you.’
During the latter part of this spe=
ech,
Mrs. Poyser had been reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was=
on
her way towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had m=
ade
her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of the
dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her hands at
the back of her head.
‘Molly,’ she said, rat=
her
languidly, ‘just run out and get me a bunch of dock-leaves: the butte=
r's
ready to pack up now.’
‘D' you hear what's happened,
Hetty?’ said her aunt.
‘No; how should I hear anyth=
ing?’
was the answer, in a pettish tone.
‘Not as you'd care much, I
daresay, if you did hear; for you're too feather-headed to mind if everybody
was dead, so as you could stay upstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by
the clock. But anybody besides yourself 'ud mind about such things happenin=
g to
them as think a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his
kin might be drownded for what you'd care - you'd be perking at the glass t=
he
next minute.’
‘Adam Bede - drowned?’
said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking rather bewildered, but suspec=
ting
that her aunt was as usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose.
‘No, my dear, no,’ said
Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on to the pantry without deigning =
more
precise information. ‘Not Adam. Adam's father, the old man, is drowne=
d.
He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. Mr Irwine has just told me a=
bout
it.’
‘Oh, how dreadful!’ sa=
id
Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply affected; and as Molly now entered w=
ith
the dock-leaves, she took them silently and returned to the dairy without
asking further questions.
WHILE she adjusted the broad leaves
that set off the pale fragrant butter as the primrose is set off by its nes=
t of
green I am afraid Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain
Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring
glances from a handsome young gentleman with white hands, a gold chain,
occasional regimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable - those were t=
he
warm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its little fool=
ish
tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue gave forth i=
ts
melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any
other influence divine or human than certain short-lived sunbeams of mornin=
g;
and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to the discovery that some of th=
ose
cunningly fashioned instruments called human souls have only a very limited
range of music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills
others with tremulous rapture or quivering agony.
Hetty was quite used to the thought
that people liked to look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young =
Luke
Britton of Broxton came to Hayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose
that he might see her; and that he would have made much more decided advanc=
es if
her uncle Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land w=
as
so foul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him =
by
any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr Craig, the gardener at the Chas=
e,
was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made unmistakable
avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She knew still bett=
er,
that Adam Bede - tall, upright, clever, brave Adam Bede - who carried such
authority with all the people round about, and whom her uncle was always
delighted to see of an evening, saying that ‘Adam knew a fine sight m=
ore
o' the natur o' things than those as thought themselves his betters’ =
- she
knew that this Adam, who was often rather stern to other people and not much
given to run after the lasses, could be made to turn pale or red any day by=
a
word or a look from her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she
couldn't help perceiving that Adam was ‘something like’ a man;
always knew what to say about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the
hovel, and had mended the churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, =
the
value of the chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the
walls, and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand t=
hat
you could read off, and could do figures in his head - a degree of
accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that countrysid=
e.
Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked with=
him
all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only broken silence to remark that
the grey goose had begun to lay. And as for Mr Craig, the gardener, he was a
sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer so=
rt
of sing-song in his talk; moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he =
must
be far on the way to forty.
Hetty was quite certain her uncle
wanted her to encourage Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him. For
those were times when there was no rigid demarcation of rank between the fa=
rmer
and the respectable artisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the publ=
ic
house, they might be seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer havi=
ng a
latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which sustained h=
im
under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin Poyser was not a
frequenter of public houses, but he liked a friendly chat over his own
home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid
neighbour who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it was also an
agreeable variety to learn something from a clever fellow like Adam Bede.
Accordingly, for the last three years - ever since he had superintended the
building of the new barn - Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Fa=
rm,
especially of a winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashi=
on,
master and mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that glorious
kitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the last
two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her uncle say, =
‘Adam
Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a master-man some day, as su=
re
as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is in the right on't to want him to go
partners and marry his daughter, if it's true what they say; the woman as
marries him 'ull have a good take, be't Lady day or Michaelmas,’ a re=
mark
which Mrs. Poyser always followed up with her cordial assent. ‘Ah,=
217;
she would say, ‘it's all very fine having a ready-made rich man, but
mayhappen he'll be a ready-made fool; and it's no use filling your pocket f=
ull
o' money if you've got a hole in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in=
a
spring-cart o' your own, if you've got a soft to drive you: he'll soon turn=
you
over into the ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brai=
ns;
for where's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled to=
a
geck as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself fine to =
sit
back'ards on a donkey.’
These expressions, though figurati=
ve,
sufficiently indicated the bent of Mrs. Poyser's mind with regard to Adam; =
and
though she and her husband might have viewed the subject differently if Het=
ty
had been a daughter of their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed
the match with Adam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been b=
ut a
servant elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a
domestic help to her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not be=
en
equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of servants and
children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement. Even in =
the
moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his superiority to her ot=
her
admirers, she had never brought herself to think of accepting him. She like=
d to
feel that this strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, and would h=
ave
been indignant if he had shown the least sign of slipping from under the yo=
ke
of her coquettish tyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, w=
ho
would have been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. R=
16;Mary
Burge, indeed! Such a sallow-faced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon,
she looked as yellow as a crow-flower and her hair was as straight as a han=
k of
cotton.’ And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from the =
Hall
Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion as a foolish
one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by little airs of meek=
ness
and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his neglect. But as to marrying
Adam, that was a very different affair! There was nothing in the world to t=
empt
her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a shade deeper when his name was
mentioned; she felt no thrill when she saw him passing along the causeway by
the window, or advancing towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the
meadow; she felt nothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph=
of
knowing that he loved her and would not care to look at Mary Burge. He coul=
d no
more stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young love
than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the subtle fibres=
of
the plant. She saw him as he was - a poor man with old parents to keep, who
would not be able, for a long while to come, to give her even such luxuries=
as
she shared in her uncle's house. And Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to
sit in a carpeted parlour, and always wear white stockings; to have some la=
rge
beautiful ear-rings, such as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace =
round
the top of her gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, like
Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to be obli=
ged
to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich
and could have given her these things, she loved him well enough to marry h=
im.
But for the last few weeks a new
influence had come over Hetty - vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no
self-confessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant narcotic effect,
making her tread the ground and go about her work in a sort of dream,
unconscious of weight or effort, and showing her all things through a soft,
liquid veil, as if she were living not in this solid world of brick and sto=
ne,
but in a beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. H=
etty
had become aware that Mr Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of troub=
le
for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself at church so as=
to
have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing; that he was constan=
tly
finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, and always would contrive to s=
ay
something for the sake of making her speak to him and look at him. The poor
child no more conceived at present the idea that the young squire could eve=
r be
her lover than a baker's pretty daughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor
distinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, conceives that she shall be
made empress. But the baker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome
young emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking wha=
t a
heavenly lot it must be to have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had g=
ot a
face and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, soft
glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy
languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so fine as
Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching tenderness, but
they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little silly imagination, whereas
Adam's could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For three weeks, at
least, her inward life had consisted of little else than living through in
memory the looks and words Arthur had directed towards her - of little else
than recalling the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the ho=
use,
and saw him enter, and became conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and
then became conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that
seemed to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with=
an
odour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish
thoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years ago,=
and
Hetty was quite uneducated - a simple farmer's girl, to whom a gentleman wi=
th a
white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until to-day, she had never loo=
ked
farther into the future than to the next time Captain Donnithorne would com=
e to
the Farm, or the next Sunday when she should see him at church; but now she
thought, perhaps he would try to meet her when she went to the Chase to-mor=
row
- and if he should speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by!
That had never happened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing =
the
past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow - whereabout in the C=
hase
she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new rose-colo=
ured
ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say to her to make her
return his glance - a glance which she would be living through in her memor=
y,
over and over again, all the rest of the day.
In this state of mind, how could H=
etty
give any feeling to Adam's troubles, or think much about poor old Thias bei=
ng
drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympatheti=
c as
butterflies sipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier=
of
dreams - by invisible looks and impalpable arms.
While Hetty's hands were busy pack=
ing
up the butter, and her head filled with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur
Donnithorne, riding by Mr Irwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Br=
ook,
had also certain indistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his
mind while he was listening to Mr Irwine's account of Dinah - indistinct, y=
et
strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr Irwine suddenly sai=
d, ‘What
fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have you become an amateu=
r of
damp quarries and skimming dishes?’
Arthur knew the rector too well to
suppose that a clever invention would be of any use, so he said, with his
accustomed frankness, ‘No, I went to look at the pretty butter-maker
Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe; and if I were an artist, I would paint =
her.
It's amazing what pretty girls one sees among the farmers' daughters, when =
the
men are such clowns. That common, round, red face one sees sometimes in the=
men
- all cheek and no features, like Martin Poyser's - comes out in the women =
of
the famuly as the most charming phiz imaginable.’
‘Well, I have no objection to
your contemplating Hetty in an artistic light, but I must not have you feed=
ing
her vanity and filling her little noddle with the notion that she's a great
beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's
wife - honest Craig's, for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances=
on
her. The little puss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as
miserable as it's a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a
beauty. Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get settled, now t=
he
poor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and I'=
ve a
notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest girl, Mary
Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day when I was talkin=
g to
him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he looked uneasy and turned t=
he
conversation. I suppose the love-making doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam
hangs back till he's in a better position. He has independence of spirit en=
ough
for two men - rather an excess of pride, if anything.’
‘That would be a capital mat=
ch
for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's shoes and make a fine thing of that
building business, I'll answer for him. I should like to see him well settl=
ed
in this parish; he would be ready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wan=
ted
one. We could plan no end of repairs and improvements together. I've never =
seen
the girl, though, I think - at least I've never looked at her.’
‘Look at her next Sunday at
church - she sits with her father on the left of the reading-desk. You need=
n't
look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I've made up my mind that I c=
an't
afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a
strong fancy to me and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmet=
ic
and inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my wisd=
om
there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had become cheap, I best=
ow
it upon you.’
‘Thank you. It may stand me =
in
good stead some day though I don't know that I have any present use for it.
Bless me! How the brook has overflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're=
at
the bottom of the hill.’
That is the great advantage of
dialogue on horseback; it can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter,=
and
one might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends
were free from the necessity of further conversation till they pulled up in=
the
lane behind Adam's cottage.
AT five o'clock Lisbeth came
downstairs with a large key in her hand: it was the key of the chamber where
her husband lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional outburst=
s of
wailing grief, she had been in incessant movement, performing the initial
duties to her dead with the awe and exactitude that belong to religious rit=
es.
She had brought out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for l=
ong
years kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday - that =
time
so many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay, that =
he
might be sure and reach it out for her when SHE died, for she was the elder=
of
the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to the strictest purity
every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing from it every trace of
common daily occupation. The small window, which had hitherto freely let in=
the
frosty moonlight or the warm summer sunrise on the working man's slumber, m=
ust
now be darkened with a fair white sheet, for this was the sleep which is as
sacred under the bare rafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a
long-neglected and unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; f=
or
the moments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do the
smallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in all her
thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never dead to us u=
ntil
we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they
know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all=
the
kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence. And the aged peas=
ant
woman most of all believes that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was w=
hat
Lisbeth had been thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with an
indistinct expectation that she should know when she was being carried to t=
he
churchyard, followed by her husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the
greatest work of her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried
decently before her - under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had
thought she lay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above and
smelt the white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she w=
ent
to be churched after Adam was born.
But now she had done everything th=
at
could be done to-day in the chamber of death - had done it all herself, with
some aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be fetched to h=
elp
her from the village, not being fond of female neighbours generally; and her
favourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr Burge's, who had come to condole
with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death, was too
dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and now held the ke=
y in
her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chair that stood out of its p=
lace
in the middle of the house floor, where in ordinary times she would never h=
ave
consented to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that day; it was
soiled with the tread of muddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other obje=
cts
out of place. But what at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbe=
th's
habits of order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it w=
as
right that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, now the =
old
man had come to his end in that sad way; the kitchen ought not to look as if
nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitations and exertions of t=
he
day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep on a bench in the works=
hop;
and Seth was in the back kitchen making a fire of sticks that he might get =
the
kettle to boil, and persuade his mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence
which she rarely allowed herself.
There was no one in the kitchen wh=
en
Lisbeth entered and threw herself into the chair. She looked round with bla=
nk
eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone
dismally; it was all of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind - that
confusion which belongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor
human soul is like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a
vast city, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it is the
growing or the dying day - not knowing why and whence came this illimitable
scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate in the midst of i=
t.
At another time Lisbeth's first
thought would have been, ‘Where is Adam?’ but the sudden death =
of
her husband had restored him in these hours to that first place in her
affections which he had held six-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his
faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of
nothing but the young husband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her ey=
es
continued to wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of =
the
scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might set out
his mother's tea upon it.
‘What art goin' to do?’
she said, rather peevishly.
‘I want thee to have a cup of
tea, Mother,’ answered Seth, tenderly. ‘It'll do thee good; and
I'll put two or three of these things away, and make the house look more
comfortable.’
‘Comfortable! How canst talk=
o'
ma'in' things comfortable? Let a-be, let a-be. There's no comfort for me no
more,’ she went on, the tears coming when she began to speak, ‘=
now
thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed for and mended, an' got's victual for
him for thirty 'ear, an' him allays so pleased wi' iverything I done for hi=
m,
an' used to be so handy an' do the jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered =
wi'
th' babby, an' made me the posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could=
be,
an' carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er
grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sist=
er,
as war dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to be dr=
ownded
in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an' come home togethe=
r,
an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put my plates an' things on, a=
n'
showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause he know'd I should be pleased. A=
n'
he war to die an' me not to know, but to be a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I
caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me to live to see that! An' us as war young
folks once, an' thought we should do rarely when we war married. Let a-be, =
lad,
let a-be! I wonna ha' no tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. Wh=
en
one end o' th' bridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin'? I
may's well die, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me=
.’
Here Lisbeth broke from words into
moans, swaying herself backwards and forwards on her chair. Seth, always ti=
mid
in his behaviour towards his mother, from the sense that he had no influence
over her, felt it was useless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this
passion was past; so he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire
and folding up his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since
morning - afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest he sh=
ould
irritate her further.
But after Lisbeth had been rocking
herself and moaning for some minutes, she suddenly paused and said aloud to
herself, ‘I'll go an' see arter Adam, for I canna think where he's
gotten; an' I want him to go upstairs wi' me afore it's dark, for the minut=
es
to look at the corpse is like the meltin' snow.’
Seth overheard this, and coming in=
to
the kitchen again, as his mother rose from her chair, he said, ‘Adam's
asleep in the workshop, mother. Thee'dst better not wake him. He was
o'erwrought with work and trouble.’
‘Wake him? Who's a-goin' to =
wake
him? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' at him. I hanna seen the lad this two ho=
ur -
I'd welly forgot as he'd e'er growed up from a babby when's feyther carried
him.’
Adam was seated on a rough bench, =
his
head supported by his arm, which rested from the shoulder to the elbow on t=
he
long planing-table in the middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat
down for a few minutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his
first attitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday,
looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his forehead, =
and
his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon watching and sorrow.=
His
brow was knit, and his whole face had an expression of weariness and pain. =
Gyp
was evidently uneasy, for he sat on his haunches, resting his nose on his
master's stretched-out leg, and dividing the time between licking the hand =
that
hung listlessly down and glancing with a listening air towards the door. The
poor dog was hungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was
waiting impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this feel=
ing
on Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advanced towards
Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awaken him was
immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to find vent in
anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his eyes and saw
his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike his dream, for his s=
leep
had been little more than living through again, in a fevered delirious way,=
all
that had happened since daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was
present to him through it all. The chief difference between the reality and=
the
vision was that in his dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bod=
ily
presence - strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which she =
had
nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his mother angry =
by
coming into the house; and he met her with her smart clothes quite wet thro=
ugh,
as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, to tell the coroner. But wherever
Hetty came, his mother was sure to follow soon; and when he opened his eyes=
, it
was not at all startling to see her standing near him.
‘Eh, my lad, my lad!’
Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulse returning, for grief in =
its
freshness feels the need of associating its loss and its lament with every
change of scene and incident, ‘thee'st got nobody now but thy old mot=
her
to torment thee and be a burden to thee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger =
thee
no more; an' thy mother may's well go arter him - the sooner the better - f=
or
I'm no good to nobody now. One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's =
good
for nought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thy
victual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber, a-sit=
tin'
i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; he dreaded, of all
things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if thy feyther had lived, h=
e'd
ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room for another, for he could no more ha'
done wi'out me nor one side o' the scissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we
should ha' been both flung away together, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this
day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha' done for us both.’
Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat =
in
pained silence - he could not speak otherwise than tenderly to his mother
to-day, but he could not help being irritated by this plaint. It was not
possible for poor Lisbeth to know how it affected Adam any more than it is
possible for a wounded dog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his
master. Like all complaining women, she complained in the expectation of be=
ing
soothed, and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more
bitterly.
‘I know thee couldst do bett=
er
wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee likedst an' marry them as thee
likedst. But I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut;
I'd ne'er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, t=
hey
may think theirsens well off to get the bit an' the sup, though they'n to
swallow ill words wi't. An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring =
thee
nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee,
I'll say nought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor=
an
old haft when the blade's gone.’
Adam, unable to bear this any long=
er,
rose silently from the bench and walked out of the workshop into the kitche=
n.
But Lisbeth followed him.
‘Thee wutna go upstairs an' =
see
thy feyther then? I'n done everythin' now, an' he'd like thee to go an' loo=
k at
him, for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him.’
Adam turned round at once and said=
, ‘Yes,
mother; let us go upstairs. Come, Seth, let us go together.’
They went upstairs, and for five
minutes all was silence. Then the key was turned again, and there was a sou=
nd
of footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again; he was too we=
ary
and worn-out to encounter more of his mother's querulous grief, and he went=
to
rest on his bed. Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she
threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as
before. Seth thought, ‘She will be quieter by and by, now we have been
upstairs’; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his little
fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.
Lisbeth had been rocking herself in
this way for more than five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward
movement of her body, when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, =
and
a sweet treble voice said to her, ‘Dear sister, the Lord has sent me =
to
see if I can be a comfort to you.’
Lisbeth paused, in a listening
attitude, without removing her apron from her face. The voice was strange to
her. Could it be her sister's spirit come back to her from the dead after a=
ll
those years? She trembled and dared not look.
Dinah, believing that this pause of
wonder was in itself a relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just ye=
t,
but quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, =
on
hearing her voice, had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the b=
ack
of Lisbeth's chair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friend=
ly
presence.
Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron,
and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a fa=
ce -
a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. =
Her
wonder increased; perhaps it WAS an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had
laid her hand on Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It w=
as a
much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah
had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of labour =
from
her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, a=
nd
then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said, with something of restor=
ed
courage, but in a tone of surprise, ‘Why, ye're a workin' woman!̵=
7;
‘Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and=
I
work in the cotton-mill when I am at home.’
‘Ah!’ said Lisbeth slo=
wly,
still wondering; ‘ye comed in so light, like the shadow on the wall, =
an'
spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit. Ye've got a'most the f=
ace
o' one as is a-sittin' on the grave i' Adam's new Bible.’
‘I come from the Hall Farm n=
ow.
You know Mrs. Poyser - she's my aunt, and she has heard of your great
affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm come to see if I can be any help to =
you
in your trouble; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no
daughter; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of God was heavy upon
you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to =
you
in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let me.’
‘Ah! I know who y' are now; =
y'
are a Methody, like Seth; he's tould me on you,’ said Lisbeth fretful=
ly,
her overpowering sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. ‘Y=
e'll
make it out as trouble's a good thing, like HE allays does. But where's the=
use
o' talkin' to me a-that'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'll
ne'er make me believe as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's =
bed,
if he must die, an' ha' the parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an'
tell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes when I war
angered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a sup he'd
swallow. But eh! To die i' the cold water, an' us close to him, an' ne'er to
know; an' me a-sleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no more nor if he'd =
been
a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where!’
Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock
herself again; and Dinah said, ‘Yes, dear friend, your affliction is
great. It would be hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy=
to
bear. God didn't send me to you to make light of your sorrow, but to mourn =
with
you, if you will let me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was mak=
ing
merry with your friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit
down and rejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share those
good things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your lab=
our,
and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won't send me awa=
y?
You're not angry with me for coming?’
‘Nay, nay; angered! who said=
I
war angered? It war good on you to come. An' Seth, why donna ye get her some
tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, but ye donna thi=
nk
o' gettin' 't for them as wants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you
kindly for comin', for it's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet
fields to see an old woman like me....Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my own - =
ne'er
had one - an' I warna sorry, for they're poor queechy things, gells is; I
allays wanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'ull be
marryin' - I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye make the
tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day - it's all one
what I swaller - it's all got the taste o' sorrow wi't.’
Dinah took care not to betray that=
she
had had her tea, and accepted Lisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sa=
ke
of persuading the old woman herself to take the food and drink she so much
needed after a day of hard work and fasting.
Seth was so happy now Dinah was in=
the
house that he could not help thinking her presence was worth purchasing wit=
h a
life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he
reproached himself - it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's =
sad
death. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah WOULD triumph - it was like=
the
influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And the feeling even
suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother's notice, while s=
he
was drinking her tea.
‘Thee may'st well talk o'
trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for thee thriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if
thee know'dst no more o' care an' cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin'
awake i' th' cradle. For thee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' A=
dam
ne'er 'ud lie still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o'
meal as can ne'er be bruised - though, for the matter o' that, thy poor fey=
ther
war just such another. But ye've got the same look too’ (here Lisbeth
turned to Dinah). ‘I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'm a-fi=
ndin'
faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an' somehow ye looken
sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o' trouble, they're like to
thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an' take it away from them as donna
like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty; for when I'd gotten my old man I war
worreted from morn till night; and now he's gone, I'd be glad for the worst
o'er again.’
‘Yes,’ said Dinah, car=
eful
not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, for her reliance, in her smallest w=
ords
and deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman's tact
which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy; ‘yes, I remember too, w=
hen
my dear aunt died, I longed for the sound of her bad cough in the nights,
instead of the silence that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, d=
rink
this other cup of tea and eat a little more.’
‘What!’ said Lisbeth,
taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous tone, ‘had ye got no
feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about your aunt?’
‘No, I never knew a father or
mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby. She had no children, for she was
never married and she brought me up as tenderly as if I'd been her own chil=
d.’
‘Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye,
I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby, an' her a lone woman - it's ill
bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresay ye warna franzy, for ye look as if y=
e'd
ne'er been angered i' your life. But what did ye do when your aunt died, an'
why didna ye come to live in this country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt
too?’
Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's atten=
tion
was attracted, told her the story of her early life - how she had been brou=
ght
up to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people =
had
a hard life there - all the details that she thought likely to interest
Lisbeth. The old woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously
subject to the soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while =
she
was persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this,
believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in
disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her sid=
e.
Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinah would li=
ke
to be left alone with his mother.
Lisbeth sat watching her as she mo=
ved
about in her still quick way, and said at last, ‘Ye've got a notion o'
cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend t=
he
lad's wage i' fine clothes an' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this
countryside. I reckon folks is different at Snowfield from what they are he=
re.’
‘They have a different sort =
of
life, many of 'em,’ said Dinah; ‘they work at different things =
- some
in the mill, and many in the mines, in the villages round about. But the he=
art
of man is the same everywhere, and there are the children of this world and=
the
children of light there as well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists
there than in this country.’
‘Well, I didna know as the
Methody women war like ye, for there's Will Maskery's wife, as they say's a=
big
Methody, isna pleasant to look at, at all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An'=
I'm
thinkin' I wouldna mind if ye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to s=
ee
ye i' th' house i' th' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at
Mester Poyser's.’
‘No,’ said Dinah, R=
16;they
don't expect me, and I should like to stay, if you'll let me.’
‘Well, there's room; I'n got=
my
bed laid i' th' little room o'er the back kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me.
I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me to speak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice=
way
o' talkin'. It puts me i' mind o' the swallows as was under the thack last =
'ear
when they fust begun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my o=
ld
man war fond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again t=
his
'ear. Happen THEY'RE dead too.’
‘There,’ said Dinah, &=
#8216;now
the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear Mother - for I'm your daughter to-nig=
ht,
you know - I should like you to wash your face and have a clean cap on. Do =
you
remember what David did, when God took away his child from him? While the c=
hild
was yet alive he fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither=
eat
nor drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child. B=
ut
when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and anointed
himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and when they asked him
how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now the child was dead,=
he
said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can
tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now h=
e is
dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to hi=
m,
but he shall not return to me.'‘
‘Eh, that's a true word,R=
17;
said Lisbeth. ‘Yea, my old man wonna come back to me, but I shall go =
to
him - the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi' me: there's a c=
lean
cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the back kitchen an' wash my face. An' S=
eth,
thee may'st reach down Adam's new Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall r=
ead
us a chapter. Eh, I like them words - 'I shall go to him, but he wonna come
back to me.'‘
Dinah and Seth were both inwardly
offering thanks for the greater quietness of spirit that had come over Lisb=
eth.
This was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through all her still
sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had
experience among the sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrive=
lled
through poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of the
mode in which they could best be touched and softened into willingness to
receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressed it, &=
#8216;she
was never left to herself; but it was always given her when to keep silence=
and
when to speak.’ And do we not all agree to call rapid thought and nob=
le
impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlest analysis of the ment=
al
process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our
best deeds are all given to us.
And so there was earnest prayer - =
there
was faith, love, and hope pouring forth that evening in the little kitchen.=
And
poor, aged, fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without go=
ing
through any course of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and
love, and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing
life. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, under the
subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be patient and
still.
IT was but half-past four the next
morning when Dinah, tired of lying awake listening to the birds and watching
the growing light through the little window in the garret roof, rose and be=
gan
to dress herself very quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already
some one else was astir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by =
Gyp.
The dog's pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but
Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth,=
for
he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night before. Seth, howe=
ver,
had only just awakened at the sound of the opening door. The exciting influ=
ence
of the previous day, heightened at last by Dinah's unexpected presence, had=
not
been counteracted by any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary
amount of hard work; and so when he went to bed; it was not till he had tir=
ed
himself with hours of tossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a
heavier morning sleep than was usual with him.
But Adam had been refreshed by his
long rest, and with his habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager=
to
begin the new day and subdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The
white mist lay in the valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he
would start to work again when he had had his breakfast.
‘There's nothing but what's
bearable as long as a man can work,’ he said to himself; ‘the n=
atur
o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing =
but
change. The square o' four is sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in
proportion to your weight, is as true when a man's miserable as when he's
happy; and the best o' working is, it gives you a grip hold o' things outsi=
de your
own lot.’
As he dashed the cold water over h=
is
head and face, he felt completely himself again, and with his black eyes as
keen as ever and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh moistur=
e,
he went into the workshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin,
intending that he and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge's and
have the coffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might =
not
see and hear the sad task going forward at home.
He had just gone into the workshop
when his quick ear detected a light rapid foot on the stairs - certainly not
his mother's. He had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had come in, in the
evening, and now he wondered whose step this could be. A foolish thought ca=
me,
and moved him strangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person
likely to be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have
the clear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he h=
ad
taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpreted for hi=
m so
pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with a timid tendernes=
s.
The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed by the sound of the
sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the lightest breeze that cha=
ses
the autumn leaves along the dusty path; and Adam's imagination saw a dimpled
face, with dark bright eyes and roguish smiles looking backward at this bru=
sh,
and a rounded figure just leaning a little to clasp the handle. A very fool=
ish
thought - it could not be Hetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsen=
se
from his head was to go and see WHO it was, for his fancy only got nearer a=
nd
nearer to belief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank and we=
nt
to the kitchen door.
‘How do you do, Adam Bede?=
8217;
said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from her sweeping and fixing her mi=
ld
grave eyes upon him. ‘I trust you feel rested and strengthened again =
to
bear the burden and heat of the day.’
It was like dreaming of the sunshi=
ne
and awaking in the moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always=
at
the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious of any woman's prese=
nce
except Hetty's, and he had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that
Seth was in love with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn
towards her for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black
gown, and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force that belong=
s to
a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two=
he
made no answer, but looked at her with the concentrated, examining glance w=
hich
a man gives to an object in which he has suddenly begun to be interested.
Dinah, for the first time in her life, felt a painful self-consciousness; t=
here
was something in the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different
from the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, whi=
ch
deepened as she wondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his
forgetfulness.
‘I was quite taken by surpri=
se;
it was very good of you to come and see my mother in her trouble,’ he
said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she
came to be there. ‘I hope my mother was thankful to have you,’ =
he
added, wondering rather anxiously what had been Dinah's reception.
‘Yes,’ said Dinah,
resuming her work, ‘she seemed greatly comforted after a while, and s=
he's
had a good deal of rest in the night, by times. She was fast asleep when I =
left
her.’
‘Who was it took the news to=
the
Hall Farm?’ said Adam, his thoughts reverting to some one there; he
wondered whether SHE had felt anything about it.
‘It was Mr Irwine, the
clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved for your mother when she heard =
it,
and wanted me to come; and so is my uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but=
he
was gone out to Rosseter all yesterday. They'll look for you there as soon =
as
you've got time to go, for there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad=
to
see you.’
Dinah, with her sympathetic
divination, knew quite well that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said
anything about their trouble; she was too rigorously truthful for benevolent
invention, but she had contrived to say something in which Hetty was tacitly
included. Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who p=
lays
at solitary hide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the wh=
ile
disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind was direc=
tly
full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, when Hetty would per=
haps
behave more kindly to him than she had ever done before.
‘But you won't be there your=
self
any longer?’ he said to Dinah.
‘No, I go back to Snowfield =
on
Saturday, and I shall have to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time f=
or
the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm to-night, that I may h=
ave
the last day with my aunt and her children. But I can stay here all to-day,=
if
your mother would like me; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last ni=
ght.’
‘Ah, then, she's sure to want
you to-day. If mother takes to people at the beginning, she's sure to get f=
ond
of 'em; but she's a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to be su=
re,’
Adam went on, smiling, ‘her not liking other young women is no reason=
why
she shouldn't like you.’
Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at
this conversation in motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and
alternately looking up in his master's face to watch its expression and
observing Dinah's movements about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Ad=
am
uttered the last words was apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in whi=
ch
the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside
her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against her
hand in a friendly way.
‘You see Gyp bids you welcom=
e,’
said Adam, ‘and he's very slow to welcome strangers.’
‘Poor dog!’ said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, ‘I've a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for the dogs always, though perhaps ther= e's no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say half what we feel, with all our words.’<= o:p>
Seth came down now, and was please= d to find Adam talking with Dinah; he wanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into= the workshop to consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning.<= o:p>
By six o'clock they were all at
breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as clean as she could have made it hers=
elf.
The window and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a mingled
scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by t=
he
side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about, serv=
ing
the others with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had g=
ot
ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mo=
ther
gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent since she came
downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her ideas to a state of
things in which she came down like a lady to find all the work done, and sat
still to be waited on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the remembrance=
of
her grief. At last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence:
‘Ye might ha' made the parri=
dge
worse,’ she said to Dinah; ‘I can ate it wi'out its turnin' my
stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no harm, an' I allays putte=
n a
sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' know that? The lads arena like to g=
et
folks as 'll make their parridge as I'n made it for 'em; it's well if they =
get
onybody as 'll make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin';=
for
ye're a stirrin' body in a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've clean=
ed
th' house well enough for a ma'shift.’
‘Makeshift, mother?’ s=
aid
Adam. ‘Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I don't know how it co=
uld
look better.’
‘Thee dostna know? Nay; how's
thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether the floor's cleaned or cat-licked.=
But
thee'lt know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it's like enough to be w=
hen
I'n gi'en o'er makin' it. Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then=
.’
‘Dinah,’ said Seth, =
8216;do
come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We're all served now.’=
‘Aye, come an' sit ye down -=
do,’
said Lisbeth, ‘an' ate a morsel; ye'd need, arter bein' upo' your legs
this hour an' half a'ready. Come, then,’ she added, in a tone of
complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, ‘I'll be loath =
for
ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' =
th'
house better nor wi' most folks.’
‘I'll stay till to-night if
you're willing,’ said Dinah. ‘I'd stay longer, only I'm going b=
ack
to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with my aunt to-morrow.’
‘Eh, I'd ne'er go back to th=
at
country. My old man come from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he =
war
a young un, an' i' the right on't too; for he said as there war no wood the=
re,
an' it 'ud ha' been a bad country for a carpenter.’
‘Ah,’ said Adam, ̵=
6;I
remember father telling me when I was a little lad that he made up his mind=
if
ever he moved it should be south'ard. But I'm not so sure about it. Bartle
Massey says - and he knows the South - as the northern men are a finer breed
than the southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And
then he says in some o' those counties it's as flat as the back o' your han=
d,
and you can see nothing of a distance without climbing up the highest trees=
. I
couldn't abide that. I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bi=
t of
a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a
bit of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place,=
and
there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself=
.’
‘I like th' hills best,̵=
7;
said Seth, ‘when the clouds are over your head and you see the sun
shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I've often done o' late,=
on
the stormy days. It seems to me as if that was heaven where there's always =
joy
and sunshine, though this life's dark and cloudy.’
‘Oh, I love the Stonyshire s=
ide,’
said Dinah; ‘I shouldn't like to set my face towards the countries wh=
ere
they're rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread;=
and
to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard
life and the men spend their days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's
very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hil=
l,
to feel the love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, st=
one
houses, where there's nothing else to give comfort.’
‘Eh!’ said Lisbeth, =
8216;that's
very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha' l=
ived
for days an' days when I'n gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an=
' a
peep o' daylight; but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country=
. It
makes less mouths for the scant cake. But,’ she went on, looking at A=
dam,
‘donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy fey=
ther
and mother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin' o=
n.
I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard of a Sund=
ay.’
‘Donna fear, mother,’ =
said
Adam. ‘If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha' been gone
before now.’
He had finished his breakfast now,=
and
rose as he was speaking.
‘What art goin' to do?’
asked Lisbeth. ‘Set about thy feyther's coffin?’
‘No, mother,’ said Ada=
m; ‘we're
going to take the wood to the village and have it made there.’
‘Nay, my lad, nay,’
Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; ‘thee wotna let nobody m=
ake
thy feyther's coffin but thysen? Who'd make it so well? An' him as know'd w=
hat
good work war, an's got a son as is the head o' the village an' all Treddle=
s'on
too, for cleverness.’
‘Very well, mother, if that's
thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home; but I thought thee wouldstna like to
hear the work going on.’
‘An' why shouldna I like 't?
It's the right thing to be done. An' what's liking got to do wi't? It's cho=
ice
o' mislikings is all I'n got i' this world. One morsel's as good as another
when your mouth's out o' taste. Thee mun set about it now this mornin' fust
thing. I wonna ha' nobody to touch the coffin but thee.’
Adam's eyes met Seth's, which look=
ed
from Dinah to him rather wistfully.
‘No, Mother,’ he said,=
‘I'll
not consent but Seth shall have a hand in it too, if it's to be done at hom=
e.
I'll go to the village this forenoon, because Mr Burge 'ull want to see me,=
and
Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and =
then
he can go.’
‘Nay, nay,’ persisted
Lisbeth, beginning to cry, ‘I'n set my heart on't as thee shalt ma' t=
hy
feyther's coffin. Thee't so stiff an' masterful, thee't ne'er do as thy mot=
her
wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi' thy feyther when he war alive; thee
must be the better to him now he's gone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for =
Seth
to ma's coffin.’
‘Say no more, Adam, say no m=
ore,’
said Seth, gently, though his voice told that he spoke with some effort; =
8216;Mother's
in the right. I'll go to work, and do thee stay at home.’
He passed into the workshop
immediately, followed by Adam; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old
habits, began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dina=
h to
take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the
opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop.
They had already got on their apro=
ns
and paper caps, and Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth's shoulder,
while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were
looking at. Their backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered,
and she came in so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they
heard her voice saying, ‘Seth Bede!’ Seth started, and they both
turned round. Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on
Seth's face, saying with calm kindness, ‘I won't say farewell. I shall
see you again when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it
will be quite soon enough.’
‘Thank you, Dinah; I should =
like
to walk home with you once more. It'll perhaps be the last time.’
There was a little tremor in Seth's
voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, ‘You'll have sweet peace in y=
our
mind to-day, Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged
mother.’
She turned round and left the work=
shop
as quickly and quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her
closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon as she was go=
ne,
he said, ‘I don't wonder at thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a fa=
ce
like a lily.’
Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and
lips: he had never yet confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a
delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered, ‘Aye, Addy, I do lo=
ve
her - too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only as one child o' =
God
loves another. She'll never love any man as a husband - that's my belief.=
8217;
‘Nay, lad, there's no tellin=
g;
thee mustna lose heart. She's made out o' stuff with a finer grain than mos=
t o'
the women; I can see that clear enough. But if she's better than they are in
other things, I canna think she'll fall short of 'em in loving.’
No more was said. Seth set out to =
the
village, and Adam began his work on the coffin.
‘God help the lad, and me to=
o,’
he thought, as he lifted the board. ‘We're like enough to find life a
tough job - hard work inside and out. It's a strange thing to think of a ma=
n as
can lift a chair with his teeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and
turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' t=
he
world. It's a mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the
sprouting o' the seed, for that matter.’
THAT same Thursday morning, as Art=
hur
Donnithorne was moving about in his dressing-room seeing his well-looking
British person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a
dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens,=
who
ought to have been minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion wi=
th
himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over h=
is
shoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution.
‘I mean to go to Eagledale a=
nd
fish for a week or so,’ he said aloud. ‘I shall take you with m=
e,
Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready by half-past eleven.’
The low whistle, which had assisted
him in arriving at this resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing
tenor, and the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite so=
ng
from the Beggar's Opera, ‘When the heart of a man is oppressed with c=
are.’
Not an heroic strain; nevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he st=
rode
towards the stables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation
was necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite
gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yet
forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his own vir=
tues.
No young man could confess his faults more candidly; candour was one of his
favourite virtues; and how can a man's candour be seen in all its lustre un=
less
he has a few failings to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence that h=
is
faults were all of a generous kind - impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never
crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to =
do
anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. ‘No! I'm a devil of a fellow for
getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on=
my
own shoulders.’ Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice in
hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst
consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly expressed wish. =
It
was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of things that Arthur h=
ad
ever brought any one into trouble besides himself. He was nothing if not
good-natured; and all his pictures of the future, when he should come into =
the
estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their
landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman - mansion in
first-rate order, all elegance and high taste - jolly housekeeping, finest =
stud
in Loamshire - purse open to all public objects - in short, everything as
different as possible from what was now associated with the name of
Donnithorne. And one of the first good actions he would perform in that fut=
ure
should be to increase Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that=
he
might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for =
the
rector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection partly
filial, partly fraternal - fraternal enough to make him like Irwine's compa=
ny
better than that of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink
strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation.
You perceive that Arthur Donnithor=
ne
was ‘a good fellow’ - all his college friends thought him such.=
He
couldn't bear to see any one uncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in
his angriest moods for any harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt
Lydia herself had the benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore towards
the whole sex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as
harmless and purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was a
question that no one had yet decided against him; he was but twenty-one, you
remember, and we don't inquire too closely into character in the case of a
handsome generous young fellow, who will have property enough to support
numerous peccadilloes - who, if he should unfortunately break a man's legs =
in
his rash driving, will be able to pension him handsomely; or if he should
happen to spoil a woman's existence for her, will make it up to her with
expensive bon-bons, packed up and directed by his own hand. It would be
ridiculous to be prying and analytic in such cases, as if one were inquiring
into the character of a confidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlema=
nly
epithets about a young man of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine
intuition which is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once t=
hat
he is ‘nice.’ The chances are that he will go through life with=
out
scandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse to insure.
Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes make terribly
evident some flaw in their construction that would never have been discover=
able
in smooth water; and many a ‘good fellow,’ through a disastrous
combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal.
But we have no fair ground for
entertaining unfavourable auguries concerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this
morning proves himself capable of a prudent resolution founded on conscienc=
e.
One thing is clear: Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray
with perfect comfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never get beyond =
that
border-land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assaults from =
the
other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of Vice, and wear h=
er
orders in his button-hole.
It was about ten o'clock, and the =
sun
was shining brilliantly; everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's
rain. It is a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled
gravel on one's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent =
of
the stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be among the
soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it some irritation=
to
Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables; everything was mana=
ged
in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather persisted in retaining as head gr=
oom
an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old habits, and who=
was
allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one=
of
whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on
Arthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embittering; one can p=
ut
up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of
vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be
expected to endure long together without danger of misanthropy.
Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled f=
ace
was the first object that met Arthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, =
and
it quite poisoned for him the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch
there. He could never speak quite patiently to the old blockhead.
‘You must have Meg saddled f=
or
me and brought to the door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Rattler
saddled for Pym at the same time. Do you hear?’
‘Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n,=
’
said old John very deliberately, following the young master into the stable.
John considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and
young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world.
Arthur went in for the sake of pat=
ting
Meg, declining as far as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he
should lose his temper before breakfast. The pretty creature was in one of =
the
inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master came beside her. Litt=
le
Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comforta=
bly
curled up on her back.
‘Well, Meg, my pretty girl,&=
#8217;
said Arthur, patting her neck, ‘we'll have a glorious canter this
morning.’
‘Nay, your honour, I donna s=
ee
as that can be,’ said John.
‘Not be? Why not?’
‘Why, she's got lamed.’=
;
‘Lamed, confound you! What do
you mean?’
‘Why, th' lad took her too c=
lose
to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em flung out at her, an' she's got her shank
bruised o' the near foreleg.’
The judicious historian abstains f= rom narrating precisely what ensued. You understand that there was a great deal= of strong language, mingled with soothing ‘who-ho's’ while the leg= was examined; that John stood by with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved crab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne prese= ntly repassed the iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went.<= o:p>
He considered himself thoroughly
disappointed and annoyed. There was not another mount in the stable for him=
self
and his servant besides Meg and Rattler. It was vexatious; just when he wan=
ted
to get out of the way for a week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to
allow such a combination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with =
a broken
arm when every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himself at Windsor=
- shut
up with his grandfather, who had the same sort of affection for him as for =
his
parchment deeds! And to be disgusted at every turn with the management of t=
he
house and the estate! In such circumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill
humour, and works off the irritation by some excess or other. ‘Salkeld
would have drunk a bottle of port every day,’ he muttered to himself,=
‘but
I'm not well seasoned enough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale,
I'll have a gallop on Rattler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawa=
ine.’
Behind this explicit resolution th=
ere
lay an implicit one. If he lunched with Gawaine and lingered chatting, he
should not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would be safe=
out
of his sight in the housekeeper's room; and when she set out to go home, it
would be his lazy time after dinner, so he should keep out of her way
altogether. There really would have been no harm in being kind to the little
thing, and it was worth dancing with a dozen ballroom belles only to look at
Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any more notice =
of
her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted; though Arthu=
r,
for his part, thought girls were not by any means so soft and easily bruise=
d;
indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and cunning as he was
himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's case, it was out of the question:
Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond for himself with perfect confidenc=
e.
So the twelve o'clock sun saw him
galloping towards Norburne; and by good fortune Halsell Common lay in his r=
oad
and gave him some fine leaps for Rattler. Nothing like ‘taking’=
a
few bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon; and it is really astonishing
that the Centaurs, with their immense advantages in this way, have left so =
bad
a reputation in history.
After this, you will perhaps be
surprised to hear that although Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in
the courtyard had scarcely cleared the last stroke of three when Arthur
returned through the entrance-gates, got down from the panting Rattler, and
went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been=
men
since his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and then
galloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favourite stratag=
em
of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round upon us at the
moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own.
‘The cap'n's been ridin' the
devil's own pace,’ said Dalton the coachman, whose person stood out in
high relief as he smoked his pipe against the stable wall, when John brough=
t up
Rattler.
‘An' I wish he'd get the dev=
il
to do's grooming for'n,’ growled John.
‘Aye; he'd hev a deal haimab=
ler
groom nor what he has now,’ observed Dalton - and the joke appeared to
him so good that, being left alone upon the scene, he continued at interval=
s to
take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imaginary audience and =
shake
luxuriously with a silent, ventral laughter, mentally rehearsing the dialog=
ue
from the beginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' ha=
ll.
When Arthur went up to his
dressing-room again after luncheon, it was inevitable that the debate he had
had with himself there earlier in the day should flash across his mind; but=
it
was impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance - impossible to reca=
ll
the feelings and reflections which had been decisive with him then, any more
than to recall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when he
first opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an
ill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the force with which this tri=
vial
fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous as he brushed his h=
air
- pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was because he had made a
serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if it were of any
consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty to-day, and get rid of =
the
whole thing from his mind. It was all Irwine's fault. ‘If Irwine had =
said
nothing, I shouldn't have thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg's lamenes=
s.’
However, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he w=
ould
go and finish Dr. Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in
Fir-tree Grove - the way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Fa=
rm.
So nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a mere
circumstance of his walk, not its object.
Arthur's shadow flitted rather fas=
ter
among the sturdy oaks of the Chase than might have been expected from the
shadow of a tired man on a warm afternoon, and it was still scarcely four
o'clock when he stood before the tall narrow gate leading into the delicious
labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the Chase, and which was called
Fir-tree Grove, not because the firs were many, but because they were few. =
It
was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there a light silver-stemmed
birch - just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs: you see their whi=
te
sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behind the
smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid laughter=
- but
if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish behind the sil=
very
beeches, they make you believe that their voice was only a running brooklet,
perhaps they metamorphose themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers aw=
ay
and mocks you from the topmost bough. It was not a grove with measured gras=
s or
rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy
paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss - paths which look as if th=
ey
were made by the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently as=
ide
to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs.
It was along the broadest of these
paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches.=
It
was a still afternoon - the golden light was lingering languidly among the
upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple pathway and i=
ts
edge of faintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in which destiny disguises her
cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings,
and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled along carelessly,
with a book under his arm, but not looking on the ground as meditative men =
are
apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on the distant bend in the road ro=
und
which a little figure must surely appear before long. Ah! There she comes.
First a bright patch of colour, like a tropic bird among the boughs; then a
tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a small basket under her arm; the=
n a
deep-blushing, almost frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy
with a fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had =
had
time to think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feel
fluttered too, be conscious of blushing too - in fact, look and feel as foo=
lish
as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expecte=
d.
Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood wh=
en
they would have stood face to face, eyeing each other with timid liking, th=
en
given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together.
Arthur would have gone home to his silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her
home-spun pillow, and both would have slept without dreams, and to-morrow w=
ould
have been a life hardly conscious of a yesterday.
Arthur turned round and walked by
Hetty's side without giving a reason. They were alone together for the first
time. What an overpowering presence that first privacy is! He actually dared
not look at this little butter-maker for the first minute or two. As for He=
tty,
her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs; she had
forgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of her limbs
than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting on a liquid=
bed
and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams. It may seem a contradiction, but Art=
hur
gathered a certain carelessness and confidence from his timidity: it was an
entirely different state of mind from what he had expected in such a meeting
with Hetty; and full as he was of vague feeling, there was room, in those m=
oments
of silence, for the thought that his previous debates and scruples were
needless.
‘You are quite right to choo=
se
this way of coming to the Chase,’ he said at last, looking down at He=
tty;
‘it is so much prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of t=
he
lodges.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Hetty
answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice. She didn't know one bit
how to speak to a gentleman like Mr Arthur, and her very vanity made her mo=
re
coy of speech.
‘Do you come every week to s=
ee
Mrs. Pomfret?’
‘Yes, sir, every Thursday, o=
nly
when she's got to go out with Miss Donnithorne.’
‘And she's teaching you
something, is she?’
‘Yes, sir, the lace-mending =
as
she learnt abroad, and the stocking-mending - it looks just like the stocki=
ng,
you can't tell it's been mended; and she teaches me cutting-out too.’=
‘What! are YOU going to be a
lady's maid?’
‘I should like to be one very
much indeed.’ Hetty spoke more audibly now, but still rather tremulou=
sly;
she thought, perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke
Britton did to her.
‘I suppose Mrs. Pomfret alwa=
ys
expects you at this time?’
‘She expects me at four o'cl=
ock.
I'm rather late to-day, because my aunt couldn't spare me; but the regular =
time
is four, because that gives us time before Miss Donnithorne's bell rings.=
8217;
‘Ah, then, I must not keep y=
ou
now, else I should like to show you the Hermitage. Did you ever see it?R=
17;
‘No, sir.’
‘This is the walk where we t=
urn
up to it. But we must not go now. I'll show it you some other time, if you'd
like to see it.’
‘Yes, please, sir.’
‘Do you always come back this
way in the evening, or are you afraid to come so lonely a road?’
‘Oh no, sir, it's never late=
; I
always set out by eight o'clock, and it's so light now in the evening. My a=
unt
would be angry with me if I didn't get home before nine.’
‘Perhaps Craig, the gardener,
comes to take care of you?’
A deep blush overspread Hetty's fa=
ce
and neck. ‘I'm sure he doesn't; I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let
him; I don't like him,’ she said hastily, and the tears of vexation h=
ad
come so fast that before she had done speaking a bright drop rolled down her
hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was crying, and for one =
long
instant her happiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal r=
ound
her, and a gentle voice said, ‘Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn=
't
mean to vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come,
don't cry; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me.’
Arthur had laid his hand on the so=
ft
arm that was nearest to him, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of
coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that =
were
bent towards her with a sweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time
those three moments were while their eyes met and his arms touched her! Lov=
e is
such a simple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a sweet gi=
rl
of seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud first opening =
her
heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls ro=
ll
to meet each other like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are at res=
t;
they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask for nothing but to entwine
themselves and ripple with ever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-p=
laces.
While Arthur gazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference=
to
him what sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops and powder had been in
fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then that Hetty
wanted those signs of high breeding.
But they started asunder with beat=
ing
hearts: something had fallen on the ground with a rattling noise; it was
Hetty's basket; all her little workwoman's matters were scattered on the pa=
th,
some of them showing a capability of rolling to great lengths. There was mu=
ch
to be done in picking up, and not a word was spoken; but when Arthur hung t=
he
basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his =
look
and manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tone that w=
ere
almost chilling to her, ‘I have been hindering you; I must not keep y=
ou
any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye.’
Without waiting for her to speak, =
he
turned away from her and hurried back towards the road that led to the Herm=
itage,
leaving Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream that seemed to have begu=
n in
bewildering delight and was now passing into contrarieties and sadness. Wou=
ld
he meet her again as she came home? Why had he spoken almost as if he were
displeased with her? And then run away so suddenly? She cried, hardly knowi=
ng
why.
Arthur too was very uneasy, but his
feelings were lit up for him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to
the Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the door with=
a
hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant
corner, and thrusting his right hand into his pocket, first walked four or =
five
times up and down the scanty length of the little room, and then seated him=
self
on the ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish n=
ot
to abandon ourselves to feeling.
He was getting in love with Hetty =
- that
was quite plain. He was ready to pitch everything else - no matter where - =
for
the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling which had just
disclosed itself. It was no use blinking the fact now - they would get too =
fond
of each other, if he went on taking notice of her - and what would come of =
it?
He should have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would be
miserable. He MUST NOT see her alone again; he must keep out of her way. Wh=
at a
fool he was for coming back from Gawaine's!
He got up and threw open the windo=
ws,
to let in the soft breath of the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the fi=
rs
that made a belt round the Hermitage. The soft air did not help his resolut=
ion,
as he leaned out and looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his
resolution sufficiently fixed: there was no need to debate with himself any
longer. He had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he might g=
ive
himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would be if circumstances
were different - how pleasant it would have been to meet her this evening as
she came back, and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet face=
. He
wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him too - twenty to one =
she
was. How beautiful her eyes were with the tear on their lashes! He would li=
ke
to satisfy his soul for a day with looking at them, and he MUST see her aga=
in -
he must see her, simply to remove any false impression from her mind about =
his
manner to her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her - just =
to
prevent her from going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that
would be the best thing to do after all.
It was a long while - more than an
hour before Arthur had brought his meditations to this point; but once arri=
ved
there, he could stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up
with movement until he should see Hetty again. And it was already late enou=
gh
to go and dress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six.
IT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had =
had
a slight quarrel with Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning =
- a
fact which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs.
Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary
lady's maid with so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best's
conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority =
as
an interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence of =
mind
than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in an occasional ̵=
6;yes’
or ‘no.’ She would have wanted to put on her hat earlier than
usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually set out about
eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD go to the Grove again expecting to see her,=
and
she should be gone! Would he come? Her little butterfly soul fluttered
incessantly between memory and dubious expectation. At last the minute-hand=
of
the old-fashioned brazen-faced timepiece was on the last quarter to eight, =
and
there was every reason for its being time to get ready for departure. Even =
Mrs.
Pomfret's preoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked li=
ke a
new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the
looking-glass.
‘That child gets prettier and
prettier every day, I do believe,’ was her inward comment. ‘The
more's the pity. She'll get neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for
it. Sober well-to-do men don't like such pretty wives. When I was a girl, I=
was
more admired than if I had been so very pretty. However, she's reason to be
grateful to me for teaching her something to get her bread with, better than
farm-house work. They always told me I was good-natured - and that's the tr=
uth,
and to my hurt too, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here n=
ow
to lord it over me in the housekeeper's room.’
Hetty walked hastily across the sh=
ort
space of pleasure-ground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr Cra=
ig,
to whom she could hardly have spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she=
had
got safely under the oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she wa=
s as
ready to be startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She thou=
ght
nothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleys between t=
he
fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visible than it had be=
en
in the overpowering flood of noon: she thought of nothing that was present.=
She
only saw something that was possible: Mr Arthur Donnithorne coming to meet =
her
again along the Fir-tree Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty's picture;
behind it lay a bright hazy something - days that were not to be as the oth=
er
days of her life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, =
who
might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There =
was
no knowing what would come, since this strange entrancing delight had come.=
If
a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some unkno=
wn
source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot was going to chan=
ge,
and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joy would befall her? Hetty =
had
never read a novel; if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have =
been
too hard for her; how then could she find a shape for her expectations? They
were as formless as the sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, wh=
ich
had floated past her as she walked by the gate.
She is at another gate now - that
leading into Fir-tree Grove. She enters the wood, where it is already twili=
ght,
and at every step she takes, the fear at her heart becomes colder. If he sh=
ould
not come! Oh, how dreary it was - the thought of going out at the other end=
of
the wood, into the unsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches t=
he
first turning towards the Hermitage, walking slowly - he is not there. She
hates the leveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is n=
ot
what she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in=
the
road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: her heart h=
as
swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one great sob, while the
corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down.
She doesn't know that there is ano=
ther
turning to the Hermitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur
Donnithorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and a though=
t of
which she only is the object. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the
longing which has been growing through the last three hours to a feverish
thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had
unguardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a
kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from
running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation.
If Hetty had known he was there, s=
he
would not have cried; and it would have been better, for then Arthur would
perhaps have behaved as wisely as he had intended. As it was, she started w=
hen
he appeared at the end of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two gre=
at
drops rolling down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a
soft, soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in h=
er
foot?
‘Has something frightened yo=
u,
Hetty? Have you seen anything in the wood? Don't be frightened - I'll take =
care
of you now.’
Hetty was blushing so, she didn't =
know
whether she was happy or miserable. To be crying again - what did gentlemen
think of girls who cried in that way? She felt unable even to say ‘no=
,’
but could only look away from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not be=
fore
a great drop had fallen on her rose-coloured strings - she knew that quite
well.
‘Come, be cheerful again. Sm=
ile
at me, and tell me what's the matter. Come, tell me.’
Hetty turned her head towards him,
whispered, ‘I thought you wouldn't come,’ and slowly got courag=
e to
lift her eyes to him. That look was too much: he must have had eyes of Egyp=
tian
granite not to look too lovingly in return.
‘You little frightened bird!
Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won't cry again, now I'm with you, will
you?’
Ah, he doesn't know in the least w=
hat
he is saying. This is not what he meant to say. His arm is stealing round t=
he
waist again; it is tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and
nearer to the round cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, a=
nd
for a long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for au=
ght
he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be Eros
himself, sipping the lips of Psyche - it is all one.
There was no speaking for minutes
after. They walked along with beating hearts till they came within sight of=
the
gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not quite as t=
hey
had looked before, for in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss.
But already something bitter had b=
egun
to mingle itself with the fountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomforta=
ble.
He took his arm from Hetty's waist, and said, ‘Here we are, almost at=
the
end of the Grove. I wonder how late it is,’ he added, pulling out his
watch. ‘Twenty minutes past eight - but my watch is too fast. However,
I'd better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet,
and get home safely. Good-bye.’
He took her hand, and looked at her
half-sadly, half with a constrained smile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech h=
im
not to go away yet; but he patted her cheek and said ‘Good-bye’
again. She was obliged to turn away from him and go on.
As for Arthur, he rushed back thro=
ugh
the wood, as if he wanted to put a wide space between himself and Hetty. He
would not go to the Hermitage again; he remembered how he had debated with
himself there before dinner, and it had all come to nothing - worse than
nothing. He walked right on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, w=
hich
surely was haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes - the=
re
was something enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knotted =
old
oaks had no bending languor in them - the sight of them would give a man so=
me
energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in the fern, winding
about without seeking any issue, till the twilight deepened almost to night
under the great boughs, and the hare looked black as it darted across his p=
ath.
He was feeling much more strongly =
than
he had done in the morning: it was as if his horse had wheeled round from a
leap and dared to dispute his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself,
irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequen=
ces
of giving way to the emotions which had stolen over him to-day - of continu=
ing
to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caress=
es
as he had been betrayed into already - than he refused to believe such a fu=
ture
possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very different affair from
flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that was understood to be an
amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to
marriage. But this little thing would be spoken ill of directly, if she
happened to be seen walking with him; and then those excellent people, the
Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious as if they had the best blood =
in
the land in their veins - he should hate himself if he made a scandal of th=
at
sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and among tenants by w=
hom
he liked, above all, to be respected. He could no more believe that he shou=
ld
so fall in his own esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on
crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that
position; it was too odious, too unlike him.
And even if no one knew anything a=
bout
it, they might get too fond of each other, and then there could be nothing =
but
the misery of parting, after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marr=
y a
farmer's niece. There must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too
foolish.
And yet he had been so determined =
this
morning, before he went to Gawaine's; and while he was there something had
taken hold of him and made him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite dep=
end
on his own resolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm
would get painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfor=
t it
would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse might se=
ize
him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there was nothing to occupy =
him
imperiously through the livelong day. What could he do to secure himself fr=
om
any more of this folly?
There was but one resource. He wou=
ld
go and tell Irwine - tell him everything. The mere act of telling it would =
make
it seem trivial; the temptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words
vanishes when one repeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would he=
lp
him to tell Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after
breakfast to-morrow.
Arthur had no sooner come to this
determination than he began to think which of the paths would lead him home,
and made as short a walk thither as he could. He felt sure he should sleep =
now:
he had had enough to tire him, and there was no more need for him to think.=
WHILE that parting in the wood was
happening, there was a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood wi=
th
Adam at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth a=
nd
Dinah, as they mounted the opposite slope.
‘Eh, I'm loath to see the la=
st
on her,’ she said to Adam, as they turned into the house again. ̵=
6;I'd
ha' been willin' t' ha' her about me till I died and went to lie by my old =
man.
She'd make it easier dyin' - she spakes so gentle an' moves about so still.=
I
could be fast sure that pictur' was drawed for her i' thy new Bible - th' a=
ngel
a-sittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in a daughter
like that; but nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught.’
‘Well, Mother, I hope thee W=
ILT
have her for a daughter; for Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll=
get
a liking for Seth in time.’
‘Where's th' use o' talkin'
a-that'n? She caresna for Seth. She's goin' away twenty mile aff. How's she=
to
get a likin' for him, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'o=
ut
the leaven. Thy figurin' books might ha' tould thee better nor that, I shou=
ld
think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does=
.’
‘Nay, Mother,’ said Ad=
am,
laughing, ‘the figures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far
without 'em, but they don't tell us about folks's feelings. It's a nicer jo=
b to
calculate THEM. But Seth's as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and
plenty o' sense, and good-looking too; and he's got the same way o' thinkin=
g as
Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's a rare bit o'
workmanship. You don't see such women turned off the wheel every day.’=
;
‘Eh, thee't allays stick up =
for
thy brother. Thee'st been just the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns togeth=
er.
Thee wart allays for halving iverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do =
with
marryin', as is on'y three-an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by
sixpence. An' as for his desarving her - she's two 'ear older nor Seth: she=
's
pretty near as old as thee. But that's the way; folks mun allays choose by
contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork - a bit o' good meat w=
i' a
bit o' offal.’
To the feminine mind in some of its
moods, all things that might be receive a temporary charm from comparison w=
ith
what is; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt
rather peevish on that score - as peevish as she would have been if he HAD
wanted to marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the
partnership as effectually as by marrying Hetty.
It was more than half-past eight w=
hen
Adam and his mother were talking in this way, so that when, about ten minut=
es
later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate,=
she
saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited f=
or
them to come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in the=
ir
walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to Seth in
these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands;
Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone.
‘Seth Bede would have come a=
nd
spoken to you, my dear,’ she said, as she reached Hetty, ‘but h=
e's
very full of trouble to-night.’
Hetty answered with a dimpled smil=
e,
as if she did not quite know what had been said; and it made a strange cont=
rast
to see that sparkling self-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm
pitying face, with its open glance which told that her heart lived in no
cherished secrets of its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with=
all
the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how w=
as
it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for=
her
when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take Totty off=
her
hands - little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and
that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinah had never said anything
disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during her whole visit to the Hall Far=
m;
she had talked to her a great deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn't mind =
that
much, for she never listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost always
stroked Hetty's cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah
was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in the same way as one might =
imagine
a little perching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look=
at
the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did not care =
to
solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was meant by the
pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folio Bible that Marty and
Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday.
Dinah took her hand now and drew it
under her own arm.
‘You look very happy to-nigh=
t,
dear child,’ she said. ‘I shall think of you often when I'm at
Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is now. It's a strange thing -=
sometimes
when I'm quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, or walking ov=
er
the hills, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a few days,
are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move
almost plainer than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could
touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their l=
ot
as if it was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and
resting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure =
you
will come before me.’
She paused a moment, but Hetty said
nothing.
‘It has been a very precious
time to me,’ Dinah went on, ‘last night and to-day - seeing two
such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for
their aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has done, for these
many years, to help his father and his brother; it's wonderful what a spiri=
t of
wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of =
them
that are feeble. And I'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it o=
ften
among my own people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often=
the
gentlest to the women and children; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying the
little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the babies
always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be so with Ad=
am
Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty abst=
ractedly,
for her mind had been all the while in the wood, and she would have found it
difficult to say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined =
to
talk, but there would not have been time to say much more, for they were no=
w at
the yard-gate.
The still twilight, with its dying
western red and its few faint struggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, wh=
ere
there was not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the
stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to
roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with=
the
black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling-to of the gate disturbed
them and set them barking, like good officials, before they had any distinct
knowledge of the reason.
The barking had its effect in the
house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a port=
ly
figure, with a ruddy black-eyed face which bore in it the possibility of
looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days, but=
had
now a predominant after-supper expression of hearty good-nature. It is well
known that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their
criticism of other men's scholarship have yet been of a relenting and indul=
gent
temper in private life; and I have heard of a learned man meekly rocking the
twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he inflicted t=
he
most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance=
of
Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven - alas! they are not alien t=
o us
- but the man who takes the wrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebr=
ew
points must be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of
antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a disposition t=
hat
he had been kinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he=
had
made a deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neighbours m=
ore
charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for
example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't know the rudiments=
of
hedging and ditching, and showed but a small share of judgment in the purch=
ase
of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hard and implacable as the north-east=
wind.
Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser
detected in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was
palpable in all his farming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the
pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Royal George on market-day, and =
the
mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critic=
al
expression into his black eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly
glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door. Mr Poyser had
smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, as the only
resource of a man who continues to sit up after the day's business is done.=
‘Why, lasses, ye're rather l=
ate
to-night,’ he said, when they reached the little gate leading into the
causeway. ‘The mother's begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the
little un ill. An' how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much
down about the old man? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five year.=
’
‘She's been greatly distress=
ed
for the loss of him,’ said Dinah, ‘but she's seemed more comfor=
ted
to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day, working at his father's coffin,
and she loves to have him at home. She's been talking about him to me almost
all the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to fret and =
be
fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her in her old age.’=
‘Adam's sure enough,’ =
said
Mr Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's wish. ‘There's no fear but he'll
yield well i' the threshing. He's not one o' them as is all straw and no gr=
ain.
I'll be bond for him any day, as he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say
he'd be coming to see us soon? But come in, come in,’ he added, making
way for them; ‘I hadn't need keep y' out any longer.’
The tall buildings round the yard =
shut
out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to s=
how
every corner of the house-place.
Mrs. Poyser, seated in the
rocking-chair, which had been brought out of the ‘right-hand parlour,=
’
was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep; a=
nd
when her cousins entered, she raised herself up and showed a pair of flushed
cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were defined by the edge of =
her
linen night-cap.
In the large wicker-bottomed arm-c=
hair
in the left-hand chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and
bleached image of his portly black-haired son - his head hanging forward a
little, and his elbows pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his for=
earm
to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his
knees, as was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he =
sat
watching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old age,
which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon=
the
floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant purposeless tenac=
ity,
watches the flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the wall, counts t=
he
quarries on the floor, watches even the hand of the clock, and pleases itse=
lf
with detecting a rhythm in the tick.
‘What a time o' night this i=
s to
come home, Hetty!’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘Look at the clock, do; wh=
y,
it's going on for half-past nine, and I've sent the gells to bed this half-=
hour,
and late enough too; when they've got to get up at half after four, and the
mowers' bottles to fill, and the baking; and here's this blessed child wi' =
the
fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody =
to
help me to give her the physic but your uncle, and fine work there's been, =
and
half of it spilt on her night-gown - it's well if she's swallowed more nor =
'ull
make her worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use ha=
ve
allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be done.R=
17;
‘I did set out before eight,
aunt,’ said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a slight toss of her head.=
‘But
this clock's so much before the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what
time it'll be when I get here.’
‘What! You'd be wanting the
clock set by gentlefolks's time, would you? An' sit up burnin' candle, an' =
lie
a-bed wi' the sun a-bakin' you like a cowcumber i' the frame? The clock has=
n't
been put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon.’
The fact was, Hetty had really
forgotten the difference of the clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne th=
at
she set out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly
half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted f=
rom
this tender subject by Totty, who, perceiving at length that the arrival of=
her
cousins was not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular,
began to cry, ‘Munny, munny,’ in an explosive manner.
‘Well, then, my pet, Mother's
got her, Mother won't leave her; Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep n=
ow,’
said Mrs. Poyser, leaning back and rocking the chair, while she tried to ma=
ke
Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, ‘Don=
't
yock!’ So the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives to=
the
quickest temperament, sat up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen
night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer.
‘Come, Hetty,’ said Ma=
rtin
Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, ‘go and get your supper i' the pantry=
, as
the things are all put away; an' then you can come and take the little un w=
hile
your aunt undresses herself, for she won't lie down in bed without her moth=
er.
An' I reckon YOU could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a house
down there.’
‘No, thank you, Uncle,’
said Dinah; ‘I ate a good meal before I came away, for Mrs. Bede would
make a kettle-cake for me.’
‘I don't want any supper,=
217;
said Hetty, taking off her hat. ‘I can hold Totty now, if Aunt wants =
me.’
‘Why, what nonsense that is =
to
talk!’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘Do you think you can live wi'out eati=
n',
an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' red ribbons on your head? Go an' get y=
our
supper this minute, child; there's a nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe -=
just
what you're fond of.’
Hetty complied silently by going
towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyser went on speaking to Dinah.
‘Sit down, my dear, an' look=
as
if you knowed what it was to make yourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I
warrant the old woman was glad to see you, since you stayed so long.’=
‘She seemed to like having me
there at last; but her sons say she doesn't like young women about her
commonly; and I thought just at first she was almost angry with me for goin=
g.’
‘Eh, it's a poor look-out wh=
en
th' ould folks doesna like the young uns,’ said old Martin, bending h=
is
head down lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with his =
eye.
‘Aye, it's ill livin' in a
hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas,’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘W=
e've
all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be't good luck or ill.’
‘But she must learn to
'commodate herself to young women,’ said Mr Poyser, ‘for it isn=
't
to be counted on as Adam and Seth 'ull keep bachelors for the next ten year=
to
please their mother. That 'ud be unreasonable. It isn't right for old nor y=
oung
nayther to make a bargain all o' their own side. What's good for one's good=
all
round i' the long run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they
know the difference atween a crab an' a apple; but they may wait o'er long.=
’
‘To be sure,’ said Mrs.
Poyser; ‘if you go past your dinner-time, there'll be little relish o'
your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' don't eat it after =
all.
You find faut wi' your meat, an' the faut's all i' your own stomach.’=
Hetty now came back from the pantry
and said, ‘I can take Totty now, Aunt, if you like.’
‘Come, Rachel,’ said Mr
Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing that Totty was at last nestl=
ing
quietly, ‘thee'dst better let Hetty carry her upstairs, while thee ta=
k'st
thy things off. Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on t=
he
pain in thy side again.’
‘Well, she may hold her if t=
he
child 'ull go to her,’ said Mrs. Poyser.
Hetty went close to the rocking-ch=
air,
and stood without her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty,
simply waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands.
‘Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my
dilling, while mother gets ready to go to bed? Then Totty shall go into
Mother's bed, and sleep there all night.’
Before her mother had done speakin=
g,
Totty had given her answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow,
setting her tiny teeth against her underlip, and leaning forward to slap He=
tty
on the arm with her utmost force. Then, without speaking, she nestled to her
mother again.
‘Hey, hey,’ said Mr
Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, ‘not go to Cousin Hetty? Th=
at's
like a babby. Totty's a little woman, an' not a babby.’
‘It's no use trying to persu=
ade
her,’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘She allays takes against Hetty when she
isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah.’
Dinah, having taken off her bonnet=
and
shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to th=
rust
herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But now =
she
came forward, and, putting out her arms, said, ‘Come Totty, come and =
let
Dinah carry her upstairs along with Mother: poor, poor Mother! she's so tir=
ed -
she wants to go to bed.’
Totty turned her face towards Dina=
h,
and looked at her an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little ar=
ms,
and let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any
sign of ill humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with =
an
air of indifference, to see if she should be told to do anything else.
‘You may make the door fast =
now,
Poyser; Alick's been come in this long while,’ said Mrs. Poyser, risi=
ng
with an appearance of relief from her low chair. ‘Get me the matches
down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i' my room. Come, Father=
.’
The heavy wooden bolts began to ro=
ll
in the house doors, and old Martin prepared to move, by gathering up his bl=
ue
handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the
corner. Mrs. Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the
gandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms - all going to bed by twilight,
like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her two
boys lay; just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear f=
or a
moment their light regular breathing.
‘Come, Hetty, get to bed,=
217;
said Mr Poyser, in a soothing tone, as he himself turned to go upstairs. =
8216;You
didna mean to be late, I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day.
Good-night, my wench, good-night.’
HETTY and Dinah both slept in the
second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with=
no
blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength
from the rising of the moon - more than enough strength to enable Hetty to =
move
about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in
the old painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she could s=
ee
the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could see a reflect=
ion
of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was
needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her
night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into an ill temper with it
almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in i=
ts
day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of a cen=
tury
before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer co=
uld
say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it=
had
a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decid=
ed
jerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without
giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass
candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the =
very
last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkl=
ed
over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, instead of
swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so th=
at
she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be h=
ad
only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the
dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawe=
rs,
the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass
handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all
comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent t=
hem
from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent=
on
her peculiar form of worship than usual.
Having taken off her gown and white
kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her pettic=
oat,
and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two s=
hort
bits of wax candle - secretly bought at Treddleston - and stuck them in the=
two
brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted the cand=
les;
and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotche=
s.
It was into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating
herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning her head on one side, for a
minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper dra=
wer.
She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture=
of
a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the
dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely
rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delic=
ate
rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a =
dark
curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her b=
rush
and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, still like the
picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely ima=
ge,
none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin - such a=
s I
feel sure heroines must generally wear - but of a dark greenish cotton text=
ure.
Oh yes! She was very pretty. Capta=
in
Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope - prettier than
any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase - indeed it seemed
fine ladies were rather old and ugly - and prettier than Miss Bacon, the mi=
ller's
daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at her=
self
to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt befor=
e;
there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the
flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things =
she
had heard in the wood; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose-scent of
his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly consciou=
s of
her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrat=
ing
in return.
But Hetty seemed to have made up h=
er
mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black la=
ce
scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacr=
ed
drawer from which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full =
of
rents, but it would make a becoming border round her shoulders, and set off=
the
whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-rings she=
had
in her ears - oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored! -=
and
put in those large ones. They were but coloured glass and gilding, but if y=
ou
didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what the la=
dies
wore. And so she sat down again, with the large ear-rings in her ears, and =
the
black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms:=
no
arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow - they were whi=
te
and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thou=
ght
with vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work that
ladies never did.
Captain Donnithorne couldn't like =
her
to go on doing work: he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin sho=
es,
and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must love her
very much - no one else had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in th=
at
way. He would want to marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly da=
re
to shape the thought - yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, =
as Mr
James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever
found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry.=
The
doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know h=
ow
it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anyt=
hing
about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came acro=
ss
him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew. It had
never entered her mind that he had been young like other men; he had always
been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible=
to
think how it would be! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great
gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he
liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she shou=
ld
be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded
silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Mi=
ss
Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one even=
ing
as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should=
not
be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey,=
but
very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometim=
es
in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one - she didn't know which she l=
iked
best; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her
carriage - or rather, they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine t=
hese
things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all th=
is
splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little
red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on=
the
floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picki=
ng
it up; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like
stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and
coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the g=
reat
glass ear-rings in her ears.
How pretty the little puss looks in
that odd dress! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love =
with
her: there is such a sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the
delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her
great dark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if an
imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them.
Ah, what a prize the man gets who =
wins
a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding
breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange
blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be j=
ust
as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her character just as pliant.=
If
anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make=
her
what he likes - that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the lit=
tle
darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn=
't
consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances and movements are
just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such
circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows,
has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he
considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his brid=
e's
character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in th=
ose
eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a
flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dot=
e on
her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round thin=
gs
will hang about her like florets round the central flower; and the husband =
will
look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the
sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently,=
and
never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden ag=
e,
when the men were all wise and majestic and the women all lovely and loving=
.
It was very much in this way that =
our
friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into differe=
nt
words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself=
it
is only because she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her l=
ove,
whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess =
on
earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourse=
lf
if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman - if you e=
ver
COULD, without hard head-breaking demonstration, believe evil of the
Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the s=
ame
sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature of all. =
He
felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awak=
es
the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affection=
ate;
and if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself
being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fon=
d of
him. God made these dear women so - and it is a convenient arrangement in c=
ase
of sickness.
After all, I believe the wisest of=
us
must be beguiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and wors=
e of
people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracio=
us;
but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty
reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long
dark eyelashes, now - what can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not =
to
expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, =
in
spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with decei=
t,
peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betak=
en
myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One
begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between
eyelashes and morals; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of
the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us.
No eyelashes could be more beautif=
ul
than Hetty's; and now, while she walks with her pigeon-like stateliness alo=
ng
the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the
dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-def=
ined
pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but =
of
every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorn=
e is
very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and
everybody else is admiring and envying her - especially Mary Burge, whose n=
ew
print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent
toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the future=
- any
loving thought of her second parents - of the children she had helped to te=
nd -
of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood e=
ven?
Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them
from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamen=
tal
flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her =
past
life behind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had=
no
feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder a=
nd
the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers - perhaps
not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on
her uncle, who had been a good father to her - she hardly ever remembered to
reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor
happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her as =
she
walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very
fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and T=
ommy
and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life - as bad as buzzing
insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet.
Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the chil=
dren
born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the
other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days=
in
the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now,=
but
Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been,
because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the mak=
ing
and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should
never see a child again; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that t=
he
shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time;
for the lambs WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and
turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word ‘hatching,’ if her
aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the
proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from
under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was n=
ot
the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettine=
ss
of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston Fair with the mo=
ney
they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped do=
wn
to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very
acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemai=
d,
with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl,
and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolid
face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown earthen=
ware
pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it.
It is generally a feminine eye that
first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the ‘dear deceit=
217;
of beauty, so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and
abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair
estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in
moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the
subject to her husband.
‘She's no better than a peac=
ock,
as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all
the folks i' the parish was dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn=
i'
th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To thi=
nk
o' that dear cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud=
an'
crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded =
it,
I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it wa=
s a
babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr
Poyser, ‘thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like=
the
unripe grain; they'll make good meal by and by, but they're squashy as yet.
Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's got a good husband and childre=
n of
her own.’
‘I don't want to be hard upo'
the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when
she likes and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. =
An'
let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours - an' THAT I'=
ve
done, for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told h=
er
her duty often enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that
catchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house=
I'd
need have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having
roast meat at three fires; as soon as you've basted one, another's burnin'.=
’
Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of=
her
aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hi=
dden
without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in b=
its
of finery which Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to d=
ie
with shame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the doo=
r,
and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in=
her
scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door,
and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well: for there now cam=
e a
light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles =
and
throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her ear-rings, b=
ut
she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap
came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave H=
etty
for a short time and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered
Totty to her mother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining
Hetty's.
Dinah delighted in her bedroom win=
dow.
Being on the second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over =
the
fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the
window, where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on
entering her room was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the
peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedg=
erow
elms. She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next =
to
that the meadow where the grass was half-mown, and lay in silvered sweeping
lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on
which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come; but she
thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had =
just
as many charms. She thought of all the dear people whom she had learned to =
care
for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her lovi=
ng
remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that m=
ight
lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away
from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressure of
this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding still=
ness
of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intens=
ely
the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed
from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude.
Simply to close her eyes and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presenc=
e;
then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away li=
ke
ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with=
her
hands crossed on her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at
least ten minutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of
something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ear=
s in
a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud a=
nd
startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightl=
y.
She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that
Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She beg=
an
slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestions of this sound, her
thoughts became concentrated on Hetty - that sweet young thing, with life a=
nd
all its trials before her - the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother =
- and
her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish
pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome
journey in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkn=
ess.
Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious inter=
est
in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did=
not
love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any
warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness of her
behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would =
like
to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting
Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity: the lovely face and f=
orm
affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from sel=
fish
jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to t=
he
need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lil=
y-white
bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb.
By the time Dinah had undressed and
put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful
intensity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, =
in
which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tea=
rs
for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and
sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt=
a
deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender
warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already
asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still some slight nois=
es,
which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated; she=
was
not quite certain of a divine direction; the voice that told her to go to H=
etty
seemed no stronger that the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and
that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close he=
r heart
more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guida=
nce
than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her
Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. S=
he
knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened,
sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small t=
hick
Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window
ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinge=
r.
The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page: =
‘And
they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him.’ That was
enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when
Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She
hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on
Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her can=
dles
and throw off her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was
opened immediately. Dinah said, ‘Will you let me come in, Hetty?̵=
7;
and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door
wider and let her in.
What a strange contrast the two
figures made, visible enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty,=
her
cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary drama, her beauti=
ful
neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and t=
he
baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face
full of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has
returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearl=
y of
the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm rou=
nd
Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead.
‘I knew you were not in bed,=
my
dear,’ she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to He=
tty,
mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, =
216;for
I heard you moving; and I longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is =
the
last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-mor=
row
to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?̵=
7;
‘Oh yes,’ said Hetty,
hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that
Dinah looked as if she did not notice her ear-rings.
Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to
brush together her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of
excessive indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the
expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant =
of
all details.
‘Dear Hetty,’ she said=
, ‘It
has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble=
- trouble
is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more
comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you =
that
if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you=
and
love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you
come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words =
she
is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty, rat=
her
frightened. ‘But why should you think I shall be in trouble? Do you k=
now
of anything?’
Hetty had seated herself as she ti=
ed
on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answere=
d, ‘Because,
dear, trouble comes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things whi=
ch
it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we
love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with=
us;
sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we go
astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men.
There is no man or woman born into this world to whom some of these trials =
do
not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you; and I desire =
for
you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heaven=
ly
Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day=
.’
Dinah paused and released Hetty's
hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still; she felt no
response within herself to Dinah's anxious affection; but Dinah's words utt=
ered
with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush
had died away almost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious
pleasure-seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the
effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty,
full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began=
to
cry.
It is our habit to say that while =
the
lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a
complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this
comprehension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard
experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by t=
he
wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen He=
tty
affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she
trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thi=
ng,
and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that
excitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feel=
ings
may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became
irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said, =
with
a childish sobbing voice, ‘Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you com=
e to
frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Why can't you let me be?̵=
7;
Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too
wise to persist, and only said mildly, ‘Yes, my dear, you're tired; I
won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night.’=
;
She went out of the room almost as
quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her=
own
bed, she threw herself on her knees and poured out in deep silence all the
passionate pity that filled her heart.
As for Hetty, she was soon in the =
wood
again - her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more
fragmentary and confused.
ARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you remember, =
is
under an engagement with himself to go and see Mr Irwine this Friday mornin=
g,
and he is awake and dressing so early that he determines to go before
breakfast, instead of after. The rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at
half-past nine, the ladies of the family having a different breakfast-hour;
Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can
say everything best over a meal.
The progress of civilization has m=
ade
a breakfast or a dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome
and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now o=
ur
father confessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinc=
tly
conscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in an
enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an appetite f=
or
muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have
been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is quite a well-bred and
smiling procedure now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an ea=
sy
parenthesis between the second and third glasses of claret.
Still, there was this advantage in=
the
old rigid forms, that they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution =
by
some outward deed: when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a s=
tone
wall and are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are
more likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if y=
ou
were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany with a
companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothing
particular to say.
However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he
winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine, has a
sincere determination to open his heart to the rector, and the swirling sou=
nd
of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him becau=
se
of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather no=
w,
for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and ther=
e is
something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general and not mere=
ly
personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts on his state of mi=
nd
and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man about town might perh=
aps
consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child's story-b=
ook;
but when you are among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to mainta=
in a
consistent superiority to simple natural pleasures.
Arthur had passed the village of
Hayslope and was approaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turni=
ng
in the road, he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which it was
impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had be=
en
no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his u=
sual
rapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained=
too
much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chatting with
him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow did not owe some of =
its
force to the love of patronage: our friend Arthur liked to do everything th=
at
was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds recognized.
Adam looked round as he heard the
quickening clatter of the horse's heels, and waited for the horseman, lifti=
ng
his paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. Next to his=
own
brother Seth, Adam would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any
other young man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather
have lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it=
was
Arthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-haired la=
d of
eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam's lessons in carpentering =
and
turning as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous
thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in
those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modified as the
fair-haired lad had grown into the whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was
very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra
amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not be=
ing
a philosopher or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-lim=
bed
clever carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclin=
ed
him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for
questioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but=
he
saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with ill-seasoned tim=
ber
- by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops =
and
the like without knowing the bearings of things - by slovenly joiners' work,
and by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining somebo=
dy;
and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these
points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed
proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these=
it
would be better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himse=
lf.
He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were managed,=
and
the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had
asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion
without flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a R=
16;gentleman’
would have been strong within him all the while. The word ‘gentleman&=
#8217;
had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he ‘couldn't abide a fel=
low
who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to's betters.’ I must
remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins, and t=
hat
since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his
characteristics to be obsolete.
Towards the young squire this
instinctive reverence of Adam's was assisted by boyish memories and personal
regard so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur's good qualiti=
es,
and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had
been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt su=
re
it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire c=
ame
into the estate - such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and a=
n ‘uncommon’
notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was only just coming =
of
age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he
raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up.
‘Well, Adam, how are you?=
217;
said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the
farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. ‘I could swear to your back=
a
long way off. It's just the same back, only broader, as when you used to ca=
rry
me on it. Do you remember?’
‘Aye, sir, I remember. It 'u=
d be
a poor look-out if folks didn't remember what they did and said when they w=
ere
lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, t=
hen.’
‘You're going to Broxton, I
suppose?’ said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam
walked by his side. ‘Are you going to the rectory?’
‘No, sir, I'm going to see a=
bout
Bradwell's barn. They're afraid of the roof pushing the walls out, and I'm
going to see what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the work=
men.’
‘Why, Burge trusts almost
everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? I should think he will make you his
partner soon. He will, if he's wise.’
‘Nay, sir, I don't see as he=
'd
be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he's got a conscience and
delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I
wouldn't give a penny for a man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he did=
n't
get extra pay for it.’
‘I know that, Adam; I know y=
ou
work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have
more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account
perhaps. The old man must give up his business sometime, and he has no son;=
I
suppose he'll want a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasp=
ing
fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money
into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest so=
me
money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I'm su=
re I
should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year=
or
two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age; and when I've paid off=
a
debt or two, I shall be able to look about me.’
‘You're very good to say so,
sir, and I'm not unthankful. But’ - Adam continued, in a decided tone=
-
‘I shouldn't like to make any offers to Mr Burge, or t' have any made=
for
me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to dispose=
of
the business, that 'ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some mone=
y at
a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time.’
‘Very well, Adam,’ said
Arthur, remembering what Mr Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the
love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, ‘we'll say no more about it =
at
present. When is your father to be buried?’
‘On Sunday, sir; Mr Irwine's
coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it's over, for I think my
mother 'ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of =
old
people; they've no way o' working it off, and the new spring brings no new
shoots out on the withered tree.’
‘Ah, you've had a good deal =
of
trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don't think you've ever been
hare-brained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. You've always had so=
me
care on your mind.’
‘Why, yes, sir; but that's
nothing to make a fuss about. If we're men and have men's feelings, I recko=
n we
must have men's troubles. We can't be like the birds, as fly from their nes=
t as
soon as they've got their wings, and never know their kin when they see 'em=
, and
get a fresh lot every year. I've had enough to be thankful for: I've allays=
had
health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count=
it
a great thing as I've had Bartle Massey's night-school to go to. He's helpe=
d me
to knowledge I could never ha' got by myself.’
‘What a rare fellow you are,
Adam!’ said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly at=
the
big fellow walking by his side. ‘I could hit out better than most men=
at
Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if I were to ha=
ve a
battle with you.’
‘God forbid I should ever do
that, sir,’ said Adam, looking round at Arthur and smiling. ‘I =
used
to fight for fun, but I've never done that since I was the cause o' poor Gil
Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I'll never fight any man again, only
when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that's got no s=
hame
nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes
up.’
Arthur did not laugh, for he was
preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently, ‘I should
think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you
would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to
indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrel=
some
with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind th=
at
you won't do a thing, and then doing it after all?’
‘Well,’ said Adam, slo=
wly,
after a moment's hesitation, ‘no. I don't remember ever being see-saw=
in
that way, when I'd made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It
takes the taste out o' my mouth for things, when I know I should have a hea=
vy
conscience after 'em. I've seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a =
sum,
as you can never do what's wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than=
you
can ever see. It's like a bit o' bad workmanship - you never see th' end o'=
the
mischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to make =
your
fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better. But there's a difference betw=
een
the things folks call wrong. I'm not for making a sin of every little fool's
trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o' them
dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn't worthwhile to get=
a
bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see-s=
aw
about anything: I think my fault lies th' other way. When I've said a thing=
, if
it's only to myself, it's hard for me to go back.’
‘Yes, that's just what I
expected of you,’ said Arthur. ‘You've got an iron will, as wel=
l as
an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolution may be, it costs him
something to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather any
cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can't prevent o=
ur
mouths from watering.’
‘That's true, sir, but there=
's
nothing like settling with ourselves as there's a deal we must do without i'
this life. It's no use looking on life as if it was Treddles'on Fair, where
folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it
different. But where's the use o' me talking to you, sir? You know better t=
han
I do.’
‘I'm not so sure of that, Ad=
am.
You've had four or five years of experience more than I've had, and I think
your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me.̵=
7;
‘Why, sir, you seem to think=
o'
college something like what Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly makes
people like bladders - just good for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is po=
ured
into 'em. But he's got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has - it never
touches anything but it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you
good-morning, as you're going to the rectory.’
‘Good-bye, Adam, good-bye.=
8217;
Arthur gave his horse to the groom=
at
the rectory gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which opened=
on
the garden. He knew that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the
study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a
small low room, belonging to the old part of the house - dark with the somb=
re
covers of the books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this
morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant =
on
the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola pill=
ar
in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of t=
his
breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room enticing. In the
crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr Irwine, with that radiant freshness which =
he
always had when he came from his morning toilet; his finely formed plump wh=
ite
hand was playing along Juno's brown curly back; and close to Juno's tail, w=
hich
was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling ov=
er
each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little
removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these
familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possib=
le
of observing. On the table, at Mr Irwine's elbow, lay the first volume of t=
he
Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silver coffee-po=
t,
which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed =
the
delights of a bachelor breakfast.
‘Hallo, Arthur, that's a good
fellow! You're just in time,’ said Mr Irwine, as Arthur paused and
stepped in over the low window-sill. ‘Carroll, we shall want more cof=
fee
and eggs, and haven't you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that ham? W=
hy,
this is like old days, Arthur; you haven't been to breakfast with me these =
five
years.’
‘It was a tempting morning f=
or a
ride before breakfast,’ said Arthur; ‘and I used to like
breakfasting with you so when I was reading with you. My grandfather is alw=
ays
a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. I think
his morning bath doesn't agree with him.’
Arthur was anxious not to imply th=
at
he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr Irwi=
ne's
presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, sudden=
ly
appeared the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very mome=
nt
of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make
Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenes in the
wood; and how could he tell them without looking like a fool? And then his
weakness in coming back from Gawaine's, and doing the very opposite of what=
he
intended! Irwine would think him a shilly-shally fellow ever after. However=
, it
must come out in an unpremeditated way; the conversation might lead up to i=
t.
‘I like breakfast-time better
than any other moment in the day,’ said Mr Irwine. ‘No dust has
settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of
things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy the =
bits
I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I
should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor
fellow who has killed a hare, and when I've got through my 'justicing,' as =
Carroll
calls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I meet
with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous pa=
uper
to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I'm always the same lazy fellow bef=
ore
evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympathy, and I have ne=
ver
had that since poor D'Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books
well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But
scholarship doesn't run in your family blood.’
‘No indeed. It's well if I c=
an
remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament
six or seven years hence. 'Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,' and a few shreds=
of
that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as =
to
introduce them. But I don't think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing
want to a country gentleman; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a
knowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's books
lately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out some of =
his
ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their land; and, as =
he
says, making what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and
variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have any
power while he lives, but there's nothing I should like better than to
undertake the Stonyshire side of the estate - it's in a dismal condition - =
and
set improvements on foot, and gallop about from one place to another and
overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them touchi=
ng
their hats to me with a look of goodwill.’
‘Bravo, Arthur! A man who ha=
s no
feeling for the classics couldn't make a better apology for coming into the
world than by increasing the quantity of food to maintain scholars - and
rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of m=
odel
landlord may I be there to see. You'll want a portly rector to complete the
picture, and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your h=
ard
work. Only don't set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to get=
in
consequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those who try to be
useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole neighbourh=
ood
upon him about that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind wh=
ich
you are most bent upon, old boy - popularity or usefulness - else you may
happen to miss both.’
‘Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his
manners; he doesn't make himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don=
't
believe there's anything you can't prevail on people to do with kindness. F=
or
my part, I couldn't live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and
beloved. And it's very pleasant to go among the tenants here - they seem al=
l so
well inclined to me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I w=
as a
little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances
were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade them=
to
farm on a better plan, stupid as they are.’
‘Then mind you fall in love =
in
the right place, and don't get a wife who will drain your purse and make you
niggardly in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion ab=
out
you sometimes: she says, 'I ll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until=
I
see the woman he falls in love with.' She thinks your lady-love will rule y=
ou
as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pu=
pil
you know, and I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you
don't disgrace my judgment.’
Arthur winced under this speech, f=
or
keen old Mrs. Irwine's opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a
sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering in=
his
intention, and getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless=
, at
this point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclinatio=
n to
tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a gr=
eat
deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerning himself; and the me=
re
fact that he was in the presence of an intimate friend, who had not the
slightest notion that he had had any such serious internal struggle as he c=
ame
to confide, rather shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle.=
It
was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do =
for
him that he could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of
Meg's lameness - go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on t=
he
old hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next minut=
e,
as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered how thoroughly he had =
made
up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He would not be vacillating agai=
n - he
WOULD do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let=
the
personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite
indifferent topics, his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no
noticeable pause for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, =
‘But
I think it is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of charac=
ter
that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn't
insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable diseases. A man
may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a sort of witchery from a
woman.’
‘Yes; but there's this
difference between love and smallpox, or bewitchment either - that if you
detect the disease at an early stage and try change of air, there is every
chance of complete escape without any further development of symptoms. And
there are certain alternative doses which a man may administer to himself by
keeping unpleasant consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of
smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and dis=
cern
her true outline; though I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to =
be
missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man
fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent
marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus=
.’
The smile that flitted across Arth=
ur's
face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr Irwine's playful lead, he
said, quite seriously - ‘Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperat=
ely
vexatious thing, that after all one's reflections and quiet determinations,=
we
should be ruled by moods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I don't th=
ink
a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that
way, in spite of his resolutions.’
‘Ah, but the moods lie in his
nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections did, and more. A man can ne=
ver
do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries within him the germ=
of
his most exceptional action; and if we wise people make eminent fools of
ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclus=
ion
that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.’
‘Well, but one may be betray=
ed
into doing things by a combination of circumstances, which one might never =
have
done otherwise.’
‘Why, yes, a man can't very =
well
steal a bank-note unless the bank-note lies within convenient reach; but he
won't make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the
bank-note for falling in his way.’
‘But surely you don't think a
man who struggles against a temptation into which he falls at last as bad as
the man who never struggles at all?’
‘No, certainly; I pity him in
proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering which=
is
the worst form of Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their
terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluctuations that went before -=
consequences
that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds=
on
that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of excuse f=
or
us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it so=
me
danger of your own that you are considering in this philosophical, general =
way?’
In asking this question, Mr Irwine
pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight=
at
Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and
thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct question. But he was mi=
staken.
Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank
back and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had take=
n a
more serious tone than he had intended - it would quite mislead Irwine - he
would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such
thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boyishness.
‘Oh no, no danger,’ he
said as indifferently as he could. ‘I don't know that I am more liabl=
e to
irresolution than other people; only there are little incidents now and then
that set one speculating on what might happen in the future.’
Was there a motive at work under t=
his
strange reluctance of Arthur's which had a sort of backstairs influence, not
admitted to himself? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way=
as
the business of the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who =
are
not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a
small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the
large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agent secretly
busy in Arthur's mind at this moment - possibly it was the fear lest he mig=
ht
hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the rector a serious
annoyance, in case he should NOT be able quite to carry out his good
resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human soul is a very
complex thing.
The idea of Hetty had just crossed=
Mr
Irwine's mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming
indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed - that
there could be nothing serious in that direction. There was no probability =
that
Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of =
Mrs.
Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more
serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the li=
ttle
chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her life. Arthur
would soon join his regiment, and be far away: no, there could be no danger=
in
that quarter, even if Arthur's character had not been a strong security aga=
inst
it. His honest, patronizing pride in the good-will and respect of everybody
about him was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a
lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in=
the
previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into detai=
ls,
and Mr Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He perce=
ived
a change of subject would be welcome, and said, ‘By the way, Arthur, =
at
your colonel's birthday fete there were some transparencies that made a gre=
at
effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, ab=
ove
all, the 'generous youth,' the hero of the day. Don't you think you should =
get
up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds?’
The opportunity was gone. While Ar=
thur
was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away - he
must trust now to his own swimming.
In ten minutes from that time, Mr
Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted
his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by
determining to set off for Eagledale without an hour's delay.
‘THIS Rector of Broxton is
little better than a pagan!’ I hear one of my readers exclaim. ‘=
;How
much more edifying it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some
truly spiritual advice! You might have put into his mouth the most beautiful
things - quite as good as reading a sermon.’
Certainly I could, if I held it the
highest vocation of the novelist to represent things as they never have been
and never will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character
entirely after my own liking; I might select the most unexceptionable type =
of
clergyman and put my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all occasions.
But it happens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any s=
uch
arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and things as they
have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is doubtless defective, the
outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection faint or confused; but=
I
feel as much bound to tell you as precisely as I can what that reflection i=
s,
as if I were in the witness-box, narrating my experience on oath.
Sixty years ago - it is a long tim=
e,
so no wonder things have changed - all clergymen were not zealous; indeed,
there is reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was small, =
and
it is probable that if one among the small minority had owned the livings of
Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would have liked him no better t=
han
you like Mr Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless,
indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that facts hit that nice
medium required by our own enlightened opinions and refined taste! Perhaps =
you
will say, ‘Do improve the facts a little, then; make them more accord=
ant
with those correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world is=
not
just what we like; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, and make believe =
it
is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. Let all people who hold
unexceptionable opinions act unexceptionably. Let your most faulty characte=
rs
always be on the wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we s=
hall
see at a glance whom we are to condemn and whom we are to approve. Then we
shall be able to admire, without the slightest disturbance of our
prepossessions: we shall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish wh=
ich
belongs to undoubting confidence.’
But, my good friend, what will you=
do
then with your fellow-parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry? W=
ith
your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find painfully bel=
ow
that of his regretted predecessor? With the honest servant who worries your
soul with her one failing? With your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really =
kind
to you in your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things about =
you
since your convalescence? Nay, with your excellent husband himself, who has
other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? These
fellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are: you can neither
straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositi=
ons;
and it is these people - amongst whom your life is passed - that it is need=
ful
you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these more or less ugly, stupid,
inconsistent people whose movements of goodness you should be able to admir=
e - for
whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible patience. And I wo=
uld
not, even if I had the choice, be the clever novelist who could create a wo=
rld
so much better than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily
work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty
streets and the common green fields - on the real breathing men and women, =
who
can be chilled by your indifference or injured by your prejudice; who can be
cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your
outspoken, brave justice.
So I am content to tell my simple
story, without trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading
nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one's best efforts, there =
is
reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is
conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a griffin - the longer the cl=
aws,
and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility which we
mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real
unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even wh=
en
you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact tr=
uth,
even about your own immediate feelings - much harder than to say something =
fine
about them which is NOT the exact truth.
It is for this rare, precious qual=
ity
of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded
people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful
pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so ma=
ny
more among my fellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, =
of
tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, f=
rom
cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old w=
oman
bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noond=
ay
light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and ju=
st
touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those che=
ap
common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her - or I turn=
to
that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward
bridegroom opens the dance with a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while
elderly and middle-aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips,
and probably with quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of
unmistakable contentment and goodwill. ‘Foh!’ says my idealistic
friend, ‘what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these
pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of
life! What clumsy, ugly people!’
But bless us, things may be lovable
that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the
majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those ‘=
lords
of their kind,’ the British, squat figures, ill-shapen nostrils, and
dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of
family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is s=
uch
that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying;
yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and their
miniatures - flattering, but still not lovely - are kissed in secret by
motherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could have never in
her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yellow
love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her
sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of mid=
dle
stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love
anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in
middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! Thank God; human
feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth: it does not wait for
beauty - it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.
All honour and reverence to the di=
vine
beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and childr=
en -
in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, wh=
ich
lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy.
Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face pale=
d by
the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face
upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose =
on
us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old
women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking
holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten
faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world - =
those
homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their
clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse
people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful =
we
should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out=
of
our religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fit a world=
of
extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us alw=
ays
have men ready to give the loving pains of a life to the faithful represent=
ing
of commonplace things - men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and
delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them. There are =
few
prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't
afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great d=
eal
of those feelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in the
foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch =
for
whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazza=
roni
or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common labourer, who gets his
own bread and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocket-knife. It=
is
more needful that I should have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that
vulgar citizen who weighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and
waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers =
- more
needful that my heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of
gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or=
in
the clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent and in
other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes
whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of =
all
clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist.
And so I come back to Mr Irwine, w=
ith
whom I desire you to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying
your demands on the clerical character. Perhaps you think he was not - as he
ought to have been - a living demonstration of the benefits attached to a
national church? But I am not sure of that; at least I know that the people=
in
Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their clergyma=
n,
and that most faces brightened at his approach; and until it can be proved =
that
hatred is a better thing for the soul than love, I must believe that Mr
Irwine's influence in his parish was a more wholesome one than that of the
zealous Mr Ryde, who came there twenty years afterwards, when Mr Irwine had
been gathered to his fathers. It is true, Mr Ryde insisted strongly on the
doctrines of the Reformation, visited his flock a great deal in their own
homes, and was severe in rebuking the aberrations of the flesh - put a stop,
indeed, to the Christmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunken=
ness
and too light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, to
whom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen could be =
less
successful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr Ryde. They
learned a great many notions about doctrine from him, so that almost every
church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as well between the genuine go=
spel
and what did not come precisely up to that standard, as if he had been born=
and
bred a Dissenter; and for some time after his arrival there seemed to be qu=
ite
a religious movement in that quiet rural district. ‘But,’ said
Adam, ‘I've seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as religi=
on's
something else besides notions. It isn't notions sets people doing the right
thing - it's feelings. It's the same with the notions in religion as it is =
with
math'matics - a man may be able to work problems straight off in's head as =
he
sits by the fire and smokes his pipe, but if he has to make a machine or a
building, he must have a will and a resolution and love something else bett=
er
than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to fall off, and people
began to speak light o' Mr Ryde. I believe he meant right at bottom; but, y=
ou
see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beating down prices with the peop=
le
as worked for him; and his preaching wouldn't go down well with that sauce.=
And
he wanted to be like my lord judge i' the parish, punishing folks for doing
wrong; and he scolded 'em from the pulpit as if he'd been a Ranter, and yet=
he
couldn't abide the Dissenters, and was a deal more set against 'em than Mr
Irwine was. And then he didn't keep within his income, for he seemed to thi=
nk
at first go-off that six hundred a-year was to make him as big a man as Mr
Donnithorne. That's a sore mischief I've often seen with the poor curates
jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr Ryde was a deal thought =
on
at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as for math'matics and the
natur o' things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very knowing about
doctrines, and used to call 'em the bulwarks of the Reformation; but I've
always mistrusted that sort o' learning as leaves folks foolish and
unreasonable about business. Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be=
: as
quick! - he understood what you meant in a minute, and he knew all about
building, and could see when you'd made a good job. And he behaved as much =
like
a gentleman to the farmers, and th' old women, and the labourers, as he did=
to
the gentry. You never saw HIM interfering and scolding, and trying to play =
th'
emperor. Ah, he was a fine man as ever you set eyes on; and so kind to's mo=
ther
and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne - he seemed to think more of her th=
an
of anybody else in the world. There wasn't a soul in the parish had a word =
to
say against him; and his servants stayed with him till they were so old and
pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘=
;that
was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays; but I daresay, if your o=
ld
friend Mr Irwine were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next
Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he didn't preach better after all =
your
praise of him.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Adam,
broadening his chest and throwing himself back in his chair, as if he were
ready to meet all inferences, ‘nobody has ever heard me say Mr Irwine=
was
much of a preacher. He didn't go into deep speritial experience; and I know
there s a deal in a man's inward life as you can't measure by the square, a=
nd
say, 'Do this and that 'll follow,' and, 'Do that and this 'll follow.' The=
re's
things go on in the soul, and times when feelings come into you like a rush=
ing
mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and part your life in two a'most, so you
look back on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you
can't bottle up in a 'do this' and 'do that'; and I'll go so far with the
strongest Methodist ever you'll find. That shows me there's deep speritial
things in religion. You can't make much out wi' talking about it, but you f=
eel
it. Mr Irwine didn't go into those things - he preached short moral sermons,
and that was all. But then he acted pretty much up to what he said; he didn=
't
set up for being so different from other folks one day, and then be as like=
'em
as two peas the next. And he made folks love him and respect him, and that =
was
better nor stirring up their gall wi' being overbusy. Mrs. Poyser used to s=
ay -
you know she would have her word about everything - she said, Mr Irwine was
like a good meal o' victual, you were the better for him without thinking on
it, and Mr Ryde was like a dose o' physic, he gripped you and worreted you,=
and
after all he left you much the same.’
‘But didn't Mr Ryde preach a
great deal more about that spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Ada=
m?
Couldn't you get more out of his sermons than out of Mr Irwine's?’
‘Eh, I knowna. He preached a
deal about doctrines. But I've seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young =
un,
as religion's something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at it as=
if
the doctrines was like finding names for your feelings, so as you can talk =
of
'em when you've never known 'em, just as a man may talk o' tools when he kn=
ows
their names, though he's never so much as seen 'em, still less handled 'em.
I've heard a deal o' doctrine i' my time, for I used to go after the Dissen=
ting
preachers along wi' Seth, when I was a lad o' seventeen, and got puzzling
myself a deal about th' Arminians and the Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you kn=
ow,
are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could never abide anything harsh and was
always for hoping the best, held fast by the Wesleyans from the very first;=
but
I thought I could pick a hole or two in their notions, and I got disputing =
wi'
one o' the class leaders down at Treddles'on, and harassed him so, first o'
this side and then o' that, till at last he said, 'Young man, it's the devil
making use o' your pride and conceit as a weapon to war against the simplic=
ity
o' the truth.' I couldn't help laughing then, but as I was going home, I
thought the man wasn't far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing and
sifting what this text means and that text means, and whether folks are sav=
ed
all by God's grace, or whether there goes an ounce o' their own will to't, =
was
no part o' real religion at all. You may talk o' these things for hours on =
end,
and you'll only be all the more coxy and conceited for't. So I took to going
nowhere but to church, and hearing nobody but Mr Irwine, for he said nothing
but what was good and what you'd be the wiser for remembering. And I found =
it
better for my soul to be humble before the mysteries o' God's dealings, and=
not
be making a clatter about what I could never understand. And they're poor
foolish questions after all; for what have we got either inside or outside =
of
us but what comes from God? If we've got a resolution to do right, He gave =
it
us, I reckon, first or last; but I see plain enough we shall never do it
without a resolution, and that's enough for me.’
Adam, you perceive, was a warm
admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr Irwine, as, happily, some of us sti=
ll
are of the people we have known familiarly. Doubtless it will be despised a=
s a
weakness by that lofty order of minds who pant after the ideal, and are
oppressed by a general sense that their emotions are of too exquisite a
character to find fit objects among their everyday fellowmen. I have often =
been
favoured with the confidence of these select natures, and find them to conc=
ur
in the experience that great men are overestimated and small men are
insupportable; that if you would love a woman without ever looking back on =
your
love as a folly, she must die while you are courting her; and if you would
maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never make a
pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunk from
confessing to these accomplished and acute gentlemen what my own experience=
has
been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent, and gratifi=
ed
them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illusions, which any one
moderately acquainted with French literature can command at a moment's noti=
ce.
Human converse, I think some wise man has remarked, is not rigidly sincere.=
But
I herewith discharge my conscience, and declare that I have had quite
enthusiastic movements of admiration towards old gentlemen who spoke the wo=
rst
English, who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never m=
oved
in a higher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer; and that the =
way
in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is lovable - the w=
ay I
have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysteries - has been =
by
living a great deal among people more or less commonplace and vulgar, of wh=
om
you would perhaps hear nothing very surprising if you were to inquire about
them in the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most of the small
shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in them. For I have observ=
ed
this remarkable coincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ide=
al,
and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their
reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and pettiest.
For example, I have often heard Mr Gedge, the landlord of the Royal Oak, who
used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours in the village of Shepperton,
sum up his opinion of the people in his own parish - and they were all the =
people
he knew - in these emphatic words: ‘Aye, sir, I've said it often, and
I'll say it again, they're a poor lot i' this parish - a poor lot, sir, big=
and
little.’ I think he had a dim idea that if he could migrate to a dist=
ant
parish, he might find neighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequen=
tly
transfer himself to the Saracen's Head, which was doing a thriving business=
in
the back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he has fo=
und
the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitan=
ts
of Shepperton - ‘a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as comes f=
or a
go o' gin are no better than them as comes for a pint o' twopenny - a poor =
lot.’
‘HETTY, Hetty, don't you know
church begins at two, and it's gone half after one a'ready? Have you got
nothing better to think on this good Sunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be =
put
into the ground, and him drownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough =
to
make one's back run cold, but you must be 'dizening yourself as if there wa=
s a
wedding i'stid of a funeral?’
‘Well, Aunt,’ said Het=
ty, ‘I
can't be ready so soon as everybody else, when I've got Totty's things to p=
ut
on. And I'd ever such work to make her stand still.’
Hetty was coming downstairs, and M=
rs.
Poyser, in her plain bonnet and shawl, was standing below. If ever a girl
looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday =
hat
and frock. For her hat was trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots,
sprinkled on a white ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her,
except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyser =
was
provoked at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as any mortal =
is
inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So she turned without
speaking, and joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty, w=
hose
heart was fluttering so at the thought of some one she expected to see at
church that she hardly felt the ground she trod on.
And now the little procession set =
off.
Mr Poyser was in his Sunday suit of drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat an=
d a
green watch-ribbon having a large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a
plumb-line from that promontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk=
handkerchief
of a yellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitt=
ed
by Mrs. Poyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr Poyser
had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that the growing abus=
e of
top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs had their
origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human calf. Still less had he reason=
to
be ashamed of his round jolly face, which was good humour itself as he said=
, ‘Come,
Hetty - come, little uns!’ and giving his arm to his wife, led the way
through the causeway gate into the yard.
The ‘little uns’ addre=
ssed
were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven, in little fustian tailed coats
and knee-breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes, looking as much =
like
their father as a very small elephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked
between them, and behind came patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Tot=
ty
through the yard and over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having
speedily recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to chur=
ch
to-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside her
tippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over this
afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though now the
clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on the horizon.
You might have known it was Sunday=
if
you had only waked up in the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it,
and made only crooning subdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage=
, as
if he would have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine
seemed to call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself on
the moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling together with
their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow stretched langui=
dly
on the straw, while her largest young one found an excellent spring-bed on =
his
mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd, in his new smock-frock, taking an
uneasy siesta, half-sitting, half-standing on the granary steps. Alick was =
of
opinion that church, like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often b=
y a
foreman who had the weather and the ewes on his mind. ‘Church! Nay - =
I'n
gotten summat else to think on,’ was an answer which he often uttered=
in
a tone of bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure A=
lick
meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of a speculative,
negative cast, and he would on no account have missed going to church on
Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and ‘Whissuntide.’ But he had a
general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies, like other
non-productive employments, were intended for people who had leisure.
‘There's Father a-standing at
the yard-gate,’ said Martin Poyser. ‘I reckon he wants to watch=
us
down the field. It's wonderful what sight he has, and him turned seventy-fi=
ve.’
‘Ah, I often think it's wi' =
th'
old folks as it is wi' the babbies,’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘they're
satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they're looking at. It's God A'mighty=
's
way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep.’
Old Martin opened the gate as he s=
aw
the family procession approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on his st=
ick
- pleased to do this bit of work; for, like all old men whose life has been
spent in labour, he liked to feel that he was still useful - that there was=
a
better crop of onions in the garden because he was by at the sowing - and t=
hat
the cows would be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday aftern=
oon
to look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not very
regularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of
rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead.
‘They'll ha' putten Thias Be=
de
i' the ground afore ye get to the churchyard,’ he said, as his son ca=
me
up. ‘It 'ud ha' been better luck if they'd ha' buried him i' the fore=
noon
when the rain was fallin'; there's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the mo=
on
lies like a boat there, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather - ther=
e's
a many as is false but that's sure.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said the s=
on, ‘I'm
in hopes it'll hold up now.’
‘Mind what the parson says, =
mind
what the parson says, my lads,’ said Grandfather to the black-eyed
youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of a marble or two in their pockets
which they looked forward to handling, a little, secretly, during the sermo=
n.
‘Dood-bye, Dandad,’ sa=
id
Totty. ‘Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklace on. Dive me a peppermin=
t.’
Grandad, shaking with laughter at =
this
‘deep little wench,’ slowly transferred his stick to his left h=
and,
which held the gate open, and slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat
pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes with a confident look of expectati=
on.
And when they were all gone, the o=
ld
man leaned on the gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home
Close, and through the far gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the
hedge. For the hedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the
better-managed farms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out th=
eir
pink wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale
honeysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and over
all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow across the pat=
h.
There were acquaintances at other
gates who had to move aside and let them pass: at the gate of the Home Close
there was half the dairy of cows standing one behind the other, extremely s=
low
to understand that their large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate
there was the mare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the
liver-coloured foal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently st=
ill
much embarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirely thro=
ugh Mr
Poyser's own fields till they reached the main road leading to the village,=
and
he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as they went along, while M=
rs.
Poyser was ready to supply a running commentary on them all. The woman who
manages a dairy has a large share in making the rent, so she may well be
allowed to have her opinion on stock and their ‘keep’ - an exer=
cise
which strengthens her understanding so much that she finds herself able to =
give
her husband advice on most other subjects.
‘There's that shorthorned Sa=
lly,’
she said, as they entered the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek
beast that lay chewing the cud and looking at her with a sleepy eye. ‘=
;I
begin to hate the sight o' the cow; and I say now what I said three weeks a=
go,
the sooner we get rid of her the better, for there's that little yallow cow=
as
doesn't give half the milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her.R=
17;
‘Why, thee't not like the wo=
men
in general,’ said Mr Poyser; ‘they like the shorthorns, as give
such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wants him to buy no other sort.=
8217;
‘What's it sinnify what Chow=
ne's
wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' no more head-piece nor a sparrow. She'd =
take
a big cullender to strain her lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's =
run
through. I've seen enough of her to know as I'll niver take a servant from =
her
house again - all hugger-mugger - and you'd niver know, when you went in,
whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' the wee=
k;
and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in a tin last
year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, as there's folks 'ud
stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots.’
‘Well, Chowne's been wanting=
to
buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if thee lik'st,’ said Mr Poyser,
secretly proud of his wife's superior power of putting two and two together;
indeed, on recent market-days he had more than once boasted of her discernm=
ent
in this very matter of shorthorns. ‘Aye, them as choose a soft for a =
wife
may's well buy up the shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, =
your
legs may's well go after it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you,’
Mrs. Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry,
toddled on in front of her father and mother. ‘There's shapes! An' sh=
e's
got such a long foot, she'll be her father's own child.’
‘Aye, she'll be welly such a=
one
as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she's got THY coloured eyes. I niver reme=
mber
a blue eye i' my family; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like
Hetty's.’
‘The child 'ull be none the
worse for having summat as isn't like Hetty. An' I'm none for having her so
overpretty. Though for the matter o' that, there's people wi' light hair an'
blue eyes as pretty as them wi' black. If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in =
her
cheeks, an' didn't stick that Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten=
the
cows, folks 'ud think her as pretty as Hetty.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr Po= yser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, ‘thee dostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver run after Dinah as they would after Hetty.’<= o:p>
‘What care I what the men 'ud
run after? It's well seen what choice the most of 'em know how to make, by =
the
poor draggle-tails o' wives you see, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for
nothing when the colour's gone.’
‘Well, well, thee canstna say
but what I knowed how to make a choice when I married thee,’ said Mr
Poyser, who usually settled little conjugal disputes by a compliment of this
sort; ‘and thee wast twice as buxom as Dinah ten year ago.’
‘I niver said as a woman had
need to be ugly to make a good missis of a house. There's Chowne's wife ugly
enough to turn the milk an' save the rennet, but she'll niver save nothing =
any
other way. But as for Dinah, poor child, she's niver likely to be buxom as =
long
as she'll make her dinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them=
as
want. She provoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went
clean again' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself=
';
'but,' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better nor you do yourself,
Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinking he might do w=
ell
enough on a half-empty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where she is this blessed Sun=
day!
Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she'd set her heart on going to a=
ll
of a sudden.’
‘Ah, it was a pity she should
take such megrims into her head, when she might ha' stayed wi' us all summe=
r,
and eaten twice as much as she wanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She
made no odds in th' house at all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a b=
ird
on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty
gets married, theed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant.’
‘It's no use thinking o' tha=
t,’
said Mrs. Poyser. ‘You might as well beckon to the flying swallow as =
ask
Dinah to come an' live here comfortable, like other folks. If anything could
turn her, I should ha' turned her, for I've talked to her for a hour on end,
and scolded her too; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to =
do
what I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'good-bye'=
an'
got into the cart, an' looked back at me with her pale face, as is welly li=
ke
her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened to think o'=
the
set-downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimes as if she'd a way =
o'
knowing the rights o' things more nor other folks have. But I'll niver give=
in
as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no more nor a white calf's white 'cause=
it
eats out o' the same bucket wi' a black un.’
‘Nay,’ said Mr Poyser,
with as near an approach to a snarl as his good-nature would allow; ‘=
I'm
no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'y tradesfolks as turn Methodists; you
nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' them maggots. There's maybe a workman now an'
then, as isn't overclever at's work, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth
Bede. But you see Adam, as has got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, k=
nows
better; he's a good Churchman, else I'd never encourage him for a sweetheart
for Hetty.’
‘Why, goodness me,’ sa=
id
Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her husband was speaking, ‘look
where Molly is with them lads! They're the field's length behind us. How CO=
ULD
you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybody might as well set a pictur' to watch the
children as you. Run back and tell 'em to come on.’
Mr and Mrs. Poyser were now at the=
end
of the second field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large stones
forming the true Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing
with complacency, ‘Dey naughty, naughty boys - me dood.’
The fact was that this Sunday walk
through the fields was fraught with great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who
saw a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows, and could no more refrain =
from
stopping and peeping than if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers.
Marty was quite sure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash,=
and
while he was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which =
had
run across the path and was described with much fervour by the junior Tommy.
Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged, fluttering along the grou=
nd,
and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till it managed to flutter under =
the
blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed to these things, so
Molly was called on for her ready sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wher=
ever
she was told, and said ‘Lawks!’ whenever she was expected to
wonder.
Molly hastened on with some alarm =
when
Hetty had come back and called to them that her aunt was angry; but Marty r=
an
on first, shouting, ‘We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!&=
#8217;
with the instinctive confidence that people who bring good news are never in
fault.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Poyser,
really forgetting all discipline in this pleasant surprise, ‘that's a
good lad; why, where is it?’
‘Down in ever such a hole, u=
nder
the hedge. I saw it first, looking after the greenfinch, and she sat on th'
nest.’
‘You didn't frighten her, I
hope,’ said the mother, ‘else she'll forsake it.’
‘No, I went away as still as
still, and whispered to Molly - didn't I, Molly?’
‘Well, well, now come on,=
217;
said Mrs. Poyser, ‘and walk before Father and Mother, and take your
little sister by the hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don't look
after the birds of a Sunday.’
‘But, Mother,’ said Ma=
rty,
‘you said you'd give half-a-crown to find the speckled turkey's nest.
Mayn't I have the half-crown put into my money-box?’
‘We'll see about that, my la=
d,
if you walk along now, like a good boy.’
The father and mother exchanged a
significant glance of amusement at their eldest-born's acuteness; but on
Tommy's round face there was a cloud.
‘Mother,’ he said,
half-crying, ‘Marty's got ever so much more money in his box nor I've=
got
in mine.’
‘Munny, me want half-a-toun =
in
my bots,’ said Totty.
‘Hush, hush, hush,’ sa=
id
Mrs. Poyser, ‘did ever anybody hear such naughty children? Nobody sha=
ll
ever see their money-boxes any more, if they don't make haste and go on to
church.’
This dreadful threat had the desir=
ed
effect, and through the two remaining fields the three pair of small legs
trotted on without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond f=
ull
of tadpoles, alias ‘bullheads,’ which the lads looked at wistfu=
lly.
The damp hay that must be scattered
and turned afresh to-morrow was not a cheering sight to Mr Poyser, who duri=
ng
hay and corn harvest had often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a
day of rest; but no temptation would have induced him to carry on any
field-work, however early in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael
Holdsworth had a pair of oxen ‘sweltered’ while he was ploughin=
g on
Good Friday? That was a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked
thing; and with wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he
would have nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper=
.
‘It a'most makes your fingers
itch to be at the hay now the sun shines so,’ he observed, as they pa=
ssed
through the ‘Big Meadow.’ ‘But it's poor foolishness to t=
hink
o' saving by going against your conscience. There's that Jim Wakefield, as =
they
used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield,' used to do the same of a Sunday as o'
weekdays, and took no heed to right or wrong, as if there was nayther God n=
or
devil. An' what's he come to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carry=
ing
a basket wi' oranges in't.’
‘Ah, to be sure,’ said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, ‘you make but a poor trap to catch luck if= you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as is got so's like to burn holes = i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence but what was go= t i' the rightful way. And as for the weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't: it's nothing of a plague to what the wenches are.’<= o:p>
Notwithstanding the interruption in
their walk, the excellent habit which Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking tim=
e by
the forelock had secured their arrival at the village while it was still a
quarter to two, though almost every one who meant to go to church was alrea=
dy
within the churchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers,
like Timothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feeling=
as
women feel in that position - that nothing else can be expected of them.
It was not entirely to see Thias
Bede's funeral that the people were standing about the churchyard so long
before service began; that was their common practice. The women, indeed,
usually entered the church at once, and the farmers' wives talked in an
undertone to each other, over the tall pews, about their illnesses and the
total failure of doctor's stuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other
home-made specifics, as far preferable - about the servants, and their grow=
ing
exorbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of their services declined from
year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than=
you
could see her - about the bad price Mr Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was
giving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to his
solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman, and they =
were
all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime the men lingered
outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who had a humming and
fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the church until Mr Irwine was=
in
the desk. They saw no reason for that premature entrance - what could they =
do
in church if they were there before service began? - and they did not conce=
ive
that any power in the universe could take it ill of them if they stayed out=
and
talked a little about ‘bus'ness.’
Chad Cranage looks like quite a new
acquaintance to-day, for he has got his clean Sunday face, which always mak=
es
his little granddaughter cry at him as a stranger. But an experienced eye w=
ould
have fixed on him at once as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble
deference with which the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his =
hair
to the farmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must hold=
a
candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himself on weekda=
ys;
by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather
virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had horses to be shod must be=
treated
with respect. Chad and the rougher sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave
under the white thorn, where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, a=
nd
several of the farm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their =
hats
off, as fellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway
position, sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to=
the
conversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and =
were
now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into the church. On the
outside of this knot stood Mr Casson, the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms,=
in
his most striking attitude - that is to say, with the forefinger of his rig=
ht
hand thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in his bree=
ches
pocket, and his head very much on one side; looking, on the whole, like an
actor who has only a mono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure th=
at
the audience discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in
contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned
forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness th=
at
could not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than usu=
al
to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr Irwine's voice reading the final
prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their word of pity for poor
Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject of their own grievances
against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, who played the part of steward so f=
ar
as it was not performed by old Mr Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman h=
ad
the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains about his own timbe=
r.
This subject of conversation was an additional reason for not being loud, s=
ince
Satchell himself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church
door. And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr Irwine's voice had cease=
d,
and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the churc=
h.
They all moved aside, and stood wi=
th
their hats off, while Mr Irwine passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with
their mother between them; for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as wel=
l as
clerk, and was not yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there
was a pause before the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to =
look
again towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earth under
the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any day since =
her
husband's death. Along with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense =
of
her own importance in having a ‘burial,’ and in Mr Irwine's rea=
ding
a special service for her husband; and besides, she knew the funeral psalm =
was
going to be sung for him. She felt this counter-excitement to her sorrow st=
ill
more strongly as she walked with her sons towards the church door, and saw =
the
friendly sympathetic nods of their fellow-parishioners.
The mother and sons passed into the
church, and one by one the loiterers followed, though some still lingered
without; the sight of Mr Donnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up
the hill, perhaps helping to make them feel that there was no need for hast=
e.
But presently the sound of the bas=
soon
and the key-bugles burst forth; the evening hymn, which always opened the
service, had begun, and every one must now enter and take his place.
I cannot say that the interior of
Hayslope Church was remarkable for anything except for the grey age of its
oaken pews - great square pews mostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisl=
e.
It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two
narrow pews to themselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it w=
as a
short process for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bas=
s,
and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk, grey
and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading into the chancel,
which also had its grey square pews for Mr Donnithorne's family and servant=
s.
Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the buff-washed walls, gave a very
pleasing tone to this shabby interior, and agreed extremely well with the r=
uddy
faces and bright waistcoats. And there were liberal touches of crimson towa=
rd
the chancel, for the pulpit and Mr Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crims=
on
cloth cushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth,
embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's own hand.
But even without the crimson cloth,
the effect must have been warm and cheering when Mr Irwine was in the desk,
looking benignly round on that simple congregation - on the hardy old men, =
with
bent knees and shoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clip=
ping
and thatching; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces of=
the
stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers, with th=
eir
apple-cheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostly farm-labourers'
wives, with their bit of snow-white cap-border under their black bonnets, a=
nd
with their withered arms, bare from the elbow, folded passively over their
chests. For none of the old people held books - why should they? Not one of
them could read. But they knew a few ‘good words’ by heart, and
their withered lips now and then moved silently, following the service with=
out
any very clear comprehension indeed, but with a simple faith in its efficac=
y to
ward off harm and bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all w=
ere
standing up - the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the
grey pews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one of th=
ose
lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation of rectors and
choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears
that love them and listen for them. Adam was not in his usual place among t=
he
singers to-day, for he sat with his mother and Seth, and he noticed with
surprise that Bartle Massey was absent too - all the more agreeable for Mr
Joshua Rann, who gave out his bass notes with unusual complacency and threw=
an
extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over his spectacles at the
recusant Will Maskery.
I beseech you to imagine Mr Irwine
looking round on this scene, in his ample white surplice that became him so
well, with his powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his
finely cut nostril and upper lip; for there was a certain virtue in that
benignant yet keen countenance as there is in all human faces from which a
generous soul beams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine
through the old windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and b=
lue,
that threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall.
I think, as Mr Irwine looked round
to-day, his eyes rested an instant longer than usual on the square pew occu=
pied
by Martin Poyser and his family. And there was another pair of dark eyes th=
at
found it impossible not to wander thither, and rest on that round
pink-and-white figure. But Hetty was at that moment quite careless of any
glances - she was absorbed in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soo=
n be
coming into church, for the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by t=
his
time. She had never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thurs=
day
evening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on just the =
same
as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then had brought =
no
changes after them; they were already like a dream. When she heard the chur=
ch
door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared not look up. She felt that her =
aunt
was curtsying; she curtsied herself. That must be old Mr Donnithorne - he
always came first, the wrinkled small old man, peering round with short-sig=
hted
glances at the bowing and curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia =
was
passing, and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little
coal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't mi=
nd
it to-day. But there were no more curtsies - no, he was not come; she felt =
sure
there was nothing else passing the pew door but the house-keeper's black bo=
nnet
and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hat that had once been Miss Lydia's, =
and
then the powdered heads of the butler and footman. No, he was not there; yet
she would look now - she might be mistaken - for, after all, she had not
looked. So she lifted up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned p=
ew
in the chancel - there was no one but old Mr Donnithorne rubbing his specta=
cles
with his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged
prayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt herself
turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, what SHOULD she=
do?
Everybody would know the reason; they would know she was crying because Art=
hur
was not there. And Mr Craig, with the wonderful hothouse plant in his
button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before the
General Confession began, so that she could kneel down. Two great drops WOU=
LD
fall then, but no one saw them except good-natured Molly, for her aunt and
uncle knelt with their backs towards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause
for tears in church except faintness, of which she had a vague traditional
knowledge, drew out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle,=
and
after much labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against
Hetty's nostrils. ‘It donna smell,’ she whispered, thinking this
was a great advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you good
without biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but this little f=
lash
of temper did what the salts could not have done - it roused her to wipe aw=
ay
the traces of her tears, and try with all her might not to shed any more. H=
etty
had a certain strength in her vain little nature: she would have borne anyt=
hing
rather than be laughed at, or pointed at with any other feeling than
admiration; she would have pressed her own nails into her tender flesh rath=
er
than people should know a secret she did not want them to know.
What fluctuations there were in he=
r busy
thoughts and feelings, while Mr Irwine was pronouncing the solemn ‘Ab=
solution’
in her deaf ears, and through all the tones of petition that followed! Anger
lay very close to disappointment, and soon won the victory over the conject=
ures
her small ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on the
supposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her again. =
And
by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because all the rest were
rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even with a heightened glow, =
for
she was framing little indignant speeches to herself, saying she hated Arth=
ur
for giving her this pain - she would like him to suffer too. Yet while this
selfish tumult was going on in her soul, her eyes were bent down on her
prayer-book, and the eyelids with their dark fringe looked as lovely as eve=
r.
Adam Bede thought so, as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his
knees.
But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did n=
ot
deafen him to the service; they rather blended with all the other deep feel=
ings
for which the church service was a channel to him this afternoon, as a cert=
ain
consciousness of our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with=
all
our moments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the best
channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, and resignati=
on;
its interchange of beseeching cries for help with outbursts of faith and
praise, its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm of its collects, se=
emed
to speak for him as no other form of worship could have done; as, to those
early Christians who had worshipped from their childhood upwards in catacom=
bs,
the torch-light and shadows must have seemed nearer the Divine presence than
the heathenish daylight of the streets. The secret of our emotions never li=
es
in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder =
the
secret escapes the unsympathizing observer, who might as well put on his
spectacles to discern odours.
But there was one reason why even a
chance comer would have found the service in Hayslope Church more impressive
than in most other village nooks in the kingdom - a reason of which I am su=
re
you have not the slightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Josh=
ua
Rann. Where that good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a
mystery even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he g=
ot
it chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest
conceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow souls before =
his.
She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical ear; but I can=
not
positively say whether these alone had sufficed to inspire him with the rich
chant in which he delivered the responses. The way he rolled from a rich de=
ep
forte into a melancholy cadence, subsiding, at the end of the last word, in=
to a
sort of faint resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncell=
o, I
can compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cade=
nce
of the wind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaki=
ng
about the reading of a parish clerk - a man in rusty spectacles, with stubb=
ly
hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is Nature's way: she
will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and poetic aspirations to si=
ng
woefully out of tune, and not give him the slightest hint of it; and takes =
care
that some narrow-browed fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-ho=
use,
shall be as true to his intervals as a bird.
Joshua himself was less proud of h=
is
reading than of his singing, and it was always with a sense of heightened
importance that he passed from the desk to the choir. Still more to-day: it=
was
a special occasion, for an old man, familiar to all the parish, had died a =
sad
death - not in his bed, a circumstance the most painful to the mind of the
peasant - and now the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden
departure. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importan=
ce
in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang. T=
he
old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, and the words -
Thou sweep'st us off as with a flo=
od;
We vanish hence like dreams -
seemed to have a closer application
than usual in the death of poor Thias. The mother and sons listened, each w=
ith
peculiar feelings. Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her
husband good; it was part of that decent burial which she would have though=
t it
a greater wrong to withhold from him than to have caused him many unhappy d=
ays
while he was living. The more there was said about her husband, the more th=
ere
was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poor Lisbeth's blind=
way
of feeling that human love and pity are a ground of faith in some other lov=
e. Seth,
who was easily touched, shed tears, and tried to recall, as he had done
continually since his father's death, all that he had heard of the possibil=
ity
that a single moment of consciousness at the last might be a moment of pard=
on
and reconcilement; for was it not written in the very psalm they were singi=
ng
that the Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam =
had
never been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty of trouble=
and
vexation since he had been a lad, but this was the first sorrow that had he=
mmed
in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow because the chief source of
his past trouble and vexation was for ever gone out of his reach. He had not
been able to press his father's hand before their parting, and say, ‘=
Father,
you know it was all right between us; I never forgot what I owed you when I=
was
a lad; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!’
Adam thought but little to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spe=
nt
on his father: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feelings h=
ad
been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head before the
rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissive silence, we=
are
apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own generosity, if not
justice; how much more when the object of our anger has gone into everlasti=
ng
silence, and we have seen his face for the last time in the meekness of dea=
th!
‘Ah! I was always too hard,&=
#8217;
Adam said to himself. ‘It's a sore fault in me as I'm so hot and out =
o'
patience with people when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against =
'em,
so as I can't bring myself to forgive 'em. I see clear enough there's more
pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner make a thousand strokes with =
th'
hammer for my father than bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there
went plenty o' pride and temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having=
his
finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins. Mayhap the best thin=
g I
ever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It's allays
been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough job for me =
'ud
be to master my own will and temper and go right against my own pride. It s=
eems
to me now, if I was to find Father at home to-night, I should behave differ=
ent;
but there's no knowing - perhaps nothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't
come too late. It's well we should feel as life's a reckoning we can't make
twice over; there's no real making amends in this world, any more nor you c=
an
mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right.’
This was the key-note to which Ada=
m's
thoughts had perpetually returned since his father's death, and the solemn =
wail
of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back the old though=
ts
with stronger emphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr Irwine had chosen with
reference to Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, =
216;In
the midst of life we are in death’ - how the present moment is all we=
can
call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family
tenderness. All very old truths - but what we thought the oldest truth beco=
mes
the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the dead face of
one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want to impress us w=
ith
the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not let it fall on=
the
most familiar objects, that we may measure its intensity by remembering the
former dimness?
Then came the moment of the final
blessing, when the forever sublime words, ‘The peace of God, which
passeth all understanding,’ seemed to blend with the calm afternoon
sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of the congregation; and then the qui=
et
rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the little maidens who had slept
through the sermon, the fathers collecting the prayer-books, until all stre=
amed
out through the old archway into the green churchyard and began their
neighbourly talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; fo=
r on
a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guest - it was the day when all m=
ust
be in their best clothes and their best humour.
Mr and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute=
at
the church gate: they were waiting for Adam to Come up, not being contented=
to
go away without saying a kind word to the widow and her sons.
‘Well, Mrs. Bede,’ said
Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, ‘you must keep up your heart;
husbands and wives must be content when they've lived to rear their children
and see one another's hair grey.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Mr
Poyser; ‘they wonna have long to wait for one another then, anyhow. A=
nd
ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i' th' country; and well you may, fo=
r I
remember poor Thias as fine a broad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as=
for
you, Mrs. Bede, why you're straighter i' the back nor half the young women =
now.’
‘Eh,’ said Lisbeth, =
8216;it's
poor luck for the platter to wear well when it's broke i' two. The sooner I=
'm
laid under the thorn the better. I'm no good to nobody now.’
Adam never took notice of his moth=
er's
little unjust plaints; but Seth said, ‘Nay, Mother, thee mustna say s=
o.
Thy sons 'ull never get another mother.’
‘That's true, lad, that's tr=
ue,’
said Mr Poyser; ‘and it's wrong on us to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede;
for it's like the children cryin' when the fathers and mothers take things =
from
'em. There's One above knows better nor us.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Poyser=
, ‘an'
it's poor work allays settin' the dead above the livin'. We shall all on us=
be
dead some time, I reckon - it 'ud be better if folks 'ud make much on us
beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin' when we're gone. It's but little good you'l=
l do
a-watering the last year's crop.’
‘Well, Adam,’ said Mr
Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were, as usual, rather incisive than
soothing, and that it would be well to change the subject, ‘you'll co=
me
and see us again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with you this long while, =
and
the missis here wants you to see what can be done with her best spinning-wh=
eel,
for it's got broke, and it'll be a nice job to mend it - there'll want a bi=
t o'
turning. You'll come as soon as you can now, will you?’
Mr Poyser paused and looked round
while he was speaking, as if to see where Hetty was; for the children were
running on before. Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, besides,
more pink and white about her than ever, for she held in her hand the wonde=
rful
pink-and-white hot-house plant, with a very long name - a Scotch name, she
supposed, since people said Mr Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the
opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of him
that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression on Hetty=
's
face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in her secret heart =
she
was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from him how =
it
was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she cared to ask him the questi=
on,
but she hoped the information would be given spontaneously; for Mr Craig, l=
ike
a superior man, was very fond of giving information.
Mr Craig was never aware that his
conversation and advances were received coldly, for to shift one's point of
view beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and expansive
mind; we are none of us aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian mon=
keys
of feeble understanding - it is possible they see hardly anything in us.
Moreover, Mr Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth
year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and bachelorh=
ood.
It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little heated by an extra
glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty that the ‘lass was w=
ell
enough,’ and that ‘a man might do worse’; but on convivial
occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly.
Martin Poyser held Mr Craig in hon=
our,
as a man who ‘knew his business’ and who had great lights
concerning soils and compost; but he was less of a favourite with Mrs. Poys=
er,
who had more than once said in confidence to her husband, ‘You're mig=
hty
fond o' Craig, but for my part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the
sun's rose o' purpose to hear him crow.’ For the rest, Mr Craig was an
estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of
himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head
forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets=
. I
think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and =
not
his ‘bringing up’; for except that he had a stronger burr in his
accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people about =
him.
But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.
‘Well, Mr Poyser,’ he
said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, ‘ye'll not be
carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. The glass sticks at 'change,' an=
d ye
may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more downfall afore twenty-four hours is
past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo' the 'rizon - ye know what I
mean by the 'rizon, where the land and sky seems to meet?’
‘Aye, aye, I see the cloud,&=
#8217;
said Mr Poyser, ‘'rizon or no 'rizon. It's right o'er Mike Holdsworth=
's
fallow, and a foul fallow it is.’
‘Well, you mark my words, as
that cloud 'ull spread o'er the sky pretty nigh as quick as you'd spread a =
tarpaulin
over one o' your hay-ricks. It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' t=
he
clouds. Lord bless you! Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, =
but
there's a pretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to, if they'd just com=
e to
me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser? - thinking o' getherin' the red currants
soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they're o'erripe, wi' =
such
weather as we've got to look forward to. How do ye do, Mistress Bede?’=
; Mr
Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. R=
16;I
hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent Chester with th' ot=
her
day. If ye want vegetables while ye're in trouble, ye know where to come to.
It's well known I'm not giving other folks' things away, for when I've supp=
lied
the house, the garden s my own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old
squire could get as 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking wheth=
er
he'd be willing I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make
sure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to see so=
me
o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their noses as =
I've
got to do every year as comes.’
‘They look pretty fur, thoug=
h,’
said Mr Poyser, turning his head on one side and speaking in rather a subdu=
ed
reverential tone. ‘Why, what could come truer nor that pictur o' the =
cock
wi' the big spurs, as has got its head knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th'
firin', an' the ships behind? Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and
yit it's come as true as th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's
Nelson - an' they told us that beforehand.’
‘Pee - ee-eh!’ said Mr
Craig. ‘A man doesna want to see fur to know as th' English 'ull beat=
the
French. Why, I know upo' good authority as it's a big Frenchman as reaches =
five
foot high, an' they live upo' spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father=
had
a particular knowledge o' the French. I should like to know what them
grasshoppers are to do against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthu=
r.
Why, it 'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor=
a
Frenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi' stays; and
it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides.’
‘Where IS the captain, as he
wasna at church to-day?’ said Adam. ‘I was talking to him o'
Friday, and he said nothing about his going away.’
‘Oh, he's only gone to Eagle=
dale
for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll be back again afore many days are o'er,
for he's to be at all th' arranging and preparing o' things for the comin' =
o'
age o' the 30th o' July. But he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and t=
hen.
Him and th' old squire fit one another like frost and flowers.’
Mr Craig smiled and winked slowly =
as
he made this last observation, but the subject was not developed farther, f=
or
now they had reached the turning in the road where Adam and his companions =
must
say ‘good-bye.’ The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in
the same direction if he had not accepted Mr Poyser's invitation to tea. Mr=
s.
Poyser duly seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disg=
race
not to make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikes
must not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr Craig had always b=
een full
of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was scrupulou=
s in
declaring that she had ‘nothing to say again' him, on'y it was a pity=
he
couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatched different.’
So Adam and Seth, with their mother
between them, wound their way down to the valley and up again to the old ho=
use,
where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long anxiety - where
Adam would never have to ask again as he entered, ‘Where's Father?=
217;
And the other family party, with Mr
Craig for company, went back to the pleasant bright house-place at the Hall
Farm - all with quiet minds, except Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was go=
ne,
but was only the more puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence =
was
quite voluntary; he need not have gone - he would not have gone if he had
wanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever be plea=
sant
to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to be fulfilled; and in
this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment and doubt, she looked tow=
ards
the possibility of being with Arthur again, of meeting his loving glance, a=
nd
hearing his soft words with that eager yearning which one may call the R=
16;growing
pain’ of passion.
NOTWITHSTANDING Mr Craig's prophec=
y,
the dark-blue cloud dispersed itself without having produced the threatened
consequences. ‘The weather’ - as he observed the next morning -
‘the weather, you see, 's a ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't
sometimes when a wise man misses; that's why the almanecks get so much cred=
it.
It's one o' them chancy things as fools thrive on.’
This unreasonable behaviour of the
weather, however, could displease no one else in Hayslope besides Mr Craig.=
All
hands were to be out in the meadows this morning as soon as the dew had ris=
en;
the wives and daughters did double work in every farmhouse, that the maids
might give their help in tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along =
the
lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the sound of
jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the hedges. The jocose talk of
hay-makers is best at a distance; like those clumsy bells round the cows'
necks, it has rather a coarse sound when it comes close, and may even grate=
on
your ears painfully; but heard from far off, it mingles very prettily with =
the
other joyous sounds of nature. Men's muscles move better when their souls a=
re
making merry music, though their merriment is of a poor blundering sort, no=
t at
all like the merriment of birds.
And perhaps there is no time in a
summer's day more cheering than when the warmth of the sun is just beginnin=
g to
triumph over the freshness of the morning - when there is just a lingering =
hint
of early coolness to keep off languor under the delicious influence of warm=
th.
The reason Adam was walking along the lanes at this time was because his wo=
rk
for the rest of the day lay at a country-house about three miles off, which=
was
being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and he had been b=
usy
since early morning with the packing of panels, doors, and chimney-pieces, =
in a
waggon which was now gone on before him, while Jonathan Burge himself had
ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its arrival and direct the workme=
n.
This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under the cha=
rm
of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the
sunshine - a sunshine without glare, with slanting rays that tremble between
the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday when he put out h=
is
hand to her as they came out of church, that there was a touch of melancholy
kindness in her face, such as he had not seen before, and he took it as a s=
ign
that she had some sympathy with his family trouble. Poor fellow! That touch=
of
melancholy came from quite another source, but how was he to know? We look =
at
the one little woman's face we love as we look at the face of our mother ea=
rth,
and see all sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Ad=
am
not to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the prospec=
t of
marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger that some ot=
her
man might step in and get possession of Hetty's heart and hand, while he
himself was still in a position that made him shrink from asking her to acc=
ept
him. Even if he had had a strong hope that she was fond of him - and his ho=
pe
was far from being strong - he had been too heavily burdened with other cla=
ims
to provide a home for himself and Hetty - a home such as he could expect he=
r to
be content with after the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong
natures, Adam had confidence in his ability to achieve something in the fut=
ure;
he felt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family =
and
make a good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head not to estim=
ate
to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the time would be so
long! And there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple hanging over the orc=
hard
wall, within sight of everybody, and everybody must long for her! To be sur=
e,
if she loved him very much, she would be content to wait for him: but DID s=
he
love him? His hopes had never risen so high that he had dared to ask her. He
was clear-sighted enough to be aware that her uncle and aunt would have loo=
ked
kindly on his suit, and indeed, without this encouragement he would never h=
ave
persevered in going to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but
fluctuating conclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and =
had
the same distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that
came near her.
But now he could not help saying to
himself that the heaviest part of his burden was removed, and that even bef=
ore
the end of another year his circumstances might be brought into a shape that
would allow him to think of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle wi=
th
his mother, he knew: she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and =
she
had set her mind especially against Hetty - perhaps for no other reason than
that she suspected Hetty to be the woman he HAD chosen. It would never do, =
he
feared, for his mother to live in the same house with him when he was marri=
ed;
and yet how hard she would think it if he asked her to leave him! Yes, ther=
e was
a great deal of pain to be gone through with his mother, but it was a case =
in
which he must make her feel that his will was strong - it would be better f=
or
her in the end. For himself, he would have liked that they should all live
together till Seth was married, and they might have built a bit themselves =
to
the old house, and made more room. He did not like ‘to part wi' th' l=
ad’:
they had hardly every been separated for more than a day since they were bo=
rn.
But Adam had no sooner caught his
imagination leaping forward in this way - making arrangements for an uncert=
ain
future - than he checked himself. ‘A pretty building I'm making, with=
out
either bricks or timber. I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much =
as
dug the foundation.’ Whenever Adam was strongly convinced of any
proposition, it took the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge =
to
be acted on, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps he=
re
lay the secret of the hardness he had accused himself of: he had too little=
fellow-feeling
with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen consequences. Without this
fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough patience and charity towards our
stumbling, falling companions in the long and changeful journey? And there =
is
but one way in which a strong determined soul can learn it - by getting his
heart-strings bound round the weak and erring, so that he must share not on=
ly
the outward consequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is=
a
long and hard lesson, and Adam had at present only learned the alphabet of =
it
in his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant all that=
had
stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought and memory ov=
er
what had claimed his pity and tenderness.
But it was Adam's strength, not its
correlative hardness, that influenced his meditations this morning. He had =
long
made up his mind that it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry=
a
blooming young girl, so long as he had no other prospect than that of growi=
ng
poverty with a growing family. And his savings had been so constantly drawn
upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's substitute in the
militia) that he had not enough money beforehand to furnish even a small
cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy day. He had good hope
that he should be ‘firmer on his legs’ by and by; but he could =
not
be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he must have
definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership with Jonathan B=
urge
was not to be thought of at present - there were things implicitly tacked t=
o it
that he could not accept; but Adam thought that he and Seth might carry on a
little business for themselves in addition to their journeyman's work, by
buying a small stock of superior wood and making articles of household
furniture, for which Adam had no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more =
by
working at separate jobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's wo=
rk,
and Adam, in his overhours, could do all the ‘nice’ work that
required peculiar skill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages =
he
received as foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the worl=
d,
so sparingly as they would all live now. No sooner had this little plan sha=
ped
itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact calculations about t=
he
wood to be bought and the particular article of furniture that should be
undertaken first - a kitchen cupboard of his own contrivance, with such an
ingenious arrangement of sliding-doors and bolts, such convenient nooks for
stowing household provender, and such a symmetrical result to the eye, that
every good housewife would be in raptures with it, and fall through all the
gradations of melancholy longing till her husband promised to buy it for he=
r.
Adam pictured to himself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye and try=
ing
in vain to find out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood
Hetty, and Adam was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into
dreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening - it was so long
since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go to the
night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church yesterday, fo=
r he
feared his old friend was ill; but, unless he could manage both visits, this
last must be put off till to-morrow - the desire to be near Hetty and to sp=
eak
to her again was too strong.
As he made up his mind to this, he=
was
coming very near to the end of his walk, within the sound of the hammers at
work on the refitting of the old house. The sound of tools to a clever work=
man
who loves his work is like the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the
violinist who has to bear his part in the overture: the strong fibres begin
their accustomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or
ambition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes strength when =
it
has an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in the labour of o=
ur
right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still, creative activity of
our thought. Look at Adam through the rest of the day, as he stands on the
scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in his hand, whistling low while he
considers how a difficulty about a floor-joist or a window-frame is to be
overcome; or as he pushes one of the younger workmen aside and takes his pl=
ace
in upheaving a weight of timber, saying, ‘Let alone, lad! Thee'st got=
too
much gristle i' thy bones yet’; or as he fixes his keen black eyes on=
the
motions of a workman on the other side of the room and warns him that his
distances are not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the bare
muscular arms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like trodden
meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong baryt=
one
voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn psalm-tunes, as if
seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet presently checking himself,
apparently crossed by some thought which jars with the singing. Perhaps, if=
you
had not been already in the secret, you might not have guessed what sad
memories what warm affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home =
in
this athletic body with the broken finger-nails - in this rough man, who kn=
ew
no better lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an
occasional hymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; =
and
for whom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the
changes of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by
fragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble and work in
overhours to know what he knew over and above the secrets of his handicraft,
and that acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the nature of the
materials he worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn inherited
faculty - to get the mastery of his pen, and write a plain hand, to spell
without any other mistakes than must in fairness be attributed to the
unreasonable character of orthography rather than to any deficiency in the
speller, and, moreover, to learn his musical notes and part-singing. Besides
all this, he had read his Bible, including the apocryphal books; Poor Richa=
rd's
Almanac, Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, The Pilgrim's Progress, with Bunya=
n's
Life and Holy War, a great deal of Bailey's Dictionary, Valentine and Orson,
and part of a History of Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might
have had many more books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading=
‘the
commin print,’ as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in
all the leisure moments which he did not fill up with extra carpentry.
Adam, you perceive, was by no mean=
s a
marvellous man, nor, properly speaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend th=
at
his was an ordinary character among workmen; and it would not be at all a s=
afe
conclusion that the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of to=
ols
over his shoulder and a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and=
the
strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of our friend Ad=
am.
He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared here and there in
every generation of our peasant artisans - with an inheritance of affections
nurtured by a simple family life of common need and common industry, and an
inheritance of faculties trained in skilful courageous labour: they make th=
eir
way upwards, rarely as geniuses, most commonly as painstaking honest men, w=
ith
the skill and conscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their l=
ives
have no discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but you=
are
almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building, some
application of mineral produce, some improvement in farming practice, some
reform of parish abuses, with which their names are associated by one or two
generations after them. Their employers were the richer for them, the work =
of
their hands has worn well, and the work of their brains has guided well the
hands of other men. They went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps=
, in
coats black with coal-dust or streaked with lime and red paint; in old age
their white hairs are seen in a place of honour at church and at market, and
they tell their well-dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright he=
arth
on winter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their twop=
ence
a-day. Others there are who die poor and never put off the workman's coal on
weekdays. They have not had the art of getting rich, but they are men of tr=
ust,
and when they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if some main
screw had got loose in a machine; the master who employed them says, ‘=
;Where
shall I find their like?’
‘What's thee got thy Sunday
cloose on for?’ said Lisbeth complainingly, as he came downstairs. =
8216;Thee
artna goin' to th' school i' thy best coat?’
‘No, Mother,’ said Ada=
m,
quietly. ‘I'm going to the Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to the scho=
ol
after, so thee mustna wonder if I'm a bit late. Seth 'ull be at home in hal=
f an
hour - he's only gone to the village; so thee wutna mind.’
‘Eh, an' what's thee got thy
best cloose on for to go to th' Hall Farm? The Poyser folks see'd thee in '=
em
yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean by turnin' worki'day into Sunday a-tha=
t'n?
It's poor keepin' company wi' folks as donna like to see thee i' thy workin'
jacket.’
‘Good-bye, mother, I can't s=
tay,’
said Adam, putting on his hat and going out.
But he had no sooner gone a few pa=
ces
beyond the door than Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she had vexed
him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the best clothes was her
suspicion that they were put on for Hetty's sake; but deeper than all her
peevishness lay the need that her son should love her. She hurried after hi=
m,
and laid hold of his arm before he had got half-way down to the brook, and
said, ‘Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her
got nought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee?’
‘Nay, nay, Mother,’ sa=
id
Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put his arm on her shoulder, =
216;I'm
not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to le=
t me
do what I've made up my mind to do. I'll never be no other than a good son =
to
thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings besides what he owes =
to's
father and mother, and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. =
And
thee must make up thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right =
to
do what I like. So let us have no more words about it.’
‘Eh,’ said Lisbeth, not
willing to show that she felt the real bearing of Adam's words, ‘and'=
who
likes to see thee i' thy best cloose better nor thy mother? An' when thee'st
got thy face washed as clean as the smooth white pibble, an' thy hair combe=
d so
nice, and thy eyes a-sparklin' - what else is there as thy old mother should
like to look at half so well? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when =
thee
lik'st for me - I'll ne'er plague thee no moor about'n.’
‘Well, well; good-bye, mothe=
r,’
said Adam, kissing her and hurrying away. He saw there was no other means of
putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the spot, shading her
eyes and looking after him till he was quite out of sight. She felt to the =
full
all the meaning that had lain in Adam's words, and, as she lost sight of him
and turned back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself - for it w=
as
her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her husband and s=
ons
were at their work - ‘Eh, he'll be tellin' me as he's goin' to bring =
her
home one o' these days; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I mun look on,
belike, while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks 'em, mayhap, tho=
ugh
there's ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' me bought 'em at the fair
twenty 'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!’ she went on, still louder, as=
she
caught up her knitting from the table, ‘but she'll ne'er knit the lad=
's
stockin's, nor foot 'em nayther, while I live; an' when I'm gone, he'll bet=
hink
him as nobody 'ull ne'er fit's leg an' foot as his old mother did. She'll k=
now
nothin' o' narrowin' an' heelin', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as =
he
canna get's boot on. That's what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone
thirty, an' th' feyther too, afore we war married; an' young enough too. Sh=
e'll
be a poor dratchell by then SHE'S thirty, a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore her
teeth's all come.’
Adam walked so fast that he was at=
the
yard-gate before seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come=
in
from the meadow: every one was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan ter=
rier
- no one kept watch in the yard but the bull-dog; and when Adam reached the=
house-door,
which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean house-pl=
ace.
But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one else would be, quite within
hearing; so he knocked on the door and said in his strong voice, ‘Mrs.
Poyser within?’
‘Come in, Mr Bede, come in,&=
#8217;
Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when=
she
received him in her own house. ‘You may come into the dairy if you wi=
ll,
for I canna justly leave the cheese.’
Adam walked into the dairy, where =
Mrs.
Poyser and Nancy were crushing the first evening cheese.
‘Why, you might think you war
come to a dead-house,’ said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open door=
way;
‘they're all i' the meadow; but Martin's sure to be in afore long, for
they're leaving the hay cocked to-night, ready for carrying first thing
to-morrow. I've been forced t' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must get=
her
the red currants to-night; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when
every hand's wanted. An' there's no trustin' the children to gether it, for
they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as well =
set
the wasps to gether the fruit.’
Adam longed to say he would go into
the garden till Mr Poyser came in, but he was not quite courageous enough, =
so
he said, ‘I could be looking at your spinning-wheel, then, and see wh=
at
wants doing to it. Perhaps it stands in the house, where I can find it?R=
17;
‘No, I've put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be till I can fetch it and show it you. I'd = be glad now if you'd go into the garden and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The c= hild 'ull run in if she's told, an' I know Hetty's lettin' her eat too many currants. I'll be much obliged to you, Mr Bede, if you'll go and send her i= n; an' there's the York and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden now - you'= ll like to see 'em. But you'd like a drink o' whey first, p'r'aps; I know you'= re fond o' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out.’<= o:p>
‘Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,R=
17;
said Adam; ‘a drink o' whey's allays a treat to me. I'd rather have it
than beer any day.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Mrs.
Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on the shelf, and dipping it
into the whey-tub, ‘the smell o' bread's sweet t' everybody but the
baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, 'Oh, Mrs. Poyser, I envy you your dairy;
and I envy you your chickens; and what a beautiful thing a farm-house is, t=
o be
sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; a farm-house is a fine thing for them as look on, a=
n'
don't know the liftin', an' the stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside as
belongs to't.'‘
‘Why, Mrs. Poyser, you would=
n't
like to live anywhere else but in a farm-house, so well as you manage it,=
8217;
said Adam, taking the basin; ‘and there can be nothing to look at
pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to'ts knees in pasture, and the
new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter ready for market, and t=
he
calves, and the poultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have
strength to look after your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers'
wives in the country.’
Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in
the weakness of smiling at a compliment, but a quiet complacency over-spread
her face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her
blue-grey eyes, as she looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste
that whey now - with a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish =
it
from an odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imaginati=
on
with a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey is=
in
my ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wire network wi=
ndow
- the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall Guelder roses.
‘Have a little more, Mr Bede=
?’
said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the basin.
‘No, thank you; I'll go into=
the
garden now, and send in the little lass.’
‘Aye, do; and tell her to co=
me
to her mother in the dairy.’
Adam walked round by the rick-yard=
, at
present empty of ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the garden -=
once
the well-tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome
brick wall with stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhouse
garden, with hardy perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen
vegetables growing together in careless, half-neglected abundance. In that
leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden was like pla=
ying
at ‘hide-and-seek.’ There were the tall hollyhocks beginning to
flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and yellow; there were the
syringas and Guelder roses, all large and disorderly for want of trimming;
there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and late peas; there was a row of b=
ushy
filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree making a barren
circle under its low-spreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or
two? The garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beans=
- it
took nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end of the uncut grass walk
that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, there was so much
more room than was necessary for them that in the rotation of crops a large
flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrence on one spot or other.=
The
very rose-trees at which Adam stopped to pluck one looked as if they grew w=
ild;
they were all huddled together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wide-open
petals, almost all of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which doubt=
less
dated from the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise eno=
ugh
to choose a compact Provence rose that peeped out half-smothered by its
flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his hand - he thought he sho=
uld
be more at ease holding something in his hand - as he walked on to the far =
end
of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest row of currant-tre=
es,
not far off from the great yew-tree arbour.
But he had not gone many steps bey=
ond
the roses, when he heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy's voice saying, =
‘Now,
then, Totty, hold out your pinny - there's a duck.’
The voice came from the boughs of a
tall cherry-tree, where Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small
blue-pinafored figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was
thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the screen of peas. Yes - with =
her
bonnet hanging down her back, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red
juice, turned up towards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round h=
ole
of a mouth and her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I=
am
sorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow
instead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and s=
he
was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, ‘There now, To=
tty,
you've got your cherries. Run into the house with 'em to Mother - she wants=
you
- she's in the dairy. Run in this minute - there's a good little girl.̵=
7;
He lifted her up in his strong arms
and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome
interruption to cherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted off qui=
te
silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as she went along.
‘Tommy, my lad, take care yo=
u're
not shot for a little thieving bird,’ said Adam, as he walked on towa=
rds
the currant-trees.
He could see there was a large bas=
ket
at the end of the row: Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt as=
if
she were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was standing with
her back towards him, and stooping to gather the low-hanging fruit. Strange
that she had not heard him coming! Perhaps it was because she was making the
leaves rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one was near=
- started
so violently that she dropped the basin with the currants in it, and then, =
when
she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his
heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him befo=
re.
‘I frightened you,’ he
said, with a delicious sense that it didn't signify what he said, since Het=
ty
seemed to feel as much as he did; ‘let ME pick the currants up.’=
;
That was soon done, for they had o=
nly
fallen in a tangled mass on the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave h=
er
the basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness =
that
belongs to the first moments of hopeful love.
Hetty did not turn away her eyes; =
her
blush had subsided, and she met his glance with a quiet sadness, which
contented Adam because it was so unlike anything he had seen in her before.=
‘There's not many more curra=
nts
to get,’ she said; ‘I shall soon ha' done now.’
‘I'll help you,’ said
Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was nearly full of currants, a=
nd
set it close to them.
Not a word more was spoken as they
gathered the currants. Adam's heart was too full to speak, and he thought H=
etty
knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence after all;=
she
had blushed when she saw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about
her which must surely mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual man=
ner,
which had often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at her
continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeams st=
ole
through the thick apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck=
as
if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can l=
east
forget in after-life, the time when he believes that the first woman he has
ever loved betrays by a slight something - a word, a tone, a glance, the
quivering of a lip or an eyelid - that she is at least beginning to love hi=
m in
return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye=
- he
could describe it to no one - it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to h=
ave
changed his whole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious
unconsciousness of everything but the present moment. So much of our early
gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the joy with
which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our father's back =
in
childhood. Doubtless that joy is wrought up into our nature, as the sunligh=
t of
long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot, but=
it
is gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only BELIEVE in the joy of
childhood. But the first glad moment in our first love is a vision which
returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense a=
nd
special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off h=
our
of happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to tendernes=
s,
that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the last keenness to the agony =
of
despair.
Hetty bending over the red bunches,
the level rays piercing the screen of apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy
garden beyond, his own emotion as he looked at her and believed that she was
thinking of him, and that there was no need for them to talk - Adam remembe=
red
it all to the last moment of his life.
And Hetty? You know quite well that
Adam was mistaken about her. Like many other men, he thought the signs of l=
ove
for another were signs of love towards himself. When Adam was approaching
unseen by her, she was absorbed as usual in thinking and wondering about
Arthur's possible return. The sound of any man's footstep would have affect=
ed
her just in the same way - she would have FELT it might be Arthur before she
had time to see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of t=
hat
momentary feeling would have rushed back again at the sight of any one else
just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking that a
change had come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first passion, with
which she was trembling, had become stronger than vanity, had given her for=
the
first time that sense of helpless dependence on another's feeling which awa=
kens
the clinging deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl that can ever
experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to kindness which found her
quite hard before. For the first time Hetty felt that there was something
soothing to her in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness. She wanted to be trea=
ted
lovingly - oh, it was very hard to bear this blank of absence, silence,
apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing love! She was not afr=
aid
that Adam would tease her with love-making and flattering speeches like her
other admirers; he had always been so reserved to her; she could enjoy with=
out
any fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was near her. It
never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too - that Adam too must
suffer one day.
Hetty, we know, was not the first
woman that had behaved more gently to the man who loved her in vain because=
she
had herself begun to love another. It was a very old story, but Adam knew
nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet delusion.
‘That'll do,’ said Het=
ty,
after a little while. ‘Aunt wants me to leave some on the trees. I'll
take 'em in now.’
‘It's very well I came to ca=
rry
the basket,’ said Adam ‘for it 'ud ha' been too heavy for your
little arms.’
‘No; I could ha' carried it =
with
both hands.’
‘Oh, I daresay,’ said
Adam, smiling, ‘and been as long getting into the house as a little a=
nt
carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying thin=
gs
four times as big as themselves?’
‘No,’ said Hetty,
indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of ant life.
‘Oh, I used to watch 'em oft=
en
when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can carry the basket with one arm, as=
if
it was an empty nutshell, and give you th' other arm to lean on. Won't you?
Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like yours to lean on.̵=
7;
Hetty smiled faintly and put her a=
rm
within his. Adam looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily towa=
rds
another corner of the garden.
‘Have you ever been to
Eagledale?’ she said, as they walked slowly along.
‘Yes,’ said Adam, plea=
sed
to have her ask a question about himself. ‘Ten years ago, when I was a
lad, I went with father to see about some work there. It's a wonderful sigh=
t - rocks
and caves such as you never saw in your life. I never had a right notion o'
rocks till I went there.’
‘How long did it take to get
there?’
‘Why, it took us the best pa=
rt
o' two days' walking. But it's nothing of a day's journey for anybody as has
got a first-rate nag. The captain 'ud get there in nine or ten hours, I'll =
be
bound, he's such a rider. And I shouldn't wonder if he's back again to-morr=
ow;
he's too active to rest long in that lonely place, all by himself, for ther=
e's
nothing but a bit of a inn i' that part where he's gone to fish. I wish he'd
got th' estate in his hands; that 'ud be the right thing for him, for it 'ud
give him plenty to do, and he'd do't well too, for all he's so young; he's =
got
better notions o' things than many a man twice his age. He spoke very hands=
ome
to me th' other day about lending me money to set up i' business; and if th=
ings
came round that way, I'd rather be beholding to him nor to any man i' the
world.’
Poor Adam was led on to speak about
Arthur because he thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the young squ=
ire
was so ready to befriend him; the fact entered into his future prospects, w=
hich
he would like to seem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty
listened with an interest which brought a new light into her eyes and a
half-smile upon her lips.
‘How pretty the roses are no=
w!’
Adam continued, pausing to look at them. ‘See! I stole the prettiest,=
but
I didna mean to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got=
a
finer sort o' green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns, don't you?=
8217;
He set down the basket and took the
rose from his button-hole.
‘It smells very sweet,’=
; he
said; ‘those striped uns have no smell. Stick it in your frock, and t=
hen
you can put it in water after. It 'ud be a pity to let it fade.’
Hetty took the rose, smiling as she
did so at the pleasant thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he lik=
ed.
There was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impu=
lse
of gaiety she did what she had very often done before - stuck the rose in h=
er
hair a little above the left ear. The tender admiration in Adam's face was
slightly shadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just=
the
thing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked it as muc=
h as
it was possible for him to dislike anything that belonged to her.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘=
that's
like the ladies in the pictures at the Chase; they've mostly got flowers or
feathers or gold things i' their hair, but somehow I don't like to see 'em =
they
allays put me i' mind o' the painted women outside the shows at Treddles'on
Fair. What can a woman have to set her off better than her own hair, when it
curls so, like yours? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her
good looks all the better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris lo=
oks
very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It seems to me as a
woman's face doesna want flowers; it's almost like a flower itself. I'm sure
yours is.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said
Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the rose out of her hair. ‘=
I'll
put one o' Dinah's caps on when we go in, and you'll see if I look better in
it. She left one behind, so I can take the pattern.’
‘Nay, nay, I don't want you =
to
wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I daresay it's a very ugly cap, and I us=
ed
to think when I saw her here as it was nonsense for her to dress different =
t'
other people; but I never rightly noticed her till she came to see mother l=
ast
week, and then I thought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow as th
'acorn-cup fits th' acorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without =
it.
But you've got another sort o' face; I'd have you just as you are now, with=
out
anything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's singing a
good tune - you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the
sound.’
He took her arm and put it within =
his
again, looking down on her fondly. He was afraid she should think he had
lectured her, imagining, as we are apt to do, that she had perceived all the
thoughts he had only half-expressed. And the thing he dreaded most was lest=
any
cloud should come over this evening's happiness. For the world he would not
have spoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards=
him
should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagination he saw long ye=
ars
of his future life stretching before him, blest with the right to call Hetty
his own: he could be content with very little at present. So he took up the
basket of currants once more, and they went on towards the house.
The scene had quite changed in the
half-hour that Adam had been in the garden. The yard was full of life now:
Marty was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and wickedly provok=
ing
the gander by hissing at him; the granary-door was groaning on its hinges as
Alick shut it, after dealing out the corn; the horses were being led out to
watering, amidst much barking of all the three dogs and many ‘whups=
8217;
from Tim the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek,
intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy feet so deliberately, were likel=
y to
rush wildly in every direction but the right. Everybody was come back from =
the
meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr Poyser was seat=
ed
in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the large arm-chair
opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the supper was being l=
aid
on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth herself - a cloth made of
homespun linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and of an agreeable
whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible housewives like to see - none of your
bleached ‘shop-rag’ that would wear into holes in no time, but =
good
homespun that would last for two generations. The cold veal, the fresh
lettuces, and the stuffed chine might well look tempting to hungry men who =
had
dined at half-past twelve o'clock. On the large deal table against the wall
there were bright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and his
companions; for the master and servants ate their supper not far off each
other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a remark about to-morrow
morning's work occurred to Mr Poyser, Alick was at hand to hear it.
‘Well, Adam, I'm glad to see=
ye,’
said Mr Poyser. ‘What! ye've been helping Hetty to gether the curran'=
s,
eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it's pretty near a three-week sinc=
e y'
had your supper with us; and the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chi=
nes.
I'm glad ye're come.’
‘Hetty,’ said Mrs. Poy=
ser,
as she looked into the basket of currants to see if the fruit was fine, =
216;run
upstairs and send Molly down. She's putting Totty to bed, and I want her to
draw th' ale, for Nancy's busy yet i' the dairy. You can see to the child. =
But
whativer did you let her run away from you along wi' Tommy for, and stuff
herself wi' fruit as she can't eat a bit o' good victual?’
This was said in a lower tone than
usual, while her husband was talking to Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in
adherence to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young gi=
rl
was not to be treated sharply in the presence of a respectable man who was
courting her. That would not be fair-play: every woman was young in her tur=
n,
and had her chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other
women not to spoil - just as one market-woman who has sold her own eggs mus=
t not
try to balk another of a customer.
Hetty made haste to run away upsta=
irs,
not easily finding an answer to her aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser went o=
ut
to see after Marty and Tommy and bring them in to supper.
Soon they were all seated - the two
rosy lads, one on each side, by the pale mother, a place being left for Het=
ty
between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far
corner, eating cold broad beans out of a large dish with his pocket-knife, =
and
finding a flavour in them which he would not have exchanged for the finest
pineapple.
‘What a time that gell is
drawing th' ale, to be sure!’ said Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensi=
ng
her slices of stuffed chine. ‘I think she sets the jug under and forg=
ets
to turn the tap, as there's nothing you can't believe o' them wenches: they=
'll
set the empty kettle o' the fire, and then come an hour after to see if the
water boils.’
‘She's drawin' for the men t=
oo,’
said Mr Poyser. ‘Thee shouldst ha' told her to bring our jug up first=
.’
‘Told her?’ said Mrs.
Poyser. ‘Yes, I might spend all the wind i' my body, an' take the bel=
lows
too, if I was to tell them gells everything as their own sharpness wonna te=
ll
'em. Mr Bede, will you take some vinegar with your lettuce? Aye you're i' t=
he
right not. It spoils the flavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor ea=
ting
where the flavour o' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad
butter and trusten to the salt t' hide it.’
Mrs. Poyser's attention was here
diverted by the appearance of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs, =
and
four drinking-cans, all full of ale or small beer - an interesting example =
of
the prehensile power possessed by the human hand. Poor Molly's mouth was ra=
ther
wider open than usual, as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double
cluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in her
mistress's eye.
‘Molly, I niver knew your eq=
uils
- to think o' your poor mother as is a widow, an' I took you wi' as good as=
no
character, an' the times an' times I've told you....’
Molly had not seen the lightning, =
and
the thunder shook her nerves the more for the want of that preparation. Wit=
h a
vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport herself differently, she
hastened her step a little towards the far deal table, where she might set =
down
her cans - caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell =
with
a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering explosion f=
rom
Marty and Tommy, and a serious ‘Ello!’ from Mr Poyser, who saw =
his
draught of ale unpleasantly deferred.
‘There you go!’ resumed
Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose and went towards the cupboard w=
hile
Molly began dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. ‘It's what=
I
told you 'ud come, over and over again; and there's your month's wage gone,=
and
more, to pay for that jug as I've had i' the house this ten year, and nothi=
ng
ever happened to't before; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' h=
ouse
you've been 'ud make a parson swear - God forgi' me for saying so - an' if =
it
had been boiling wort out o' the copper, it 'ud ha' been the same, and you'd
ha' been scalded and very like lamed for life, as there's no knowing but wh=
at
you will be some day if you go on; for anybody 'ud think you'd got the St. =
Vitus's
Dance, to see the things you've throwed down. It's a pity but what the bits=
was
stacked up for you to see, though it's neither seeing nor hearing as 'ull m=
ake
much odds to you - anybody 'ud think you war case-hardened.’
Poor Molly's tears were dropping f=
ast
by this time, and in her desperation at the lively movement of the beer-str=
eam
towards Alick's legs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs.
Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a blighting eye upon her.
‘Ah,’ she went on, =
216;you'll
do no good wi' crying an' making more wet to wipe up. It's all your own
wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobody no call to break anything if
they'll only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had need ha' wooden
things t' handle. And here must I take the brown-and-white jug, as it's niv=
er
been used three times this year, and go down i' the cellar myself, and beli=
ke
catch my death, and be laid up wi' inflammation....’
Mrs. Poyser had turned round from =
the
cupboard with the brown-and-white jug in her hand, when she caught sight of
something at the other end of the kitchen; perhaps it was because she was
already trembling and nervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on
her; perhaps jug-breaking, like other crimes, has a contagious influence. H=
owever
it was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious
brown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout and
handle.
‘Did ever anybody see the li=
ke?’
she said, with a suddenly lowered tone, after a moment's bewildered glance
round the room. ‘The jugs are bewitched, I think. It's them nasty gla=
zed
handles - they slip o'er the finger like a snail.’
‘Why, thee'st let thy own wh=
ip
fly i' thy face,’ said her husband, who had now joined in the laugh of
the young ones.
‘It's all very fine to look =
on
and grin,’ rejoined Mrs. Poyser; ‘but there's times when the
crockery seems alive an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. It's like the
glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke WILL be brok=
e,
for I never dropped a thing i' my life for want o' holding it, else I should
never ha' kept the crockery all these 'ears as I bought at my own wedding. =
And
Hetty, are you mad? Whativer do you mean by coming down i' that way, and ma=
king
one think as there's a ghost a-walking i' th' house?’
A new outbreak of laughter, while =
Mrs.
Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a fatalis=
tic
view of jug-breaking than by that strange appearance of Hetty, which had
startled her aunt. The little minx had found a black gown of her aunt's, and
pinned it close round her neck to look like Dinah's, had made her hair as f=
lat
as she could, and had tied on one of Dinah's high-crowned borderless net ca=
ps.
The thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the sight =
of
the gown and cap brought with it, made it a laughable surprise enough to see
them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark eyes. The bo=
ys
got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their hands, and even A=
lick
gave a low ventral laugh as he looked up from his beans. Under cover of the
noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the back kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar
with the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free from
bewitchment.
‘Why, Hetty, lass, are ye tu=
rned
Methodist?’ said Mr Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoyment of a
laugh which one only sees in stout people. ‘You must pull your face a
deal longer before you'll do for one; mustna she, Adam? How come you put th=
em
things on, eh?’
‘Adam said he liked Dinah's =
cap
and gown better nor my clothes,’ said Hetty, sitting down demurely. &=
#8216;He
says folks looks better in ugly clothes.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Adam,
looking at her admiringly; ‘I only said they seemed to suit Dinah. Bu=
t if
I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I should ha' said nothing but what was t=
rue.’
‘Why, thee thought'st Hetty =
war
a ghost, didstna?’ said Mr Poyser to his wife, who now came back and =
took
her seat again. ‘Thee look'dst as scared as scared.’
‘It little sinnifies how I
looked,’ said Mrs. Poyser; ‘looks 'ull mend no jugs, nor laughi=
ng
neither, as I see. Mr Bede, I'm sorry you've to wait so long for your ale, =
but
it's coming in a minute. Make yourself at home wi' th' cold potatoes: I know
you like 'em. Tommy, I'll send you to bed this minute, if you don't give ov=
er
laughing. What is there to laugh at, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry =
nor
laugh at the sight o' that poor thing's cap; and there's them as 'ud be bet=
ter
if they could make theirselves like her i' more ways nor putting on her cap=
. It
little becomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' =
her
just gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her. An' I know =
one
thing, as if trouble was to come, an' I was to be laid up i' my bed, an' the
children was to die - as there's no knowing but what they will - an' the
murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everything went to rack an'
ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah's cap again, wi' her own
face under it, border or no border. For she's one o' them things as looks t=
he
brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when you're most i' need o=
n't.’
Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was awa=
re
that nothing would be so likely to expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, =
who
was of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had,
besides, eaten so many cherries as to have his feelings less under command =
than
usual, was so affected by the dreadful picture she had made of the possible
future that he began to cry; and the good-natured father, indulgent to all
weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, ‘You'd bett=
er
take the things off again, my lass; it hurts your aunt to see 'em.’
Hetty went upstairs again, and the
arrival of the ale made an agreeable diversion; for Adam had to give his
opinion of the new tap, which could not be otherwise than complimentary to =
Mrs.
Poyser; and then followed a discussion on the secrets of good brewing, the
folly of stinginess in ‘hopping,’ and the doubtful economy of a
farmer's making his own malt. Mrs. Poyser had so many opportunities of
expressing herself with weight on these subjects that by the time supper was
ended, the ale-jug refilled, and Mr Poyser's pipe alight she was once more =
in
high good humour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken
spinning-wheel for his inspection.
‘Ah,’ said Adam, looki=
ng
at it carefully, ‘here's a nice bit o' turning wanted. It's a pretty
wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in the village and do it there,
for I've no convenence for turning at home. If you'll send it to Mr Burge's
shop i' the morning, I'll get it done for you by Wednesday. I've been turni=
ng
it over in my mind,’ he continued, looking at Mr Poyser, ‘to ma=
ke a
bit more convenence at home for nice jobs o' cabinet-making. I've always do=
ne a
deal at such little things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's
more workmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little
business for ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ull ta=
ke
as many things as we should make, besides what we could get orders for round
about.’
Mr Poyser entered with interest in=
to a
project which seemed a step towards Adam's becoming a ‘master-man,=
217;
and Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme of the movable kitchen c=
upboard,
which was to be capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and
house-linen in the utmost compactness without confusion. Hetty, once more in
her own dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warm
evening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could see =
her
quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was
pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time
sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five o'clock in t=
he
morning.
‘I shall take a step farther=
,’
said Adam, ‘and go on to see Mester Massey, for he wasn't at church
yesterday, and I've not seen him for a week past. I've never hardly known h=
im
to miss church before.’
‘Aye,’ said Mr Poyser,=
‘we've
heared nothing about him, for it's the boys' hollodays now, so we can give =
you
no account.’
‘But you'll niver think o' g=
oing
there at this hour o' the night?’ said Mrs. Poyser, folding up her
knitting.
‘Oh, Mester Massey sits up l=
ate,’
said Adam. ‘An' the night-school's not over yet. Some o' the men don't
come till late - they've got so far to walk. And Bartle himself's never in =
bed
till it's gone eleven.’
‘I wouldna have him to live =
wi'
me, then,’ said Mrs. Poyser, ‘a-dropping candle-grease about, as
you're like to tumble down o' the floor the first thing i' the morning.R=
17;
‘Aye, eleven o'clock's late =
- it's
late,’ said old Martin. ‘I ne'er sot up so i' MY life, not to s=
ay
as it warna a marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper.=
Eleven
o'clock's late.’
‘Why, I sit up till after tw=
elve
often,’ said Adam, laughing, ‘but it isn't t' eat and drink ext=
ry,
it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty.’
Hetty could only smile and not sha=
ke
hands, for hers were dyed and damp with currant-juice; but all the rest gav=
e a
hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to them, and said, ‘=
Come
again, come again!’
‘Aye, think o' that now,R= 17; said Mr Poyser, when Adam was out of on the causeway. ‘Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work! Ye'll not find many men o' six-an' twenty as = 'ull do to put i' the shafts wi' him. If you can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart some day, I'll be your warrant.’<= o:p>
Hetty was moving across the kitchen
with the currants, so her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with
which she answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot
indeed to her now.
Bartle Massey's was one of a few
scattered houses on the edge of a common, which was divided by the road to
Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall
Farm; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, he could see, through the
curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads bending over the de=
sks,
lighted by thin dips.
When he entered, a reading lesson =
was
going forward and Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place
where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his
mind was too full of personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had
passed in Hetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school
was over; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. It =
was
a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; he knew by h=
eart
every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of Bartle Massey's handwrit=
ing
which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way of keeping a lofty ideal be=
fore
the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs of all the books on the shelf
running along the whitewashed wall above the pegs for the slates; he knew
exactly how many grains were gone out of the ear of Indian corn that hung f=
rom
one of the rafters; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his imaginat=
ion
in trying to think how the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in
its native element; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing =
of
the old map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had tur=
ned
it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasoned meerschau=
m.
The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the scene, neverthele=
ss
habit had not made him indifferent to it, and even in his present self-abso=
rbed
mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old fellow-feeling, as he looke=
d at
the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil with their cramped hands, or
humbly labouring through their reading lesson.
The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster's desk consisted of the three most backwa= rd pupils. Adam would have known it only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles, which he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, = not requiring them for present purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: = the grizzled bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionate kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllable in a mome= nt. This gentle expression was the more interesting because the schoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that peculiar tension whi= ch always impresses one as a sign of a keen impatient temperament: the blue ve= ins stood out like cords under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimidati= ng brow was softened by no tendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever.<= o:p>
‘Nay, Bill, nay,’ Bart=
le
was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, ‘begin that again, a=
nd
then perhaps, it'll come to you what d-r-y spells. It's the same lesson you
read last week, you know.’
‘Bill’ was a sturdy
fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent stone-sawyer, who could get as g=
ood
wages as any man in the trade of his years; but he found a reading lesson in
words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest stone he
had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so ‘uncommon al=
ike,
there was no tellin' 'em one from another,’ the sawyer's business not
being concerned with minute differences such as exist between a letter with=
its
tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm
determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two reasons:
first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything ‘right off,&=
#8217;
whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letter from twenty
miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and had got an
overlooker's place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had
learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could be done by a litt=
le
fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing
that he could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here=
he
was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and turning his h=
ead
on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word whi=
ch
was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Ma=
ssey
must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imagination recoiled
before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that the schoolmaster might
have something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and t=
he
changes in the weather.
The man seated next to Bill was of=
a
very different type: he was a Methodist brickmaker who, after spending thir=
ty
years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately =
8216;got
religion,’ and along with it the desire to read the Bible. But with h=
im,
too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offe=
red
as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard
task with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul - that he might have a
greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evil memories and =
the
temptations of old habit - or, in brief language, the devil. For the brickm=
aker
had been a notorious poacher, and was suspected, though there was no good
evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a neighbouring gamekeep=
er
in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that shortly after the
accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening
Methodist preacher at Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the
brickmaker; and though he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old
sobriquet of ‘Brimstone,’ there was nothing he held in so much
horror as any further transactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a
broad-chested fellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in
imbibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human
knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in h=
is
resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a me=
re
obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too eager
for the knowledge that puffeth up.
The third beginner was a much more
promising pupil. He was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as
Brimstone, with a very pale face and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dy=
er,
who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old women's petticoats had g=
ot
fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more about the strange secret=
s of
colour. He had already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and =
he
was bent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense of
crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given him a notion t=
hat
he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense if he could learn =
to
read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night-school,
resolving that his ‘little chap’ should lose no time in coming =
to Mr
Massey's day-school as soon as he was old enough.
It was touching to see these three=
big
men, with the marks of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending over=
the
worn books and painfully making out, ‘The grass is green,’ R=
16;The
sticks are dry,’ ‘The corn is ripe’ - a very hard lesson =
to
pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter.=
It
was almost as if three rough animals were making humble efforts to learn how
they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Masse=
y's
nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom=
he
had no severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an
imperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patience cou=
ld
never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glances over his
spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on one side =
with
a desperate sense of blankness before the letters d-r-y, his eyes shed their
mildest and most encouraging light.
After the reading class, two youths
between sixteen and nineteen came up with the imaginary bills of parcels, w=
hich
they had been writing out on their slates and were now required to calculat=
e ‘off-hand’
- a test which they stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, w=
hose
eyes had been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for some
minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausing between
every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between h=
is
legs.
‘Now, you see, you don't do =
this
thing a bit better than you did a fortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's t=
he
reason. You want to learn accounts - that's well and good. But you think all
you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or s=
o,
two or three times a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn o=
ut
of doors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go
whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking of than if your
heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through that happened to be in =
the
way; and if you get a good notion in 'em, it's pretty soon washed out again.
You think knowledge is to be got cheap - you'll come and pay Bartle Massey
sixpence a-week, and he'll make you clever at figures without your taking a=
ny
trouble. But knowledge isn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell yo=
u.
If you're to know figures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep yo=
ur
thoughts fixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there=
's
nothing but what's got number in it - even a fool. You may say to yourselve=
s,
'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighed four pound, and
Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights
heavier would my head be than Jack's?' A man that had got his heart in lear=
ning
figures would make sums for himself and work 'em in his head. When he sat at
his shoemaking, he'd count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on h=
is
stitches, say half a farthing, and then see how much money he could get in =
an hour;
and then ask himself how much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then
how much ten workmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years=
at
that rate - and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if =
he
left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the short o=
f it
is - I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't strive to learn what =
he
comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get out of a dark hole into
broad daylight. I'll send no man away because he's stupid: if Billy Taft, t=
he
idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd not refuse to teach him. But I'll not
throw away good knowledge on people who think they can get it by the
sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with 'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So
never come to me again, if you can't show that you've been working with your
own heads, instead of thinking that you can pay for mine to work for you.
That's the last word I've got to say to you.’
With this final sentence, Bartle
Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomf=
ited
lads got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily only their
writing-books to show, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round
text; and mere pen-strokes, however perverse, were less exasperating to Bar=
tle
than false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob Stor=
ey's
Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with their tops turned =
the
wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right ‘somehow.=
217;
But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, a=
nd
he thought it had only been there ‘to finish off th' alphabet, like,
though ampusand (&) would ha' done as well, for what he could see.̵=
7;
At last the pupils had all taken t=
heir
hats and said their ‘Good-nights,’ and Adam, knowing his old
master's habits, rose and said, ‘Shall I put the candles out, Mr Mass=
ey?’
‘Yes, my boy, yes, all but t=
his,
which I'll carry into the house; and just lock the outer door, now you're n=
ear
it,’ said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him =
in
descending from his stool. He was no sooner on the ground than it became
obvious why the stick was necessary - the left leg was much shorter than the
right. But the school-master was so active with his lameness that it was ha=
rdly
thought of as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along the
schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhaps have
understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might be
indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them even in
their swiftest run.
The moment he appeared at the kitc=
hen
door with the candle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the
chimney-corner, and a brown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking br=
eed
with short legs and long body, known to an unmechanical generation as
turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating =
at
every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the h=
amper
in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave without a
greeting.
‘Well, Vixen, well then, how=
are
the babbies?’ said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the
chimney-corner and holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extrem=
ely
blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light from a nest of flannel
and wool. Vixen could not even see her master look at them without painful
excitement: she got into the hamper and got out again the next moment, and
behaved with true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a
dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs=
.
‘Why, you've got a family, I
see, Mr Massey?’ said Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. =
216;How's
that? I thought it was against the law here.’
‘Law? What's the use o' law =
when
a man's once such a fool as to let a woman into his house?’ said Bart=
le,
turning away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called Vixen a
woman, and seemed to have lost all consciousness that he was using a figure=
of
speech. ‘If I'd known Vixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys
from drowning her; but when I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take =
to
her. And now you see what she's brought me to - the sly, hypocritical wench=
’
- Bartle spoke these last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at
Vixen, who poked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a ke=
en
sense of opprobrium - ‘and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday=
at
church-time. I've wished again and again I'd been a bloody minded man, that=
I
could have strangled the mother and the brats with one cord.’
‘I'm glad it was no worse a
cause kept you from church,’ said Adam. ‘I was afraid you must =
be
ill for the first time i' your life. And I was particularly sorry not to ha=
ve
you at church yesterday.’
‘Ah, my boy, I know why, I k=
now
why,’ said Bartle kindly, going up to Adam and raising his hand up to=
the
shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. ‘You've had a
rough bit o' road to get over since I saw you - a rough bit o' road. But I'=
m in
hopes there are better times coming for you. I've got some news to tell you.
But I must get my supper first, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit d=
own.’
Bartel went into his little pantry,
and brought out an excellent home-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagan=
ce
in these dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he
justified it by observing, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and
oat-cake ran too much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese
and a quart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on the rou=
nd
deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in the chimney-corner, w=
ith
Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a window-shelf with a few books piled =
up
in it on the other. The table was as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent
housewife in a checkered apron; so was the quarry floor; and the old carved
oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be bought at a hi=
gh
price in aristocratic houses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inl=
aid
cupids, Bartle had got them for an old song, where as free from dust as thi=
ngs
could be at the end of a summer's day.
‘Now, then, my boy, draw up,
draw up. We'll not talk about business till we've had our supper. No man ca=
n be
wise on an empty stomach. But,’ said Bartle, rising from his chair ag=
ain,
‘I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her! Though she'll do not=
hing
with it but nourish those unnecessary babbies. That's the way with these wo=
men
- they've got no head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either =
to
fat or to brats.’
He brought out of the pantry a dis=
h of
scraps, which Vixen at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper=
to
lick up with the utmost dispatch.
‘I've had my supper, Mr Mass=
ey,’
said Adam, ‘so I'll look on while you eat yours. I've been at the Hall
Farm, and they always have their supper betimes, you know: they don't keep =
your
late hours.’
‘I know little about their
hours,’ said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread and not shrinking from t=
he
crust. ‘It's a house I seldom go into, though I'm fond of the boys, a=
nd
Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's too many women in the house for me: I
hate the sound of women's voices; they're always either a-buzz or a-squeak =
- always
either a-buzz or a-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a
fife; and as for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know =
what
they'll turn to - stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my b=
oy:
it's been drawn for you - it's been drawn for you.’
‘Nay, Mr Massey,’ said
Adam, who took his old friend's whim more seriously than usual to-night, =
8216;don't
be so hard on the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A working-=
man
'ud be badly off without a wife to see to th' house and the victual, and ma=
ke
things clean and comfortable.’
‘Nonsense! It's the silliest=
lie
a sensible man like you ever believed, to say a woman makes a house
comfortable. It's a story got up because the women are there and something =
must
be found for 'em to do. I tell you there isn't a thing under the sun that n=
eeds
to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman, unless it's
bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better =
ha'
been left to the men - it had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a
woman 'ull bake you a pie every week of her life and never come to see that=
the
hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull make your
porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuring the propor=
tion
between the meal and the milk - a little more or less, she'll think, doesn't
signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now and then: if it's wrong, it's sum=
mat
in the meal, or it's summat in the milk, or it's summat in the water. Look =
at
me! I make my own bread, and there's no difference between one batch and
another from year's end to year's end; but if I'd got any other woman besid=
es
Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patienc=
e if
the bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than
any other house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. Will
Baker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaning done=
in
one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three, and all the w=
hile
be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and let the fender and the
fire-irons stand in the middle o' the floor half the day for you to break y=
our
shins against 'em. Don't tell me about God having made such creatures to be
companions for us! I don't say but He might make Eve to be a companion to A=
dam
in Paradise - there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to
cackle with and make mischief, though you see what mischief she did as soon=
as
she'd an opportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a
woman's a blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, and
foxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils that belo=
ng
to this state o' probation, which it's lawful for a man to keep as clear of=
as
he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another - hoping=
to
get quit of 'em for ever in another.’
Bartle had become so excited and a=
ngry
in the course of his invective that he had forgotten his supper, and only u=
sed
the knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards t=
he
close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome,
that Vixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and bark vagu=
ely.
‘Quiet, Vixen!’ snarled
Bartle, turning round upon her. ‘You're like the rest o' the women - =
always
putting in your word before you know why.’
Vixen returned to her hamper again=
in
humiliation, and her master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did
not choose to interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour wh=
en
he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk =
in
this way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to know
whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that point
Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived previous to the
twenty years in which happily for the peasants and artisans of this
neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their only schoolmaster. If
anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replie=
d, ‘Oh,
I've seen many places - I've been a deal in the south,’ and the Loams=
hire
men would as soon have thought of asking for a particular town or village i=
n Africa
as in ‘the south.’
‘Now then, my boy,’ sa=
id
Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug of ale and lighted h=
is
pipe, ‘now then, we'll have a little talk. But tell me first, have you
heard any particular news to-day?’
‘No,’ said Adam, ̵=
6;not
as I remember.’
‘Ah, they'll keep it close,
they'll keep it close, I daresay. But I found it out by chance; and it's ne=
ws
that may concern you, Adam, else I'm a man that don't know a superficial sq=
uare
foot from a solid.’
Here Bartle gave a series of fierce
and rapid puffs, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient loquac=
ious
man has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puff=
s;
he is always letting it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that
negligence. At last he said, ‘Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I fo=
und
it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven
o'clock this morning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if =
he
gets over it.’
‘Well,’ said Adam, =
216;I
daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow in the parish at his being la=
id
up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all,
there's nobody he's done so much harm to as to th' old squire. Though it's =
the
squire himself as is to blame - making a stupid fellow like that a sort o'
man-of-all-work, just to save th' expense of having a proper steward to look
after th' estate. And he's lost more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be
bound, than 'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be
hoped he'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make
any difference to me.’
‘But I see it, but I see it,=
’
said Bartle, ‘and others besides me. The captain's coming of age now =
- you
know that as well as I do - and it's to be expected he'll have a little more
voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what 'ud be the captain's wi=
sh
about the woods, if there was a fair opportunity for making a change. He's =
said
in plenty of people's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods
to-morrow, if he'd the power. Why, Carroll, Mr Irwine's butler, heard him s=
ay
so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smoking =
our
pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; and whenever
anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to back it, that I'll
answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell you, at Casson's, and
one and another had their fling at you; for if donkeys set to work to sing,
you're pretty sure what the tune'll be.’
‘Why, did they talk it over
before Mr Burge?’ said Adam; ‘or wasn't he there o' Saturday?=
8217;
‘Oh, he went away before Car=
roll
came; and Casson - he's always for setting other folks right, you know - wo=
uld
have it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. 'A substanti=
al
man,' says he, 'with pretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud =
be
all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed t=
he
squire 'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders and
betters at hand!' But I said, 'That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson. Why,
Burge is the man to buy timber; would you put the woods into his hands and =
let
him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave your customers to score
their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that's worth depends on the
quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who's the backbone of Jonathan
Burge's business.'‘
‘I thank you for your good w=
ord,
Mr Massey,’ said Adam. ‘But, for all that, Casson was partly i'=
the
right for once. There's not much likelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever
consent t' employ me. I offended him about two years ago, and he's never
forgiven me.’
‘Why, how was that? You never
told me about it,’ said Bartle.
‘Oh, it was a bit o' nonsens=
e.
I'd made a frame for a screen for Miss Lyddy - she's allays making something
with her worsted-work, you know - and she'd given me particular orders about
this screen, and there was as much talking and measuring as if we'd been
planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked doing it =
for
her. But, you know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I on=
ly
worked at it in overhours - often late at night - and I had to go to
Treddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass nails and such g=
ear;
and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th' open work, after=
a
pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was
done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it into her
drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about fastening on the wor=
k - very
fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, li=
ke a
picture - and th' old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her.
Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know w=
hat
pay she was to give me. I didn't speak at random - you know it's not my way;
I'd calculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a bill, and I said, '=
One
pound thirty.' That was paying for the mater'als and paying me, but none too
much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this, and peered in his way =
at
the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that! Lydia, =
my
dear, if you must spend money on these things, why don't you get them at
Rosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy work here? Such things =
are
not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.' Well, =
Miss
Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she's not overfond o' parti=
ng
with the money herself - she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been
brought up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turn=
ed
as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, 'No, thank you, madam; I'=
ll
make you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've charged the regular p=
rice
for my work, and I know it's done well; and I know, begging His Honour's
pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen at Rosseter under two guineas. =
I'm
willing to give you my work - it's been done in my own time, and nobody's g=
ot
anything to do with it but me; but if I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price
than I asked, because that 'ud be like saying I'd asked more than was just.
With your leave, madam, I'll bid you good-morning.' I made my bow and went =
out
before she'd time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand,
looking almost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as
polite as I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out =
as
I'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the =
one
pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen pretty clear as t=
h'
old squire can't abide me.’
‘That's likely enough, that's
likely enough,’ said Bartle meditatively. ‘The only way to bring
him round would be to show him what was for his own interest, and that the
captain may do - that the captain may do.’
‘Nay, I don't know,’ s=
aid
Adam; ‘the squire's 'cute enough but it takes something else besides
'cuteness to make folks see what'll be their interest in the long run. It t=
akes
some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that pretty clear. You=
'd
hardly ever bring round th' old squire to believe he'd gain as much in a
straightfor'ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much min=
d to
work under him: I don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular=
an
old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If the capt=
ain
was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got a conscience and a =
will
to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor for any man living.’
‘Well, well, my boy, if good
luck knocks at your door, don't you put your head out at window and tell it=
to
be gone about its business, that's all. You must learn to deal with odd and
even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years
ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad
shilling before you knew whether he was in jest or earnest - you're overhas=
ty
and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to your
notions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed - I'm an old
schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. But where's=
the
use of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing and mapping and
mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world and show folks there=
's
some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip? Do =
you
mean to go on turning up your nose at every opportunity because it's got a =
bit
of a smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It's as foolish as =
that
notion o' yours that a wife is to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and
nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a s=
um
in simple addition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, a=
nd
in six years' time six fools more - they're all of the same denomination, b=
ig
and little's nothing to do with the sum!’
During this rather heated exhortat=
ion
to coolness and discretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the clima=
x to
his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce
resolution, fixing his eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh.
‘There's a good deal o' sens=
e in
what you say, Mr Massey,’ Adam began, as soon as he felt quite seriou=
s, ‘as
there always is. But you'll give in that it's no business o' mine to be
building on chances that may never happen. What I've got to do is to work as
well as I can with the tools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a good
chance comes to me, I'll think o' what you've been saying; but till then, I=
've
got nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm
turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a =
bit
by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's getting la=
te
now - it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother may happen=
to
lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid you good-night.=
217;
‘Well, well, we'll go to the
gate with you - it's a fine night,’ said Bartle, taking up his stick.
Vixen was at once on her legs, and without further words the three walked o=
ut
into the starlight, by the side of Bartle's potato-beds, to the little gate=
.
‘Come to the music o' Friday
night, if you can, my boy,’ said the old man, as he closed the gate a=
fter
Adam and leaned against it.
‘Aye, aye,’ said Adam,
striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was the only object movi=
ng
on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse
bushes, stood as still as limestone images - as still as the grey-thatched =
roof
of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving
figure till it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided
affection, had twice run back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on =
her
puppies.
‘Aye, aye,’ muttered t=
he
schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, ‘there you go, stalking along - st=
alking
along; but you wouldn't have been what you are if you hadn't had a bit of o=
ld
lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have something to suck at.
There's plenty of these big, lumbering fellows 'ud never have known their A=
B C
if it hadn't been for Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, =
what
is it, what is it? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will=
o'
my own any more. And those pups - what do you think I'm to do with 'em, when
they're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was that hulking
bull-terrier of Will Baker's - wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussy?’
(Here Vixen tucked her tail between
her legs and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached wh=
ich
a well-bred female will ignore.)
‘But where's the use of talk=
ing
to a woman with babbies?’ continued Bartle. ‘She's got no
conscience - no conscience; it's all run to milk.’
THE thirtieth of July was come, an=
d it
was one of those half-dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle o=
f a
rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, a=
nd
the weather was perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than
usual on the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the
roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on i=
t,
and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high u=
p in
the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor July merry-making, yet
surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot
pause just then: all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of early
growth and vague hopes is past; and yet the time of harvest and ingathering=
is
not come, and we tremble at the possible storms that may ruin the precious
fruit in the moment of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous
green; the waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering
their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are
often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour of red a=
nd
gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their innocent frisky
prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of
leisure on the farm - that pause between hay-and corn-harvest, and so the
farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the captain did well =
to
come of age just then, when they could give their undivided minds to the
flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the autumn after =
216;the
heir’ was born, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The
air had been merry with the ringing of church-bells very early this morning,
and every one had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve,
when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.
The midday sun was streaming into
Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it
fell on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. Still, =
that
was the only glass she had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the
small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next room - the room that had
been Dinah's - would show her nothing below her little chin; and that beaut=
iful
bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into another roundness
shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she thought more than usual abo=
ut
her neck and arms; for at the dance this evening she was not to wear any
neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted pink-and-white
frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or short at will. She was
dressed now just as she was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of =
216;real’
lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with =
no
ornaments besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which s=
he
wore every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before=
she
put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in the day-t=
ime,
for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is more
than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds n=
ew
treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that these are thrust in=
to
the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large coloured glass ear-rings =
into
her ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and
garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the
delight of taking out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not
reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pre=
tty,
must have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments or
not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could not possibly =
wear
out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity be=
ing
a reference to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand
women's natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest
yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were studying t=
he
psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty ro=
und
creature as she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the
ear-rings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of t=
he
person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the
moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have care=
d to
have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that she had longed for
ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could imagine.
‘Little, little ears!’
Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, as Hetty sat beside =
him
on the grass without her hat. ‘I wish I had some pretty ear-rings!=
217;
she said in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying - the wish=
lay
so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter past them at the slightest breath. A=
nd
the next day - it was only last week - Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on
purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the
prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; =
and
he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty
unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back th=
eir
new delight into his.
No, she was not thinking most of t=
he
giver when she smiled at the ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of t=
he
box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears - only f=
or
one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass
against the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, lik=
e a
listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings as =
one
looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if
not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which
they leave when they are taken out; perhaps water-nixies, and such lovely
things without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature,
ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be one of them: it is too painful to
think that she is a woman, with a woman's destiny before her - a woman spin=
ning
in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day cl=
ose
round her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at
once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human=
anguish.
But she cannot keep in the ear-rin=
gs
long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into=
the
box again and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings
she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costume=
s,
shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at the Ch=
ase
has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on her arms,
and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thin=
g in
the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on=
the
chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, =
with
a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she =
must
put on her brown berries - her neck would look so unfinished without it. He=
tty
was not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a
handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful g=
old
border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock,
forming a background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her
clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion, only a lit=
tle
less strong than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to
wear the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn it, if=
she
had dared to encounter her aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. =
So
now she slipped it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the
chain round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locke=
t to
hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do
but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and her st=
raw
hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather
faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty's c=
up
to-day, for it was not quite new - everybody would see that it was a little
tanned against the white ribbon - and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have=
a
new hat or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton
stockings: they really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all =
her
spare money for them. Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insens=
ible
to triumph in the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so tha=
t he
would never care about looking at other people, but then those other people
didn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and
insignificant in their eyes even for a short space.
The whole party was assembled in t=
he
house-place when Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and
the bells had been ringing so this morning in honour of the captain's
twenty-first birthday, and the work had all been got done so early, that Ma=
rty
and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their mother had assured
them that going to church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr Poyser =
had
once suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care of
itself; ‘for,’ said he, ‘there's no danger of anybody's
breaking in - everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th'
house up, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their live=
s.’
But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: ‘I never left the house=
to
take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been
ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off every=
ham
an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as i=
t's
a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our be=
ds
afore we knowed, some Friday night when we'n got the money in th' house to =
pay
the men. And it's like enough the tramps know where we're going as well as =
we
do oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he'll find
the means.’
‘Nonsense about murdering us=
in
our beds,’ said Mr Poyser; ‘I've got a gun i' our room, hanna I?
and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon.
Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i' the forepart =
o'
the day, and Tim can come back tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his
turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and ther=
e's
Alick's dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives hi=
m a
wink.’
Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromi=
se,
but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last
moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of =
the
house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate observation of
Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected
for a burglarious attempt.
The covered cart, without springs,=
was
standing ready to carry the whole family except the men-servants. Mr Poyser=
and
the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all=
the
women and children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting
would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an
excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr Poyser drove at no more than a
walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on =
this
warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and remarks with the
foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths between the
green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright colour =
- a
scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly amo=
ng
the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with ends flaunting across a brand-new
white smock-frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and
make merry there in honour of ‘th' heir’; and the old men and
women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill for the last tw=
enty
years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's
waggons, at Mr Irwine's suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again no=
w - a
last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the
festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard approach=
ing,
so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr Poyser's cart,
began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, which had
mustered in all its glory - that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue
favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, ‘Let brotherly love
continue,’ encircling a picture of a stone-pit.
The carts, of course, were not to
enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles mu=
st
be sent back.
‘Why, the Chase is like a fa=
ir
a'ready,’ said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the
groups scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot
sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering garments that
were to be the prize of the successful climbers. ‘I should ha' thought
there wasna so many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is =
out
o' the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a
scratchin'! They might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved =
the
fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down.’
‘Stop a bit, stop a bit,R=
17;
said Mr Poyser. ‘There's th' waggin coming wi' th' old folks in't; it=
'll
be such a sight as wonna come o'er again, to see 'em get down an' walk along
all together. You remember some on 'em i' their prime, eh, Father?’
‘Aye, aye,’ said old
Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge porch, from which he co=
uld
see the aged party descend. ‘I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile
after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton.’
He felt himself quite a youngster,
with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther
Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, =
and
leaning on his two sticks.
‘Well, Mester Taft,’
shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice - for though he knew=
the
old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting - =
216;you're
hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better.=
’
‘Your sarvant, mesters, your
sarvant,’ said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was =
in
company.
The aged group, under care of sons=
or
daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the least-winding carr=
iage-road
towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the
Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great tr=
ees,
but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-be=
ds,
or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right
angles with two larger marquees on each side of the open green space where =
the
games were to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain squa=
re
mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which =
it
was united at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new
farmhouse rising high and prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. =
The
fine old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beech=
es,
but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were =
all
down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite sa=
d to
look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand comp=
any,
where he could not possibly know that she was come, and she should not see =
him
for a long, long while - not till after dinner, when they said he was to co=
me
up and make a speech.
But Hetty was wrong in part of her
conjecture. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carr=
iage
had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but
walking with the rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, wh=
ere
the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants=
. A
very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a bright-b=
lue
frock-coat, the highest mode - his arm no longer in a sling. So open-looking
and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no
lines in young faces.
‘Upon my word,’ he sai=
d,
as they entered the cool cloisters, ‘I think the cottagers have the b=
est
of it: these cloisters make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was
capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners - to let them be as orde=
rly
and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had =
only
a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanch=
e,
he couldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.’=
‘Never mind, you'll give more
pleasure in this quiet way,’ said Mr Irwine. ‘In this sort of t=
hing
people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sou=
nds
very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and every=
body
ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has =
had
an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity =
of
ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games as the day
cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening,=
but
drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and daylight.&=
#8217;
‘Well, I hope there won't be
much of it. I've kept the Treddleston people away by having a feast for the=
m in
the town; and I've got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to =
look
to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too
far. Come, let us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large
tenants.’
They went up the stone staircase
leading simply to the long gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all=
the
dusty worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three generatio=
ns -
mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his e=
ye
knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius Caesa=
r on
horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries in h=
is
hand.
‘What a capital thing it is =
that
they saved this piece of the old abbey!’ said Arthur. ‘If I'm e=
ver
master here, I shall do up the gallery in first-rate style. We've got no ro=
om
in the house a third as large as this. That second table is for the farmers'
wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable for the mot=
hers
and children to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and
make a regular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those lit=
tle
lads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much finer
young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women and child=
ren
below as well. But you will see them all - you will come up with me after
dinner, I hope?’
‘Yes, to be sure,’ sai=
d Mr
Irwine. ‘I wouldn't miss your maiden speech to the tenantry.’
‘And there will be something
else you'll like to hear,’ said Arthur. ‘Let us go into the lib=
rary
and I'll tell you all about it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room =
with
the ladies. Something that will surprise you,’ he continued, as they =
sat
down. ‘My grandfather has come round after all.’
‘What, about Adam?’
‘Yes; I should have ridden o=
ver
to tell you about it, only I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite g=
iven
up arguing the matter with him - I thought it was hopeless - but yesterday
morning he asked me to come in here to him before I went out, and astonishe=
d me
by saying that he had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in
consequence of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he inten=
ded
to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week, =
and
the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he saw fr=
om
the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some particular dislike=
of
Adam to get over - and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generall=
y a
reason with him for rejecting it. There's the most curious contradiction in=
my
grandfather: I know he means to leave me all the money he has saved, and he=
is
likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him =
all
her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the
more; and yet I sometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir=
. I
believe if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune
that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a
series of petty annoyances.’
‘Ah, my boy, it is not only
woman's love that is [two greek words omitted] as old AEschylus calls it.
There's plenty of 'unloving love' in the world of a masculine kind. But tel=
l me
about Adam. Has he accepted the post? I don't see that it can be much more
profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a g=
ood
deal of time on his own hands.
‘Well, I felt some doubt abo=
ut
it when I spoke to him and he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was
that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begg=
ed
him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason prevent him from accep=
ting
the place, if he really liked the employment and would not be giving up
anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like =
it
of all things - it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it
would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working for
Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little busines=
s of
his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able to enlar=
ge
by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged that he shall dine
with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to announce the appointment to th=
em,
and ask them to drink Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in hon=
our
of my friend Adam. He's a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting
people know that I think so.’
‘A drama in which friend Art=
hur
piques himself on having a pretty part to play,’ said Mr Irwine, smil=
ing.
But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, ‘My part, you
know, is always that of the old fogy who sees nothing to admire in the young
folks. I don't like to admit that I'm proud of my pupil when he does gracef=
ul
things. But I must play the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your
toast in honour of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point to=
o,
and agreed to have a respectable man as steward?’
‘Oh no,’ said Arthur,
rising from his chair with an air of impatience and walking along the room =
with
his hands in his pockets. ‘He's got some project or other about letti=
ng
the Chase Farm and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter for the house.
But I ask no questions about it - it makes me too angry. I believe he means=
to
do all the business himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It=
's
amazing what energy he has, though.’
‘Well, we'll go to the ladies
now,’ said Mr Irwine, rising too. ‘I want to tell my mother wha=
t a
splendid throne you've prepared for her under the marquee.’
‘Yes, and we must be going to
luncheon too,’ said Arthur. ‘It must be two o'clock, for there =
is
the gong beginning to sound for the tenants' dinners.’
WHEN Adam heard that he was to dine
upstairs with the large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of
being exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to dine in the
cloisters below. But Mr Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnith=
orne
had given particular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was n=
ot
there.
Adam nodded and went up to Seth, w=
ho
was standing a few yards off. ‘Seth, lad,’ he said, ‘the
captain has sent to say I'm to dine upstairs - he wishes it particular, Mr
Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud be behaving ill for me not to go. But I don=
't
like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh=
and
blood. Thee't not take it unkind, I hope?’
‘Nay, nay, lad,’ said
Seth, ‘thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'st respect, thee'st w=
on
it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee above me, the better, so long=
as
thee feel'st like a brother to me. It's because o' thy being appointed over=
the
woods, and it's nothing but what's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee=
't
above a common workman now.’
‘Aye,’ said Adam, R=
16;but
nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given notice to Mr Burge about
leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybody else about it before he knows,
for he'll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People 'ull be wondering to see me
there, and they'll like enough be guessing the reason and asking questions,=
for
there's been so much talk up and down about my having the place, this last
three weeks.’
‘Well, thee canst say thee w=
ast
ordered to come without being told the reason. That's the truth. And mother
'ull be fine and joyful about it. Let's go and tell her.’
Adam was not the only guest invite=
d to
come upstairs on other grounds than the amount he contributed to the rent-r=
oll.
There were other people in the two parishes who derived dignity from their
functions rather than from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one.
His lame walk was rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam linger=
ed
behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old
friend; for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public
occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turn up=
in
the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that for he disliked=
any
risk of being ‘joked’ about Hetty - the big, outspoken, fearless
man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making.
‘Well, Mester Massey,’
said Adam, as Bartle came up ‘I'm going to dine upstairs with you to-=
day:
the captain's sent me orders.’
‘Ah!’ said Bartle,
pausing, with one hand on his back. ‘Then there's something in the wi=
nd -
there's something in the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old
squire means to do?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Adam;=
‘I'll
tell you what I know, because I believe you can keep a still tongue in your
head if you like, and I hope you'll not let drop a word till it's common ta=
lk,
for I've particular reasons against its being known.’
‘Trust to me, my boy, trust =
to
me. I've got no wife to worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in
everybody's hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelor - let him be=
a
bachelor.’
‘Well, then, it was so far
settled yesterday that I'm to take the management o' the woods. The captain
sent for me t' offer it me, when I was seeing to the poles and things here =
and
I've agreed to't. But if anybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take=
no
notice, and turn the talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you. No=
w,
let us go on, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think.’
‘I know what to do, never fe=
ar,’
said Bartle, moving on. ‘The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Ay=
e,
aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back you for an eye at measuring and a
head-piece for figures, against any man in this county and you've had good
teaching - you've had good teaching.’
When they got upstairs, the questi= on which Arthur had left unsettled, as to who was to be president, and who vic= e, was still under discussion, so that Adam's entrance passed without remark.<= o:p>
‘It stands to sense,’ =
Mr
Casson was saying, ‘as old Mr Poyser, as is th' oldest man i' the roo=
m,
should sit at top o' the table. I wasn't butler fifteen year without learni=
ng
the rights and the wrongs about dinner.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said old
Martin, ‘I'n gi'en up to my son; I'm no tenant now: let my son take my
place. Th' ould foulks ha' had their turn: they mun make way for the young =
uns.’
‘I should ha' thought the
biggest tenant had the best right, more nor th' oldest,’ said Luke
Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr Poyser; ‘there's Mester
Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th' estate.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Poyser=
, ‘suppose
we say the man wi' the foulest land shall sit at top; then whoever gets th'
honour, there'll be no envying on him.’
‘Eh, here's Mester Massey,=
8217;
said Mr Craig, who, being a neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in
conciliation; ‘the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what's
right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr Massey?’
‘Why, the broadest man,̵=
7;
said Bartle; ‘and then he won't take up other folks' room; and the ne=
xt broadest
must sit at bottom.’
This happy mode of settling the
dispute produced much laughter - a smaller joke would have sufficed for tha=
t Mr
Casson, however, did not feel it compatible with his dignity and superior
knowledge to join in the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as=
the
second broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be
president, and Mr Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice.
Owing to this arrangement, Adam,
being, of course, at the bottom of the table, fell under the immediate
observation of Mr Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of
precedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr Casson, we have seen,
considered Adam ‘rather lifted up and peppery-like’: he thought=
the
gentry made more fuss about this young carpenter than was necessary; they m=
ade
no fuss about Mr Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for fifte=
en
years.
‘Well, Mr Bede, you're one o'
them as mounts hup'ards apace,’ he said, when Adam sat down. ‘Y=
ou've
niver dined here before, as I remember.’
‘No, Mr Casson,’ said
Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard along the table; ‘I've
never dined here before, but I come by Captain Donnithorne's wish, and I ho=
pe
it's not disagreeable to anybody here.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said sever=
al
voices at once, ‘we're glad ye're come. Who's got anything to say aga=
in'
it?’
‘And ye'll sing us 'Over the
hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna ye?’ said Mr Chowne. ‘=
That's
a song I'm uncommon fond on.’
‘Peeh!’ said Mr Craig;=
‘it's
not to be named by side o' the Scotch tunes. I've never cared about singing
myself; I've had something better to do. A man that's got the names and the
natur o' plants in's head isna likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes =
in.
But a second cousin o' mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the
Scotch tunes. He'd got nothing else to think on.’
‘The Scotch tunes!’ sa=
id
Bartle Massey, contemptuously; ‘I've heard enough o' the Scotch tunes=
to
last me while I live. They're fit for nothing but to frighten the birds wit=
h - that's
to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I
know. Give the lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it t=
he
corn 'll be safe.’
‘Yes, there's folks as find a
pleasure in undervallying what they know but little about,’ said Mr
Craig.
‘Why, the Scotch tunes are j=
ust
like a scolding, nagging woman,’ Bartle went on, without deigning to
notice Mr Craig's remark. ‘They go on with the same thing over and ov=
er
again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody 'ud think the Scotch tun=
es
had always been asking a question of somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had
never got an answer yet.’
Adam minded the less about sitting=
by Mr
Casson, because this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off=
him
at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, f=
or
she was giving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her fee=
t on
to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty marks=
on
Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat legs pushed down
than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busy in staring at the l=
arge
dishes to see where the plum pudding was for her to retain any consciousnes=
s of
her legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last, with a frown and po=
ut,
and gathering tears, she said, ‘Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to
Totty; she keeps putting her legs up so, and messing my frock.’
‘What's the matter wi' the
child? She can niver please you,’ said the mother. ‘Let her com=
e by
the side o' me, then. I can put up wi' her.’
Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw=
the
frown, and pout, and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish
half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty
was cross and that Adam's eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a
man as Adam must be reflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose
temper was bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings,
but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better =
Adam
should know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had been plain, she wou=
ld
have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one's moral judg=
ment
upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But really there was someth=
ing
quite charming in her pettishness: it looked so much more like innocent
distress than ill humour; and the severe Adam felt no movement of
disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kit=
ten
setting up its back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. He could n=
ot
gather what was vexing her, but it was impossible to him to feel otherwise =
than
that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that if he could have his
way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was go=
ne,
she caught his eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as=
she
nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation - she knew Mary Burge was looking=
at
them. But the smile was like wine to Adam.
WHEN the dinner was over, and the
first draughts from the great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room was
made for the broad Mr Poyser at the side of the table, and two chairs were
placed at the head. It had been settled very definitely what Mr Poyser was =
to
do when the young squire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had
been in a state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture
opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his =
breeches
pockets.
When the young squire entered, wit=
h Mr
Irwine by his side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage was very
agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, and besides that,=
he
cared a great deal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinki=
ng
that they had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in=
his
face as he said, ‘My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have
enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr Irwine and I are co=
me
to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like anything the better t=
hat
the rector shares with us.’
All eyes were now turned on Mr Poy=
ser,
who, with his hands still busy in his pockets, began with the deliberatenes=
s of
a slow-striking clock. ‘Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to
speak for 'em to-day, for where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesma=
n's
as good as a score. And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinki=
ng
about a many things - one man lays down his land one way an' another anothe=
r - an'
I'll not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own - this I'=
ll
say, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh all=
on
us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver known anything on you
but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an' y' act fair, an' we're
joyful when we look forrard to your being our landlord, for we b'lieve you =
mean
to do right by everybody, an' 'ull make no man's bread bitter to him if you=
can
help it. That's what I mean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's =
said
what he means, he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for
stannin'. An' I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well tas=
te
it till we'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there=
's
anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as for
the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the parish
wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live to see us old
folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your Honour a family man.
I've no more to say as concerns the present time, an' so we'll drink our yo=
ung
squire's health - three times three.’
Hereupon a glorious shouting, a
rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a shouting, with plentiful da capo,
pleasanter than a strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a
tribute for the first time. Arthur had felt a twinge of conscience during Mr
Poyser's speech, but it was too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in b=
eing
praised. Did he not deserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was
something in his conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it,
why, no man's conduct will bear too close an inspection; and Poyser was not
likely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too far,
perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have acted much
worse; and no harm would come - no harm should come, for the next time he w=
as
alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must not think seriously=
of
him or of what had passed. It was necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be
satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable thoughts must be got rid of by good
intentions for the future, which can be formed so rapidly that he had time =
to
be uncomfortable and to become easy again before Mr Poyser's slow speech was
finished, and when it was time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted.=
‘I thank you all, my good
friends and neighbours,’ Arthur said, ‘for the good opinion of =
me,
and the kind feelings towards me which Mr Poyser has been expressing on your
behalf and on his own, and it will always be my heartiest wish to deserve t=
hem.
In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, I shall one day or o=
ther
be your landlord; indeed, it is on the ground of that expectation that my
grandfather has wished me to celebrate this day and to come among you now; =
and
I look forward to this position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for
myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so yo=
ung
a man as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much
older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a good de=
al
in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities have
allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in my hands, =
it
will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the encouragement a landlo=
rd
can give them, in improving their land and trying to bring about a better p=
ractice
of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on by all my deserving tenant=
s as
their best friend, and nothing would make me so happy as to be able to resp=
ect
every man on the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my
place at present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopes
concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them - that wh=
at
you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr Poyser's opinio=
n,
that when a man has said what he means, he had better stop. But the pleasur=
e I
feel in having my own health drunk by you would not be perfect if we did not
drink the health of my grandfather, who has filled the place of both parent=
s to
me. I will say no more, until you have joined me in drinking his health on a
day when he has wished me to appear among you as the future representative =
of
his name and family.’
Perhaps there was no one present
except Mr Irwine who thoroughly understood and approved Arthur's graceful m=
ode
of proposing his grandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire
knew well enough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, R=
16;he'd
better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth.’ The bucolic mind does=
not
readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could not be
rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur said, ‘I thank you, both =
for
my grandfather and myself; and now there is one more thing I wish to tell y=
ou,
that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you will. I
think there can be no man here who has not a respect, and some of you, I am
sure, have a very high regard, for my friend Adam Bede. It is well known to
every one in this neighbourhood that there is no man whose word can be more
depended on than his; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and =
is
as careful for the interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm pr=
oud
to say that I was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have nev=
er
lost my old feeling for him - I think that shows that I know a good fellow =
when
I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the management of =
the
woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable, not only because I t=
hink
so highly of his character, but because he has the knowledge and the skill =
which
fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that it is my grandfather=
's
wish too, and it is now settled that Adam shall manage the woods - a change
which I am sure will be very much for the advantage of the estate; and I ho=
pe
you will by and by join me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all t=
he
prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of m=
ine
than Adam Bede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr Irwine. I'm s=
ure
you will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health until we
have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of his
parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and let us
drink to our excellent rector - three times three!’
This toast was drunk with all the
enthusiasm that was wanting to the last, and it certainly was the most
picturesque moment in the scene when Mr Irwine got up to speak, and all the
faces in the room were turned towards him. The superior refinement of his f=
ace
was much more striking than that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with t=
he
people round them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splen=
dour
of his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste in
costume than Mr Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-worn black, w=
hich
seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he had the mysterious
secret of never wearing a new-looking coat.
‘This is not the first time,=
by
a great many,’ he said, ‘that I have had to thank my parishione=
rs
for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but neighbourly kindness is among t=
hose
things that are the more precious the older they get. Indeed, our pleasant
meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good comes of age and is likely=
to
live, there is reason for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergym=
an
and parishioners came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years
since I first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men he=
re,
as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as pleasan=
tly
at me when I christened them as I am happy to see them looking now. But I'm
sure you will not wonder when I say that among all those young men, the one=
in
whom I have the strongest interest is my friend Mr Arthur Donnithorne, for =
whom
you have just expressed your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor =
for
several years, and have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimate=
ly
which cannot have occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some =
pride
as well as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning
him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will ma=
ke
him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take that
important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on which a man =
who
is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young man of one-and-twe=
nty,
and he has just been expressing a feeling which I share very heartily, and I
would not willingly omit the opportunity of saying so. That feeling is his
value and respect for Adam Bede. People in a high station are of course more
thought of and talked about and have their virtues more praised, than those
whose lives are passed in humble everyday work; but every sensible man know=
s how
necessary that humble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that =
it
should be done well. And I agree with my friend Mr Arthur Donnithorne in
feeling that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a charac=
ter
which would make him an example in any station, his merit should be
acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends sho=
uld
delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well - I know what he is as a workm=
an,
and what he has been as a son and brother - and I am saying the simplest tr=
uth
when I say that I respect him as much as I respect any man living. But I am=
not
speaking to you about a stranger; some of you are his intimate friends, and=
I
believe there is not one here who does not know enough of him to join heart=
ily
in drinking his health.’
As Mr Irwine paused, Arthur jumped=
up
and, filling his glass, said, ‘A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live=
to
have sons as faithful and clever as himself!’
No hearer, not even Bartle Massey,=
was
so delighted with this toast as Mr Poyser. ‘Tough work’ as his
first speech had been, he would have started up to make another if he had n=
ot
known the extreme irregularity of such a course. As it was, he found an out=
let
for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his gl=
ass
with a swing of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few
others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look
contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently unanimous.=
Adam was rather paler than usual w=
hen
he got up to thank his friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tri=
bute
- very naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, and it
was uniting to do him honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not be=
ing
troubled with small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward nor
embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head th=
rown
a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough dignity whic=
h is
peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen, who are never wondering
what is their business in the world.
‘I'm quite taken by surprise=
,’
he said. ‘I didn't expect anything o' this sort, for it's a good deal
more than my wages. But I've the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain,
and to you, Mr Irwine, and to all my friends here, who've drunk my health a=
nd
wished me well. It 'ud be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all dese=
rve
th' opinion you have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you=
've
known me all these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great d=
eal
o' the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll =
do
it well, be my pay big or little - and that's true. I'd be ashamed to stand
before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's a man's plain d=
uty,
and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty clear to me as I've never
done more than my duty; for let us do what we will, it's only making use o'=
the
sperrit and the powers that ha' been given to us. And so this kindness o'
yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I acce=
pt
it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I've taken in hand, I'll =
only
say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fu=
lfil
his expectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and to
know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his int'res=
ts.
For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, a=
nd
to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which it's my belief every
man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o' wo=
rk
going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands.
There's no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel towards him: I
hope to show it through the rest o' my life in my actions.’
There were various opinions about
Adam's speech: some of the women whispered that he didn't show himself than=
kful
enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were =
of
opinion that nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as =
fine
a chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about, ming=
led
with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and
whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and we=
re
walking round to the table where the wives and children sat. There was none=
of
the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert - sparkling gooseberry=
for
the young ones, and some good sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the
head of this table, and Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small =
nose
deep down into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.
‘How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?=
’
said Arthur. ‘Weren't you pleased to hear your husband make such a go=
od
speech to-day?’
‘Oh, sir, the men are mostly=
so
tongue-tied - you're forced partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi' t=
he
dumb creaturs.’
‘What! you think you could h=
ave
made it better for him?’ said Mr Irwine, laughing.
‘Well, sir, when I want to s=
ay
anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-fin=
ding
faut wi' my husband, for if he's a man o' few words, what he says he'll sta=
nd
to.’
‘I'm sure I never saw a pret=
tier
party than this,’ Arthur said, looking round at the apple-cheeked
children. ‘My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you
presently. They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a s=
hame
for them not to see you at table.’
He walked on, speaking to the moth=
ers
and patting the children, while Mr Irwine satisfied himself with standing s=
till
and nodding at a distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from =
the
young squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hett=
y,
but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish c=
hild
felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied =
with
apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty thou=
ght
this was going to be the most miserable day she had had for a long while, a
moment of chill daylight and reality came across her dream: Arthur, who had
seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was separated from her, as t=
he
hero of a great procession is separated from a small outsider in the crowd.=
THE great dance was not to begin u=
ntil
eight o'clock, but for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady
grass before then, there was music always at hand - for was not the band of=
the
Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And,
besides this, there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their
wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delight=
ful
show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle,
which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in =
case
any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on
that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved o=
ff
the great open space in front of the house, the games began. There were, of
course, well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be=
run
by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by t=
he
strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as tha=
t of
walking as many yards possible on one leg - feats in which it was generally
remarked that Wiry Ben, being ‘the lissom'st, springest fellow i' the
country,’ was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to be a
donkey-race - that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialist=
ic
idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest don=
key
winning.
And soon after four o'clock, splen=
did
old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out=
by
Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the
striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid,
formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal =
old
lady, and Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his
godmother's taste for stateliness. Old Mr Donnithorne, the delicately clean,
finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral
and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr Irwine came last with his
pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides Mr Gawaine, was
invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry =
on
the morrow, but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of
the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of=
the
marquee, dividing the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been m=
ade
for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated
here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the
white marquees up to the sunk fence.
‘Upon my word it's a pretty
sight,’ said the old lady, in her deep voice, when she was seated, and
looked round on the bright scene with its dark-green background; ‘and
it's the last fete-day I'm likely to see, unless you make haste and get
married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather
die without seeing her.’
‘You're so terribly fastidio=
us,
Godmother,’ said Arthur, ‘I'm afraid I should never satisfy you
with my choice.’
‘Well, I won't forgive you if
she's not handsome. I can't be put off with amiability, which is always the
excuse people are making for the existence of plain people. And she must no=
t be
silly; that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly woman
can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face?
There, standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woma=
n by
the side of him - his mother, of course. I like to see that.’
‘What, don't you know him,
Mother?’ said Mr Irwine. ‘That is Seth Bede, Adam's brother - a
Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted=
of
late; I thought it was because of his father's dying in that sad way, but
Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher
who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him.’
‘Ah, I remember hearing about
her. But there are no end of people here that I don't know, for they're gro=
wn
up and altered so since I used to go about.’
‘What excellent sight you ha=
ve!’
said old Mr Donnithorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, =
216;to
see the expression of that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing=
but
a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we =
come
to look close. I can read small print without spectacles.’
‘Ah, my dear sir, you began =
with
being very near-sighted, and those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I
want very strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get bett=
er
and better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty
years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't out of other people's si=
ght,
like a man who stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars.’
‘See,’ said Arthur, =
8216;the
old women are ready to set out on their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawa=
ine?’
‘The long-legged one, unless
they're going to have several heats, and then the little wiry one may win.&=
#8217;
‘There are the Poysers, Moth=
er,
not far off on the right hand,’ said Miss Irwine. ‘Mrs. Poyser =
is
looking at you. Do take notice of her.’
‘To be sure I will,’ s=
aid
the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs. Poyser. ‘A woman who send=
s me
such excellent cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat ch=
ild
that is she is holding on her knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark e=
yes?’
‘That is Hetty Sorrel,’
said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, ‘Martin Poyser's niece - a very likely y=
oung
person, and well-looking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and s=
he
has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed - very respectably.=
217;
‘Why, she has lived with the
Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you must have seen her,’ said Miss
Irwine.
‘No, I've never seen her, ch=
ild
- at least not as she is now,’ said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at
Hetty. ‘Well-looking, indeed! She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen
anything so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty as that sho=
uld
be thrown away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the go=
od
families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have
thought her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.’
Arthur dared not turn his eyes tow=
ards
Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to=
be
occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough
without looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty
praised - for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climate to
Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew
strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in his place wo=
uld
have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all, as he was determ=
ined
to do, would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride.
‘No, Mother,’ and Mr
Irwine, replying to her last words; ‘I can't agree with you there. The
common people are not quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who
has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference between a
lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in t=
heir
presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain the influen=
ce
the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels it.’
‘Bless me, Dauphin, what doe=
s an
old bachelor like you know about it?’
‘Oh, that is one of the matt=
ers
in which old bachelors are wiser than married men, because they have time f=
or
more general contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his
judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what I was say=
ing,
that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had
preached to the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but
the utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is - though she doesn't
know it - that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her.
Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the coarsest
fellow is not insensible to.’
‘Here's a delicate bit of
womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a prize, I suppose,’ said Mr
Gawaine. ‘She must be one of the racers in the sacks, who had set off
before we came.’
The ‘bit of womanhood’=
was
our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red
cheeks and blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if=
she
had happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am
sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and=
was
otherwise decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who
could have looked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking
resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advanta=
ge,
perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. But then,
you see, they were so very different outside! You would have been inclined =
to
box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty.
Bessy had been tempted to run the
arduous race, partly from mere hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize.
Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes,
and she approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but =
with
exultation sparkling in her round eyes.
‘Here is the prize for the f=
irst
sack-race,’ said Miss Lydia, taking a large parcel from the table whe=
re
the prizes were laid and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, =
216;an
excellent grogram gown and a piece of flannel.’
‘You didn't think the winner=
was
to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?’ said Arthur. ‘Couldn't you fi=
nd
something else for this girl, and save that grim-looking gown for one of the
older women?’
‘I have bought nothing but w=
hat
is useful and substantial,’ said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; =
‘I
should not think of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that cla=
ss.
I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins.’
This speech of Miss Lydia's produc=
ed
rather a mocking expression in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur,
while Bessy came up and dropped a series of curtsies.
‘This is Bessy Cranage, moth=
er,’
said Mr Irwine, kindly, ‘Chad Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad
Cranage, the blacksmith?’
‘Yes, to be sure,’ sai=
d Mrs.
Irwine. ‘Well, Bessy, here is your prize - excellent warm things for
winter. I'm sure you have had hard work to win them this warm day.’
Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ug=
ly,
heavy gown - which felt so hot and disagreeable too, on this July day, and =
was
such a great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without
looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth,
and then turned away.
‘Poor girl,’ said Arth=
ur; ‘I
think she's disappointed. I wish it had been something more to her taste.=
8217;
‘She's a bold-looking young
person,’ observed Miss Lydia. ‘Not at all one I should like to
encourage.’
Arthur silently resolved that he w=
ould
make Bessy a present of money before the day was over, that she might buy
something more to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store =
for
her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, =
and
throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry - very much titt=
ered
at the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her
discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just given =
the
baby into her husband's charge.
‘What's the matter wi' ye?=
8217;
said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle and examining it. ‘Ye'n
sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'=
en
you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good righ=
ts
to them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might spare me a
bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad - ye war ne'er ill-natured,
Bess; I ne'er said that on ye.’
‘Ye may take it all, for wha=
t I
care,’ said Bess the maiden, with a pettish movement, beginning to wi=
pe
away her tears and recover herself.
‘Well, I could do wi't, if s=
o be
ye want to get rid on't,’ said the disinterested cousin, walking quic=
kly
away with the bundle, lest Chad's Bess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was
blessed with an elasticity of spirits that secured her from any rankling gr=
ief;
and by the time the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappoint=
ment
was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate t=
he
last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But t=
he
strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the
arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental force as
the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of =
his
intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the blows were thicke=
st.
Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the
stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this superior beast, which stood ca=
lm
and stiff-legged in the midst of its triumph.
Arthur himself had provided the pr=
izes
for the men, and Bill was made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied
with blades and gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He=
had
hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began =
to
be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the gentry
went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous performance - namely, a
hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be
developed by the dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one cou=
ld
deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing - an
accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake - had needed o=
nly
slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to convince him that the
gentry would be very much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and =
he
had been decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed tha=
t it
was nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, in return=
for
what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this opinion i=
n so
grave a personage when you learn that Ben had requested Mr Rann to accompany
him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite sure that though there might not be
much in the dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was pre=
sent
in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben =
he
had better not make a fool of himself - a remark which at once fixed Ben's
determination: he was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede tur=
ned
up his nose at it.
‘What's this, what's this?=
8217;
said old Mr Donnithorne. ‘Is it something you've arranged, Arthur? He=
re's
the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his
button-hole.’
‘No,’ said Arthur; =
216;I
know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to dance! It's one of the carpen=
ters
- I forget his name at this moment.’
‘It's Ben Cranage - Wiry Ben,
they call him,’ said Mr Irwine; ‘rather a loose fish, I think.
Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too much for you: you're getti=
ng
tired. Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner.’
Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the
good brother took her away, while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into=
the
‘White Cockade,’ from which he intended to pass to a variety of
tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to
execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if=
he
had known it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben=
's
dancing for any one to give much heed to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English
rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic,
smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the hau=
nch
and insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real thing =
as
the ‘Bird Waltz’ is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smil=
ed:
he looked as serious as a dancing monkey - as serious as if he had been an
experimental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaki=
ng
and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends for the abundant
laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur clapped his hands continually and c=
ried
‘Bravo!’ But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed his moveme=
nts with
a fervid gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seate=
d on
a bench, with Tommy between his legs.
‘What dost think o' that?=
217;
he said to his wife. ‘He goes as pat to the music as if he was made o'
clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at dancing myself when I was light=
er,
but I could niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that.’
‘It's little matter what his
limbs are, to my thinking,’ re-turned Mrs. Poyser. ‘He's empty
enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver come jigging an' stamping i' that =
way,
like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die w=
i'
laughing, I can see.’
‘Well, well, so much the bet=
ter,
it amuses 'em,’ said Mr Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable =
view
of things. ‘But they're going away now, t' have their dinner, I recko=
n.
Well move about a bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to
look after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun.’
ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall
for the ballroom: very wisely, for no other room could have been so airy, or
would have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as =
well
as a ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not=
the
pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it wa=
s to
enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those entrance-h=
alls
which make the surrounding rooms look like closets - with stucco angels,
trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of
miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in niches. Just=
the
sort of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr Craig had been
proud to show his taste and his hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad
steps of the stone staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats f=
or
the children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids to
see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there=
was
abundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in
coloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers' wives and
daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they
knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and the=
ir
thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances who had n=
ot
this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in the great world. The
lamps were already lit, though the sun had not long set, and there was that=
calm
light out of doors in which we seem to see all objects more distinctly than=
in
the broad day.
It was a pretty scene outside the
house: the farmers and their families were moving about the lawn, among the
flowers and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the east
front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here and
there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the
ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The grou=
ps of
cottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being
attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from the windows =
of
the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of t=
he
sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisb=
eth
Bede, and Seth went with her - not from filial attention only, for his
conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather a melancho=
ly
day to Seth: Dinah had never been more constantly present with him than in =
this
scene, where everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly
after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young
women - just as one feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured Madonn=
a the
more when it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a
bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the
better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more querul=
ous
for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange conflict of
feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her darling son Adam was
beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness w=
hich
had revived when Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithorne desired him=
to
join the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her rea=
ch;
she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Ad=
am
what his mother said and did.
‘Eh, it's fine talkin' o'
dancin',’ she said, ‘an' thy father not a five week in's grave.=
An'
I wish I war there too, i'stid o' bein' left to take up merrier folks's room
above ground.’
‘Nay, don't look at it i' th=
at
way, Mother,’ said Adam, who was determined to be gentle to her to-da=
y. ‘I
don't mean to dance - I shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me=
to
be there, it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd
rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day.’
‘Eh, thee't do as thee lik's=
t,
for thy old mother's got no right t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old
husk, and thee'st slipped away from her, like the ripe nut.’
‘Well, Mother,’ said A=
dam,
‘I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay,
and I'd rather go home upo' that account: he won't take it ill then, I dare=
say,
and I'm willing.’ He said this with some effort, for he really longed=
to
be near Hetty this evening.
‘Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee =
do
that - the young squire 'ull be angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to d=
o, an'
me and Seth 'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so look=
ed
on - an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o'
rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?’
‘Well, good-bye, then, Mothe=
r - good-bye,
lad - remember Gyp when you get home,’ said Adam, turning away towards
the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join t=
he
Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that he had h=
ad
no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he =
knew
to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, an=
d he
hastened on to meet them.
‘Why, Adam, I'm glad to get
sight on y' again,’ said Mr Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm=
. ‘You're
going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's He=
tty
has promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agr=
eed
to dance wi' you, an' she says no.’
‘Well, I didn't think o' dan=
cing
to-night,’ said Adam, already tempted to change his mind, as he looke=
d at
Hetty.
‘Nonsense!’ said Mr
Poyser. ‘Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night, all but th' old sq=
uire
and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine =
'ull
dance, an' the young squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open
the ball: so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the
Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand still, Ad=
am,
an' you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as anybody.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mrs.
Poyser, ‘it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin's nonsense, but if y=
ou
stick at everything because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. W=
hen
your broth's ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let
the broth alone.’
‘Then if Hetty 'ull dance wi=
th
me,’ said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser's argument or to somet=
hing
else, ‘I'll dance whichever dance she's free.’
‘I've got no partner for the
fourth dance,’ said Hetty; ‘I'll dance that with you, if you li=
ke.’
‘Ah,’ said Mr Poyser, =
‘but
you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it'll look partic'ler. There's pl=
enty
o' nice partners to pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when =
the
men stan' by and don't ask 'em.’
Adam felt the justice of Mr Poyser=
's
observation: it would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and
remembering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he
resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no
other partner.
‘There's the big clock strik=
in'
eight,’ said Mr Poyser; ‘we must make haste in now, else the sq=
uire
and the ladies 'ull be in afore us, an' that wouldna look well.’
When they had entered the hall, and
the three children under Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the
folding-doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in h=
is
regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with
hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr
Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and que=
ens
in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the tenants, he said,=
who
thought as much of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the
premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in that way: his
uniform was very advantageous to his figure.
The old squire, before sitting dow=
n,
walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the
wives: he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long
puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was observed
that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring
particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with =
cold
water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him =
with
great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband=
, ‘I'll
lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag h=
is
tail so for nothin'.’ Mr Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur
came up and said, ‘Mrs. Poyser, I'm come to request the favour of your
hand for the first dance; and, Mr Poyser, you must let me take you to my au=
nt,
for she claims you as her partner.’
The wife's pale cheek flushed with=
a
nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; =
but Mr
Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his =
good
looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly
flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in HER life who
could lift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours
given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest
Broxton farmer, and Mr Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr Irwine, after seati=
ng
his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur
beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was prospering.
Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had taken their places: Hetty=
was
led out by the inevitable Mr Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the mus=
ic
struck up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.
Pity it was not a boarded floor! T=
hen
the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than any dr=
ums.
That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowa=
l of
the hand - where can we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered
matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering=
but
not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their si=
de -
that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to
their wives, as if their courting days were come again - those lads and las=
ses
a little confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say - =
it
would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low dress=
es
and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men =
in
lacquered boots smiling with double meaning.
There was but one thing to mar Mar=
tin
Poyser's pleasure in this dance: it was that he was always in close contact
with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little gl=
azed
coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was
opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong
person. So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.
How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur
approached her! He had hardly looked at her to-day: now he must take her ha=
nd.
Would he press it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he ga=
ve
her no sign of feeling. Now he was there - he had taken her hand - yes, he =
was
pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and m=
et
his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur
like the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance=
and
smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he =
had
to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it - he should be a fool a=
nd
give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so much as he thought: it =
was
only the sign of a struggle between the desire for him to notice her and the
dread lest she should betray the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a
language that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges
with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul that flutt=
ers
beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations - e=
yes
that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not
paired with these eyes - perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing;
just as a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips =
that
use it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had
something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him too w=
ell.
There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt he would have
given up three years of his youth for the happiness of abandoning himself
without remorse to his passion for Hetty.
These were the incongruous thought=
s in
his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly
resolving that neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dan=
ce,
to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the
guests to come and take it as they chose.
‘I've desired Hetty to remem=
ber
as she's got to dance wi' you, sir,’ said the good innocent woman; =
8216;for
she's so thoughtless, she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ive=
ry
dance. So I told her not to promise too many.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Poyser,R=
17;
said Arthur, not without a twinge. ‘Now, sit down in this comfortable
chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what you would like best.’=
He hurried away to seek another
matronly partner, for due honour must be paid to the married women before he
asked any of the young ones; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and =
the
gracious nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously.
At last the time had come for the
fourth dance - longed for by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a
delicate-handed youth of eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we a=
re
in our first love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more t=
han
a transient greeting - had never danced with her but once before. His eyes =
had
followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper
draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly; she did n=
ot
seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than usual; there was almost a s=
weet
sadness about her. ‘God bless her!’ he said inwardly; ‘I'd
make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to =
love
her, could do it.’
And then there stole over him deli=
cious
thoughts of coming home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeli=
ng
her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the
music and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roa=
ring
of the wind, for what he knew.
But now the third dance was ended,=
and
he might go up to her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall
near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping
Totty into her arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the
landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to gi=
ve
them some cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly=
was
to follow as fast as possible.
‘Let me hold her,’ said
Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; ‘the children are so heavy when they'=
re
asleep.’
Hetty was glad of the relief, for =
to
hold Totty in her arms, standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her.=
But
this second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was n=
ot
behind any child of her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While
Hetty was in the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdra=
wn
her own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist=
at
Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round
Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next moment the
string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket scattered wide=
on
the floor.
‘My locket, my locket!’
she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam; ‘never mind the beads=
.’
Adam had already seen where the lo=
cket
fell, for it had attracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had
fallen on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor;
and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of
hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken=
. He
turned it over on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back.
‘It isn't hurt,’ he sa=
id,
as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to take it because both her han=
ds
were occupied with Totty.
‘Oh, it doesn't matter, I do=
n't
mind about it,’ said Hetty, who had been pale and was now red.
‘Not matter?’ said Ada=
m,
gravely. ‘You seemed very frightened about it. I'll hold it till you'=
re
ready to take it,’ he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that s=
he
might not think he wanted to look at it again.
By this time Molly had come with
bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locke=
t in
Hetty's hand. She took it with an air of indifference and put it in her poc=
ket,
in her heart vexed and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determin=
ed
now that she would show no more signs of agitation.
‘See,’ she said, ̵=
6;they're
taking their places to dance; let us go.’
Adam assented silently. A puzzled
alarm had taken possession of him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For
none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and =
none
of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the position of an
accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the u=
tter
impossibility of finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could on=
ly
feel with a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown =
to
him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would come=
to
love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with He=
tty
was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an uneasy questioning
expression in them; he could think of nothing to say to her; and she too was
out of temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the dance =
was
ended.
Adam was determined to stay no lon=
ger;
no one wanted him, and no one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he
got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying alo=
ng
without knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this =
day,
so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when=
he
was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of reviving h=
ope.
After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty,
fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself. It looked t=
oo
expensive for that - it looked like the things on white satin in the great
jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam had very imperfect notions of the val=
ue
of such things, and he thought it could certainly not cost more than a guin=
ea.
Perhaps Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no
knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in that way; she
was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why =
had
she been so frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterw=
ards
pretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his seeing t=
hat
she had such a smart thing - she was conscious that it was wrong for her to
spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was=
a
proof she cared about what he liked and disliked. She must have thought from
his silence and gravity afterwards that he was very much displeased with he=
r,
that he was inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he
walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasine=
ss
was that he had behaved in a way which might chill Hetty's feeling towards =
him.
For this last view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty have=
an
accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's h=
ouse
for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not come ther=
e,
and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It would be folly to belie=
ve
that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he
felt sure was her own; he could form no guess about the light hair under it,
for he had not seen it very distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or
mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would naturally put a =
bit
of her own along with it.
And so Adam went to bed comforted,
having woven for himself an ingenious web of probabilities - the surest scr=
een
a wise man can place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts
melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that=
he
was asking her to forgive him for being so cold and silent.
And while he was dreaming this, Ar=
thur
was leading Hetty to the dance and saying to her in low hurried tones, R=
16;I
shall be in the wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you
can.’ And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a
little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering back,
unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first time this long d=
ay,
and wished that dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the
last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies with more delici=
ous
languor under the influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself
that he shall subdue it to-morrow.
But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite
the reverse of this, for her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to =
the
retardation of to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hour=
s.
Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the young squire=
, Mr
Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it =
was
half-past ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part th=
at
it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was
resolute on the point, ‘manners or no manners.’
‘What! Going already, Mrs.
Poyser?’ said old Mr Donnithorne, as she came to curtsy and take leav=
e; ‘I
thought we should not part with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine =
and
I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then.’=
‘Oh, Your Honour, it's all r=
ight
and proper for gentlefolks to stay up by candlelight - they've got no chees=
e on
their minds. We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows kn=
ow
as they mustn't want to be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So, if you'll
please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave.’
‘Eh!’ she said to her
husband, as they set off in the cart, ‘I'd sooner ha' brewin' day and
washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin' days. There's no work so
tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're go=
in'
to do next; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-=
day
for fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing to show
for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagr=
ee.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr
Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that he had had a great day,=
‘a
bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as an=
y of
'em, for I'll back thee against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot
an' ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee first=
- I
reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. A=
n'
Hetty too - she never had such a partner before - a fine young gentleman in=
reg'mentals.
It'll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman - how you danced
wi' th' young squire the day he come o' age.’
IT was beyond the middle of August=
- nearly
three weeks after the birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in=
our
north midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be
retarded by the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damage
throughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope
farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-watered valleys, had =
not
suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such exceptional farmers a=
s to
love the general good better than their own, you will infer that they were =
not
in very low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of bread, so long as
there was hope of gathering in their own corn undamaged; and occasional day=
s of
sunshine and drying winds flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of
these days when the sunshine looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that
went before. Grand masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, and the gr=
eat
round hills behind the Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun
was hidden for a moment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy;
the leaves, still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; ar=
ound
the farmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the
orchards; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on the c=
ommon
had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only part =
of
the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry day for the child=
ren,
who ran and shouted to see if they could top the wind with their voices; and
the grown-up people too were in good spirits, inclined to believe in yet fi=
ner
days, when the wind had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be
blown out of the husk and scattered as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting
sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it be true that Nature at certain moments
seems charged with a presentiment of one individual lot must it not also be
true that she seems unmindful unconscious of another? For there is no hour =
that
has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does=
not
bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love.
There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that
Nature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives=
? We
are children of a large family, and must learn, as such children do, not to
expect that our hurts will be made much of - to be content with little nurt=
ure
and caressing, and help each other the more.
It was a busy day with Adam, who of
late had done almost double work, for he was continuing to act as foreman f=
or
Jonathan Burge, until some satisfactory person could be found to supply his
place, and Jonathan was slow to find that person. But he had done the extra
work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time s=
he
had seen him since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave=
all
the more kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgiven=
his
silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the locket to=
her
again; too happy that she smiled at him - still happier because he observed=
in
her a more subdued air, something that he interpreted as the growth of woma=
nly
tenderness and seriousness. ‘Ah!’ he thought, again and again, =
‘she's
only seventeen; she'll be thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt all=
ays
says how clever she is at the work. She'll make a wife as Mother'll have no
occasion to grumble at, after all.’ To be sure, he had only seen her =
at
home twice since the birthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go =
from
church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from =
the
Chase and had gone home with them - almost as if she were inclined to encou=
rage
Mr Craig. ‘She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house
keeper's room,’ Mrs. Poyser remarked. ‘For my part, I was never
overfond o' gentlefolks's servants - they're mostly like the fine ladies' f=
at
dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show.’
And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things; though,=
to
his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at a distance gett=
ing
over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to he=
r,
she was very kind, and asked him to go in again when he had taken her to the
yard gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after coming from
Treddleston because she didn't want to go in, she said: it was so nice to be
out of doors, and her aunt always made such a fuss about it if she wanted t=
o go
out. ‘Oh, do come in with me!’ she said, as he was going to sha=
ke
hands with her at the gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and
Mrs. Poyser was contented with only a slight remark on Hetty's being later =
than
was expected; while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her,
smiled and talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen
her; but he meant to make leisure for going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, =
he
knew, was her day for going to the Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he
would get as much work done as possible this evening, that the next might be
clear.
One piece of work that Adam was
superintending was some slight repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been
hitherto occupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumoured th=
at
the old squire was going to let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been s=
een
to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could accou=
nt
for the squire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at =
Mr
Casson's agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would take the C=
hase
Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it. However that might =
be,
the repairs were ordered to be executed with all dispatch, and Adam, acting=
for
Mr Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual energy. But to-day, hav=
ing
been occupied elsewhere, he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm t=
ill
late in the afternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which =
he
had calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to be
done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and Adam
immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as to make =
the
most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for implements; and
all without any great expense for materials. So, when the workmen were gone=
, he
sat down, took out his pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching a pla=
n,
and making a specification of the expenses that he might show it to Burge t=
he
next morning, and set him on persuading the squire to consent. To ‘ma=
ke a
good job’ of anything, however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, =
and
he sat on a block, with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low
every now and then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible
smile of gratification - of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good wor=
k,
he loved also to think, ‘I did it!’ And I believe the only peop=
le
who are free from that weakness are those who have no work to call their ow=
n.
It was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; and=
on
giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been working here
to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. ‘Why, th' lad's forg=
ot
his tools,’ thought Adam, ‘and he's got to work up at the shop
to-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd leave his h=
ead
behind him, if it was loose. However, it's lucky I've seen 'em; I'll carry =
'em
home.’
The buildings of the Chase Farm la=
y at
one extremity of the Chase, at about ten minutes' walking distance from the
Abbey. Adam had come thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables =
and
put up his nag on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr Craig, who=
had
come to look at the captain's new horse, on which he was to ride away the d=
ay
after to-morrow; and Mr Craig detained him to tell how all the servants wer=
e to
collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire luck as he ro=
de
out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along
with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun was on the point of
setting, and was sending level crimson rays among the great trunks of the o=
ld
oaks, and touching every bare patch of ground with a transient glory that m=
ade
it look like a jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and the=
re
was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had
been sitting in the house all day would have been glad to walk now; but Ada=
m had
been quite enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he
bethought himself that he might do so by striking across the Chase and going
through the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on across =
the
Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his he=
els,
not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the light - hardly once
thinking of it - yet feeling its presence in a certain calm happy awe which
mingled itself with his busy working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling
it? The very deer felt it, and were more timid.
Presently Adam's thoughts recurred=
to
what Mr Craig had said about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going awa=
y,
and the changes that might take place before he came back; then they travel=
led
back affectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt =
on
Arthur's good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the
virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, with a great =
need
of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of its happiness on what it
can believe and feel about others! And he had no ideal world of dead heroes=
; he
knew little of the life of men in the past; he must find the beings to whom=
he
could cling with loving admiration among those who came within speech of hi=
m.
These pleasant thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual
into his keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened =
the
old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a kind =
word
to him.
After that pause, he strode on aga=
in
along the broad winding path through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam
delighted in a fine tree of all things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest=
on
the sea, so Adam's perceptions were more at home with trees than with other
objects. He kept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks=
and
knots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and had oft=
en
calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood look=
ing
at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get on, he could not =
help
pausing to look at a curious large beech which he had seen standing before =
him
at a turning in the road, and convince himself that it was not two trees we=
dded
together, but only one. For the rest of his life he remembered that moment =
when
he was calmly examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of t=
he
home where his youth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no m=
ore.
The beech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of
boughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the tre=
e to
continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twenty yards before h=
im.
He remained as motionless as a sta=
tue,
and turned almost as pale. The two figures were standing opposite to each
other, with clasped hands about to part; and while they were bending to kis=
s,
Gyp, who had been running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of th=
em,
and gave a sharp bark. They separated with a start - one hurried through the
gate out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with a =
sort
of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tig=
hter
the stick with which he held the basket of tools over his shoulder, and loo=
king
at the approaching figure with eyes in which amazement was fast turning to
fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed = and excited; he had tried to make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking= a little more wine than usual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flattering influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre w= ith Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best person= who could have happened to see him and Hetty together - he was a sensible fello= w, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so he sauntered forward = with elaborate carelessness - his flushed face, his evening dress of fine cloth = and fine linen, his hands half-thrust into his waistcoat pockets, all shone upo= n by the strange evening light which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now shedding down between the topmost branches above him.<= o:p>
Adam was still motionless, looking=
at
him as he came up. He understood it all now - the locket and everything else
that had been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching light showed him the hi=
dden
letters that changed the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he =
must
inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting
emotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he would =
not
give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing. He stood as if
petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his own strong will.
‘Well, Adam,’ said Art=
hur,
‘you've been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? They're not to be c=
ome
near by the hatchet, though; this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty litt=
le
Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my den - the Hermitage, there. She ought no=
t to
come home this way so late. So I took care of her to the gate, and asked fo=
r a
kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly d=
amp.
Good-night, Adam. I shall see you to-morrow - to say good-bye, you know.=
217;
Arthur was too much preoccupied wi=
th
the part he was playing himself to be thoroughly aware of the expression in
Adam's face. He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round=
at
the trees and then lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He c=
ared
to say no more - he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam's eyes - =
and
as he spoke the last words, he walked on.
‘Stop a bit, sir,’ said
Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without turning round. ‘I've got a =
word
to say to you.’
Arthur paused in surprise. Suscept=
ible
persons are more affected by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and
Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He=
was
still more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his
back to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was going =
to
make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper rising. A
patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in the confusion of=
his
irritation and alarm there entered the feeling that a man to whom he had sh=
own
so much favour as to Adam was not in a position to criticize his conduct. A=
nd
yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself in the wrong always is, by t=
he
man whose good opinion he cares for. In spite of pride and temper, there wa=
s as
much deprecation as anger in his voice when he said, ‘What do you mea=
n,
Adam?’
‘I mean, sir’ - answer=
ed
Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without turning round - ‘I mean,
sir, that you don't deceive me by your light words. This is not the first t=
ime
you've met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first time you've
kissed her.’
Arthur felt a startled uncertainty=
how
far Adam was speaking from knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And =
this
uncertainty, which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heighten=
ed
his irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, ‘Well, sir, what then?=
’
‘Why, then, instead of acting
like th' upright, honourable man we've all believed you to be, you've been
acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I =
do
what it's to lead to when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a y=
oung
woman like Hetty, and gives her presents as she's frightened for other folk=
s to
see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfish light-minded
scoundrel though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'd rather ha' lost=
my
right hand.’
‘Let me tell you, Adam,̵=
7;
said Arthur, bridling his growing anger and trying to recur to his careless
tone, ‘you're not only devilishly impertinent, but you're talking
nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that when=
a
gentleman admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must mean
something particular. Every man likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every
pretty girl likes to be flirted with. The wider the distance between them, =
the
less harm there is, for then she's not likely to deceive herself.’
‘I don't know what you mean =
by
flirting,’ said Adam, ‘but if you mean behaving to a woman as if
you loved her, and yet not loving her all the while, I say that's not th'
action of an honest man, and what isn't honest does come t' harm. I'm not a
fool, and you're not a fool, and you know better than what you're saying. Y=
ou
know it couldn't be made public as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done
without her losing her character and bringing shame and trouble on her and =
her
relations. What if you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Oth=
er folks
won't believe as you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not
deceiving herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the thought=
of
you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never love another man as '=
ud
make her a good husband.’
Arthur had felt a sudden relief wh=
ile
Adam was speaking; he perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the
past, and that there was no irrevocable damage done by this evening's
unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be deceived. The candid Arthur had
brought himself into a position in which successful lying was his only hope.
The hope allayed his anger a little.
‘Well, Adam,’ he said,=
in
a tone of friendly concession, ‘you're perhaps right. Perhaps I've go=
ne a
little too far in taking notice of the pretty little thing and stealing a k=
iss
now and then. You're such a grave, steady fellow, you don't understand the
temptation to such trifling. I'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or annoy=
ance
on her and the good Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think =
you
look a little too seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I
shan't make any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night’=
- Arthur
here turned round to walk on - ‘and talk no more about the matter. The
whole thing will soon be forgotten.’
‘No, by God!’ Adam bur=
st
out with rage that could be controlled no longer, throwing down the basket =
of
tools and striding forward till he was right in front of Arthur. All his
jealousy and sense of personal injury, which he had been hitherto trying to
keep under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of us, in the first
moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been =
the
medium of inflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebelli=
on against
pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreak our vengean=
ce
on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty - =
robbed
treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted - and he stood close in fro=
nt
of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him, with pale lips and clenched han=
ds,
the hard tones in which he had hitherto been constraining himself to expres=
s no
more than a just indignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seeme=
d to
shake him as he spoke.
‘No, it'll not be soon forgo=
t,
as you've come in between her and me, when she might ha' loved me - it'll n=
ot
soon be forgot as you've robbed me o' my happiness, while I thought you was=
my
best friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've
been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i' =
my
life - but I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. And you
make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage other folks, so=
as
you get your bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throw back your favours, =
for
you're not the man I took you for. I'll never count you my friend any more.=
I'd
rather you'd act as my enemy, and fight me where I stand - it's all th' ame=
nds
you can make me.’
Poor Adam, possessed by rage that
could find no other vent, began to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind
with passion to notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he w=
as
speaking. Arthur's lips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating
violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him f=
or
the moment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's
suffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error. The wor=
ds
of hatred and contempt - the first he had ever heard in his life - seemed l=
ike
scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him. All screening
self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while others respect us, forsook=
him
for an instant, and he stood face to face with the first great irrevocable =
evil
he had ever committed. He was only twenty-one, and three months ago - nay, =
much
later - he had thought proudly that no man should ever be able to reproach =
him
justly. His first impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have
been to utter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his =
coat
and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale and motionless, =
with
his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.
‘What!’ he said, ̵=
6;won't
you fight me like a man? You know I won't strike you while you stand so.=
217;
‘Go away, Adam,’ said
Arthur, ‘I don't want to fight you.’
‘No,’ said Adam, bitte=
rly;
‘you don't want to fight me - you think I'm a common man, as you can
injure without answering for it.’
‘I never meant to injure you=
,’
said Arthur, with returning anger. ‘I didn't know you loved her.̵=
7;
‘But you've made her love yo=
u,’
said Adam. ‘You're a double-faced man - I'll never believe a word you=
say
again.’
‘Go away, I tell you,’
said Arthur, angrily, ‘or we shall both repent.’
‘No,’ said Adam, with a
convulsed voice, ‘I swear I won't go away without fighting you. Do you
want provoking any more? I tell you you're a coward and a scoundrel, and I
despise you.’
The colour had all rushed back to
Arthur's face; in a moment his right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow li=
ke
lightning, which sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly=
up
as Adam's now, and the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone befor=
e,
fought with the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight
darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for the
workman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him to protr=
act
the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men the battle is to
the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must sink under a
well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken by an iron bar. The bl=
ow
soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying concealed in a tuft of fern, so =
that
Adam could only discern his darkly clad body.
He stood still in the dim light
waiting for Arthur to rise.
The blow had been given now, towar=
ds
which he had been straining all the force of nerve and muscle - and what was
the good of it? What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passio=
n,
only wreaked his own vengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the p=
ast
- there it was, just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his o=
wn
rage.
But why did not Arthur rise? He was
perfectly motionless, and the time seemed long to Adam. Good God! had the b=
low
been too much for him? Adam shuddered at the thought of his own strength, as
with the oncoming of this dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted h=
is
head from among the fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were
set. The horror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced u=
pon
him its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's fa=
ce,
and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but knelt
like an image of despair gazing at an image of death.
IT was only a few minutes measured=
by
the clock - though Adam always thought it had been a long while - before he
perceived a gleam of consciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver thr=
ough
his frame. The intense joy that flooded his soul brought back some of the o=
ld
affection with it.
‘Do you feel any pain, sir?&=
#8217;
he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur's cravat.
Arthur turned his eyes on Adam wit=
h a
vague stare which gave way to a slightly startled motion as if from the sho=
ck
of returning memory. But he only shivered again and said nothing.
‘Do you feel any hurt, sir?&=
#8217;
Adam said again, with a trembling in his voice.
Arthur put his hand up to his
waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath=
. ‘Lay
my head down,’ he said, faintly, ‘and get me some water if you =
can.’
Adam laid the head down gently on =
the
fern again, and emptying the tools out of the flag-basket, hurried through =
the
trees to the edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran be=
low
the bank.
When he returned with his basket
leaking, but still half-full, Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly
reawakened consciousness.
‘Can you drink a drop out o'
your hand, sir?’ said Adam, kneeling down again to lift up Arthur's h=
ead.
‘No,’ said Arthur, =
216;dip
my cravat in and souse it on my head.’
The water seemed to do him some go=
od,
for he presently raised himself a little higher, resting on Adam's arm.
‘Do you feel any hurt inside=
sir?’
Adam asked again
‘No - no hurt,’ said
Arthur, still faintly, ‘but rather done up.’
After a while he said, ‘I
suppose I fainted away when you knocked me down.’
‘Yes, sir, thank God,’
said Adam. ‘I thought it was worse.’
‘What! You thought you'd don=
e for
me, eh? Come help me on my legs.’
‘I feel terribly shaky and
dizzy,’ Arthur said, as he stood leaning on Adam's arm; ‘that b=
low
of yours must have come against me like a battering-ram. I don't believe I =
can
walk alone.’
‘Lean on me, sir; I'll get y=
ou
along,’ said Adam. ‘Or, will you sit down a bit longer, on my c=
oat
here, and I'll prop y' up. You'll perhaps be better in a minute or two.R=
17;
‘No,’ said Arthur. =
216;I'll
go to the Hermitage - I think I've got some brandy there. There's a short r=
oad
to it a little farther on, near the gate. If you'll just help me on.’=
They walked slowly, with frequent
pauses, but without speaking again. In both of them, the concentration in t=
he
present which had attended the first moments of Arthur's revival had now gi=
ven
way to a vivid recollection of the previous scene. It was nearly dark in the
narrow path among the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round the
Hermitage there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at the windo=
ws.
Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of fir-needles, and the outw=
ard
stillness seemed to heighten their inward consciousness, as Arthur took the=
key
out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand, for him to open the door. A=
dam
had not known before that Arthur had furnished the old Hermitage and made i=
t a
retreat for himself, and it was a surprise to him when he opened the door to
see a snug room with all the signs of frequent habitation.
Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw
himself on the ottoman. ‘You'll see my hunting-bottle somewhere,̵=
7;
he said. ‘A leather case with a bottle and glass in.’
Adam was not long in finding the c=
ase.
‘There's very little brandy in it, sir,’ he said, turning it
downwards over the glass, as he held it before the window; ‘hardly th=
is
little glassful.’
‘Well, give me that,’ =
said
Arthur, with the peevishness of physical depression. When he had taken some
sips, Adam said, ‘Hadn't I better run to th' house, sir, and get some
more brandy? I can be there and back pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home
for you, if you don't have something to revive you.’
‘Yes - go. But don't say I'm
ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to get it from Mills, and not to say =
I'm
at the Hermitage. Get some water too.’
Adam was relieved to have an active
task - both of them were relieved to be apart from each other for a short t=
ime.
But Adam's swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinking - of living
again with concentrated suffering through the last wretched hour, and looki=
ng
out from it over all the new sad future.
Arthur lay still for some minutes
after Adam was gone, but presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peer=
ed
about slowly in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit=
of
wax candle that stood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials.=
There
was more searching for the means of lighting the candle, and when that was
done, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himself of=
the
presence or absence of something. At last he had found a slight thing, whic=
h he
put first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again and
thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was a woman's little, pink, =
silk
neckerchief. He set the candle on the table, and threw himself down on the
ottoman again, exhausted with the effort.
When Adam came back with his suppl=
ies,
his entrance awoke Arthur from a doze.
‘That's right,’ Arthur
said; ‘I'm tremendously in want of some brandy-vigour.’
‘I'm glad to see you've got a
light, sir,’ said Adam. ‘I've been thinking I'd better have ask=
ed
for a lanthorn.’
‘No, no; the candle will last
long enough - I shall soon be up to walking home now.’
‘I can't go before I've seen=
you
safe home, sir,’ said Adam, hesitatingly.
‘No: it will be better for y=
ou
to stay - sit down.’
Adam sat down, and they remained
opposite to each other in uneasy silence, while Arthur slowly drank
brandy-and-water, with visibly renovating effect. He began to lie in a more
voluntary position, and looked as if he were less overpowered by bodily
sensations. Adam was keenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety
about Arthur's condition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatien=
ce
which every one knows who has had his just indignation suspended by the
physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his mind to be do=
ne
before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what had been unju=
st
in his own words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make this confession, t=
hat
his indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs of returning e=
ase
in Arthur, the words again and again came to his lips and went back, checke=
d by
the thought that it would be better to leave everything till to-morrow. As =
long
as they were silent they did not look at each other, and a foreboding came
across Adam that if they began to speak as though they remembered the past =
- if
they looked at each other with full recognition - they must take fire again=
. So
they sat in silence till the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket,=
the
silence all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had just poured=
out
some more brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind his head and drew up
one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was an irresistible temptat=
ion
to Adam to speak what was on his mind.
‘You begin to feel more your=
self
again, sir,’ he said, as the candle went out and they were half-hidden
from each other in the faint moonlight.
‘Yes: I don't feel good for =
much
- very lazy, and not inclined to move; but I'll go home when I've taken this
dose.’
There was a slight pause before Ad=
am
said, ‘My temper got the better of me, and I said things as wasn't tr=
ue.
I'd no right to speak as if you'd known you was doing me an injury: you'd no
grounds for knowing it; I've always kept what I felt for her as secret as I
could.’
He paused again before he went on.=
‘And perhaps I judged you too
harsh - I'm apt to be harsh - and you may have acted out o' thoughtlessness
more than I should ha' believed was possible for a man with a heart and a
conscience. We're not all put together alike, and we may misjudge one anoth=
er.
God knows, it's all the joy I could have now, to think the best of you.R=
17;
Arthur wanted to go home without
saying any more - he was too painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too =
weak
in body, to wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet it was a rel=
ief
to him that Adam reopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him =
to
answer. Arthur was in the wretched position of an open, generous man who has
committed an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The native impul=
se
to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, mus=
t be
suppressed, and duty was becoming a question of tactics. His deed was react=
ing
upon him - was already governing him tyrannously and forcing him into a cou=
rse
that jarred with his habitual feelings. The only aim that seemed admissible=
to
him now was to deceive Adam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him
than he deserved. And when he heard the words of honest retractation - when=
he
heard the sad appeal with which Adam ended - he was obliged to rejoice in t=
he
remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer immediately, f=
or
he had to be judicious and not truthful.
‘Say no more about our anger,
Adam,’ he said, at last, very languidly, for the labour of speech was
unwelcome to him; ‘I forgive your momentary injustice - it was quite
natural, with the exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be none
the worse friends in future, I hope, because we've fought. You had the best=
of
it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I've been most in the wrong=
of
the two. Come, let us shake hands.’
Arthur held out his hand, but Adam=
sat
still.
‘I don't like to say 'No' to
that, sir,’ he said, ‘but I can't shake hands till it's clear w=
hat
we mean by't. I was wrong when I spoke as if you'd done me an injury knowin=
gly,
but I wasn't wrong in what I said before, about your behaviour t' Hetty, an=
d I
can't shake hands with you as if I held you my friend the same as ever till
you've cleared that up better.’
Arthur swallowed his pride and
resentment as he drew back his hand. He was silent for some moments, and th=
en
said, as indifferently as he could, ‘I don't know what you mean by
clearing up, Adam. I've told you already that you think too seriously of a
little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there is any danger in=
it
- I'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pa=
in
it has given you, I'm heartily sorry for it. I can say no more.’
Adam said nothing, but rose from h=
is
chair and stood with his face towards one of the windows, as if looking at =
the
blackness of the moonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of noth=
ing
but the conflict within him. It was of no use now - his resolution not to s=
peak
till to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it was several minutes be=
fore
he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and looking down on =
him
as he lay.
‘It'll be better for me to s=
peak
plain,’ he said, with evident effort, ‘though it's hard work. Y=
ou
see, sir, this isn't a trifle to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o'
them men as can go making love first to one woman and then t' another, and
don't think it much odds which of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a
different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much about but th=
em
as feel it and God as has given it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to
me, all but my conscience and my good name. And if it's true what you've be=
en
saying all along - and if it's only been trifling and flirting as you call =
it,
as 'll be put an end to by your going away - why, then, I'd wait, and hope =
her
heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speak false to me,=
and
I'll believe your word, however things may look.’
‘You would be wronging Hetty
more than me not to believe it,’ said Arthur, almost violently, start=
ing
up from the ottoman and moving away. But he threw himself into a chair again
directly, saying, more feebly, ‘You seem to forget that, in suspecting
me, you are casting imputations upon her.’
‘Nay, sir,’ Adam said,=
in
a calmer voice, as if he were half-relieved - for he was too straightforwar=
d to
make a distinction between a direct falsehood and an indirect one - ‘=
Nay,
sir, things don't lie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your =
eyes
open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in her mind? She=
's
all but a child - as any man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound to
take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbed her mind.=
I
know she's been fixing her heart on you, for there's a many things clear to=
me
now as I didn't understand before. But you seem to make light o' what she m=
ay
feel - you don't think o' that.’
‘Good God, Adam, let me alon=
e!’
Arthur burst out impetuously; ‘I feel it enough without your worrying=
me.’
He was aware of his indiscretion as
soon as the words had escaped him.
‘Well, then, if you feel it,=
’
Adam rejoined, eagerly; ‘if you feel as you may ha' put false notions
into her mind, and made her believe as you loved her, when all the while you
meant nothing, I've this demand to make of you - I'm not speaking for mysel=
f,
but for her. I ask you t' undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't going =
away
for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your fee=
ling
about her the same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, a=
nd
the mischief may get worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save her
pain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letter - you may trust to my seeing as
she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for behaving as
you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't your equal. I speak plain, s=
ir,
but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody can take care o' Hetty in t=
his
thing but me.’
‘I can do what I think needf=
ul in
the matter,’ said Arthur, more and more irritated by mingled distress=
and
perplexity, ‘without giving promises to you. I shall take what measur=
es I
think proper.’
‘No,’ said Adam, in an
abrupt decided tone, ‘that won't do. I must know what ground I'm trea=
ding
on. I must be safe as you've put an end to what ought never to ha' been beg=
un.
I don't forget what's owing to you as a gentleman, but in this thing we're =
man
and man, and I can't give up.’
There was no answer for some momen=
ts.
Then Arthur said, ‘I'll see you to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm
ill.’ He rose as he spoke, and reached his cap, as if intending to go=
.
‘You won't see her again!=
217;
Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurring anger and suspicion, moving towar=
ds
the door and placing his back against it. ‘Either tell me she can nev=
er
be my wife - tell me you've been lying - or else promise me what I've said.=
’
Adam, uttering this alternative, s=
tood
like a terrible fate before Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and
now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of
them - that inward struggle of Arthur's - before he said, feebly, ‘I
promise; let me go.’
Adam moved away from the door and
opened it, but when Arthur reached the step, he stopped again and leaned ag=
ainst
the door-post.
‘You're not well enough to w=
alk
alone, sir,’ said Adam. ‘Take my arm again.’
Arthur made no answer, and present=
ly
walked on, Adam following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and
said, coldly, ‘I believe I must trouble you. It's getting late now, a=
nd
there may be an alarm set up about me at home.’
Adam gave his arm, and they walked=
on
without uttering a word, till they came where the basket and the tools lay.=
‘I must pick up the tools, s=
ir,’
Adam said. ‘They're my brother's. I doubt they'll be rusted. If you'll
please to wait a minute.’
Arthur stood still without speakin=
g,
and no other word passed between them till they were at the side entrance,
where he hoped to get in without being seen by any one. He said then, ̵=
6;Thank
you; I needn't trouble you any further.’
‘What time will it be conven=
'ent
for me to see you to-morrow, sir?’ said Adam.
‘You may send me word that you're here at five o'clock,’ said Arthur; ‘not before.’<= o:p>
‘Good-night, sir,’ said
Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned into the house.
ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless ni=
ght;
he slept long and well. For sleep comes to the perplexed - if the perplexed=
are
only weary enough. But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by decl=
aring
he was going to get up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.
‘And see that my mare is sad=
dled
at half-past eight, and tell my grandfather when he's down that I'm better =
this
morning and am gone for a ride.’
He had been awake an hour, and cou=
ld
rest in bed no longer. In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man c=
an
only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which
offers some resistance to the past - sensations which assert themselves aga=
inst
tyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averages of
feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting seaso=
ns
regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter on country gentlem=
en
than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he should be more of a man=
on
horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with the usual deferenc=
e,
was a reassurance to him after the scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's
sensitiveness to opinion, the loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his
self-contentment which suffused his imagination with the sense that he had =
sunk
in all eyes - as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous
woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a
sense of danger.
Arthur's, as you know, was a loving
nature. Deeds of kindness were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were the
common issue of his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his
sympathy. He didn't like to witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes
beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one=
day
kicked down an old gardener's pitcher of broth, from no motive but a kicking
impulse, not reflecting that it was the old man's dinner; but on learning t=
hat
sad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife out of
his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur ev=
er
since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If there were any
bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself against the man who ref=
used
to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the time was come for some of that
bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and
self-reproach at discovering that Adam's happiness was involved in his rela=
tion
to Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends - if
deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment a=
nd
regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them
without hesitation, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam,=
and
would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam could receive no
amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and affection cou=
ld
not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He stood like an immovab=
le
obstacle against which no pressure could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur
most shrank from believing in - the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. =
The
words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in
their last conversation in the Hermitage - above all, the sense of having b=
een
knocked down, to which a man does not very well reconcile himself, even und=
er
the most heroic circumstances - pressed on him with a galling pain which wa=
s stronger
than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himself that he had
done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he could have persua=
ded
himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge a sword for herself out of=
our
consciences - out of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may have cau=
sed:
there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon. Our moral s=
ense
learns the manners of good society and smiles when others smile, but when s=
ome
rude person gives rough names to our actions, she is apt to take part again=
st
us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam's judgment of him, Adam's grating words,
disturbed his self-soothing arguments.
Not that Arthur had been at ease
before Adam's discovery. Struggles and resolves had transformed themselves =
into
compunction and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed=
for
his own, that he must leave her behind. He had always, both in making and
breaking resolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speed=
ily
end in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not to
suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled with uneasines=
s.
He had found out the dream in which she was living - that she was to be a l=
ady
in silks and satins - and when he had first talked to her about his going a=
way,
she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with him and be married. It was=
his
painful knowledge of this which had given the most exasperating sting to Ad=
am's
reproaches. He had said no word with the purpose of deceiving her - her vis=
ion
was all spun by her own childish fancy - but he was obliged to confess to
himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And to increase the
mischief, on this last evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty;=
he
had been obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should t=
hrow
her into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the sorrow of
the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety of the
tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. That was the one sharp
point which pressed against him; every other he could evade by hopeful
self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret; the Poysers had not the
shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew anything of what had passe=
d - no
one else was likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty that it woul=
d be
fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the least intimacy
between them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather help them =
to
keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there
was no use in making it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and
forebodings of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty =
was
the worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad
consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But - but Hetty might have
had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps hereafter he
might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to her for all the tea=
rs
she would shed about him. She would owe the advantage of his care for her in
future years to the sorrow she had incurred now. So good comes out of evil.
Such is the beautiful arrangement of things!
Are you inclined to ask whether th=
is can
be the same Arthur who, two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that
delicate honour which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not
contemplate any more positive offence as possible for it? - who thought that
his own self-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The s=
ame,
I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us, as m=
uch
as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or will be the
peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, which constitutes a man's
critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves wise about his
character. There is a terrible coercion in our deeds, which may first turn =
the
honest man into a deceiver and then reconcile him to the change, for this
reason - that the second wrong presents itself to him in the guise of the o=
nly
practicable right. The action which before commission has been seen with th=
at
blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye=
of
the soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity,
through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to be ma=
de
up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an individual character - until the =
placid
adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating
effect of an offence against his own sentiment of right, and the effect was=
the
stronger in Arthur because of that very need of self-respect which, while h=
is
conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusati=
on
was too painful to him - he could not face it. He must persuade himself tha=
t he
had not been very much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the
necessity he was under of deceiving Adam - it was a course so opposed to the
honesty of his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in h=
im,
he was miserable enough in consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable ab=
out
this letter that he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to=
be
a gross barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to =
her.
And across all this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden impul=
se
of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carry Hetty away,=
and
all other considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four wal= ls of his room made an intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem in and pr= ess down upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feeli= ngs, some of which would fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg's back, in= the fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the situation.<= o:p>
The pretty creature arched her bay
neck in the sunshine, and pawed the gravel, and trembled with pleasure when=
her
master stroked her nose, and patted her, and talked to her even in a more
caressing tone than usual. He loved her the better because she knew nothing=
of
his secrets. But Meg was quite as well acquainted with her master's mental
state as many others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young
gentlemen towards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectatio=
n.
Arthur cantered for five miles bey=
ond
the Chase, till he was at the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or
trees to hem in the road. Then he threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepar=
ed
to make up his mind.
Hetty knew that their meeting
yesterday must be the last before Arthur went away - there was no possibili=
ty
of their contriving another without exciting suspicion - and she was like a
frightened child, unable to think of anything, only able to cry at the ment=
ion
of parting, and then put her face up to have the tears kissed away. He coul=
d do
nothing but comfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a
dreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam sa=
id -
that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might be worse tha=
n a sharp
immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfying Adam, who must be
satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have seen her again! But =
that
was impossible; there was such a thorny hedge of hindrances between them, a=
nd
an imprudence would be fatal. And yet, if he COULD see her again, what good
would it do? Only cause him to suffer more from the sight of her distress a=
nd
the remembrance of it. Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives =
to
self-control.
A sudden dread here fell like a sh=
adow
across his imagination - the dread lest she should do something violent in =
her
grief; and close upon that dread came another, which deepened the shadow. B=
ut
he shook them off with the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for
painting the future in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the rever=
se.
Arthur told himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. He
had never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved; he had
been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicit confidence in him
that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence would not treat=
him
harshly.
At all events, he couldn't help wh=
at
would come now: all he could do was to take what seemed the best course at =
the
present moment. And he persuaded himself that that course was to make the w=
ay
open between Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he sai=
d,
after a while; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, s=
ince
it was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam was
deceived - deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as a deep wron=
g if
it had been practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred the
consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in mingled shame and irrita=
tion
at the thought. But what could a man do in such a dilemma? He was bound in
honour to say no word that could injure Hetty: his first duty was to guard =
her.
He would never have told or acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What =
a miserable
fool he was to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a=
man
had excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses =
but
by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; =
it
was the only means that promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears ca=
me
into Arthur's eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almos=
t as
hard for him to write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and th=
is
last thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could never deliberat=
ely
have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left himself at ease.
Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up Hetty to Adam went =
to
convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this
conclusion, he turned Meg round and set off home again in a canter. The let=
ter
should be written the first thing, and the rest of the day would be filled =
up
with other business: he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Ir=
wine
and Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock the next day he sh=
ould
have left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this const=
ant
occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty a=
nd
thrust into her hand some mad proposition that would undo everything. Faster
and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from her rider, till
the canter had passed into a swift gallop.
‘I thought they said th' you=
ng
mester war took ill last night,’ said sour old John, the groom, at
dinner-time in the servants' hall. ‘He's been ridin' fit to split the
mare i' two this forenoon.’
‘That's happen one o' the
symptims, John,’ said the facetious coachman.
‘Then I wish he war let blood
for 't, that's all,’ said John, grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to
know how Arthur was, and had been relieved from all anxiety about the effec=
ts
of his blow by learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he=
was
punctually there again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes P=
ym
came down with a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the
captain was too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say. =
The
letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again before opening =
it.
It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the inside of the cov=
er
Adam read:
‘In the enclosed letter I ha=
ve
written everything you wish. I leave it to you to decide whether you will be
doing best to deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once =
more
whether you are not taking a measure which may pain her more than mere sile=
nce.
‘There is no need for our se=
eing
each other again now. We shall meet with better feelings some months hence.=
‘A.D.’
‘Perhaps he's i' th' right o=
n 't
not to see me,’ thought Adam. ‘It's no use meeting to say more =
hard
words, and it's no use meeting to shake hands and say we're friends again.
We're not friends, an' it's better not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is=
a
man's duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all
thoughts o' taking revenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old
feelings back again, for that's not possible. He's not the same man to me, =
and
I can't feel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel=
the
same towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a false
line, and had got it all to measure over again.’
But the question about delivering =
the
letter to Hetty soon absorbed Adam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some rel=
ief
to himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who w=
as
not given to hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way - to
ascertain as well as he could what was Hetty's state of mind before he deci=
ded
on delivering the letter.
THE next Sunday Adam joined the
Poysers on their way out of church, hoping for an invitation to go home with
them. He had the letter in his pocket, and was anxious to have an opportuni=
ty
of talking to Hetty alone. He could not see her face at church, for she had
changed her seat, and when he came up to her to shake hands, her manner was
doubtful and constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she h=
ad
met him since she had been aware that he had seen her with Arthur in the Gr=
ove.
‘Come, you'll go on with us, Adam,’ Mr Poyser said when they reached the turning; and as soon as t= hey were in the fields Adam ventured to offer his arm to Hetty. The children so= on gave them an opportunity of lingering behind a little, and then Adam said:<= o:p>
‘Will you contrive for me to
walk out in the garden a bit with you this evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty?
I've something partic'lar to talk to you about.’
Hetty said, ‘Very well.̵=
7;
She was really as anxious as Adam was that she should have some private talk
with him. She wondered what he thought of her and Arthur. He must have seen
them kissing, she knew, but she had no conception of the scene that had tak=
en
place between Arthur and Adam. Her first feeling had been that Adam would be
very angry with her, and perhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never
entered her mind that he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne.=
It
was a relief to her that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted to
speak to her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was going home w=
ith
them lest he should mean ‘to tell.’ But, now he wanted to talk =
to
her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he meant to do. S=
he
felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not to do anything she
did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make him believe that she di=
dn't
care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thought there was any hope of her havi=
ng
him, he would do just what she liked, she knew. Besides, she MUST go on see=
ming
to encourage Adam, lest her uncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her =
of
having some secret lover.
Hetty's little brain was busy with
this combination as she hung on Adam's arm and said ‘yes’ or =
8216;no’
to some slight observations of his about the many hawthorn-berries there wo=
uld
be for the birds this next winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would ha=
rdly
hold up till morning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could
pursue her thoughts without interruption, for Mr Poyser held that though a
young man might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he would
nevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about business the while; =
and,
for his own part, he was curious to heal the most recent news about the Cha=
se
Farm. So, through the rest of the walk, he claimed Adam's conversation for
himself, and Hetty laid her small plots and imagined her little scenes of
cunning blandishment, as she walked along by the hedgerows on honest Adam's
arm, quite as well as if she had been an elegantly clad coquette alone in h=
er boudoir.
For if a country beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it =
is
astonishing how closely her mental processes may resemble those of a lady in
society and crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the problem of
committing indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps the resembla=
nce
was not much the less because Hetty felt very unhappy all the while. The
parting with Arthur was a double pain to her - mingling with the tumult of
passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fear that the future might sha=
pe
itself in some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the comforting hope=
ful
words Arthur had uttered in their last meeting - ‘I shall come again =
at
Christmas, and then we will see what can be done.’ She clung to the
belief that he was so fond of her, he would never be happy without her; and=
she
still hugged her secret - that a great gentleman loved her - with gratified
pride, as a superiority over all the girls she knew. But the uncertainty of=
the
future, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began to press =
upon
her like the invisible weight of air; she was alone on her little island of
dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown water where Arthur was gone.
She could gather no elation of spirits now by looking forward, but only by
looking backward to build confidence on past words and caresses. But
occasionally, since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been almost lost
behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray what he knew to her un=
cle
and aunt, and his sudden proposition to talk with her alone had set her
thoughts to work in a new way. She was eager not to lose this evening's
opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into the garden and To=
tty
begged to go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs.
Poyser, ‘I'll go with her, Aunt.’
It did not seem at all surprising =
that
Adam said he would go too, and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on
the walk by the filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering=
the
large unripe nuts to play at ‘cob-nut’ with, and Totty was watc=
hing
them with a puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a short time - hardly
two months - since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as he
stood by Hetty's side un this garden. The remembrance of that scene had oft=
en
been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight through the apple-tree
boughs, the red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It came importunately now, on
this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, but he tried to suppress it,
lest some emotion should impel him to say more than was needful for Hetty's
sake.
‘After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty,’ he began, ‘you won't think me making too free in what I'm going to say. If you was being courted by any man as 'ud make you = his wife, and I'd known you was fond of him and meant to have him, I should hav= e no right to speak a word to you about it; but when I see you're being made lov= e to by a gentleman as can never marry you, and doesna think o' marrying you, I = feel bound t' interfere for you. I can't speak about it to them as are i' the pl= ace o' your parents, for that might bring worse trouble than's needful.’<= o:p>
Adam's words relieved one of Hetty=
's
fears, but they also carried a meaning which sickened her with a strengthen=
ed
foreboding. She was pale and trembling, and yet she would have angrily
contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray her feelings. But she was sil=
ent.
‘You're so young, you know,
Hetty,’ he went on, almost tenderly, ‘and y' haven't seen much =
o' what
goes on in the world. It's right for me to do what I can to save you from
getting into trouble for want o' your knowing where you're being led to. If
anybody besides me knew what I know about your meeting a gentleman and havi=
ng
fine presents from him, they'd speak light on you, and you'd lose your
character. And besides that, you'll have to suffer in your feelings, wi' gi=
ving
your love to a man as can never marry you, so as he might take care of you =
all
your life.’
Adam paused and looked at Hetty, w=
ho was
plucking the leaves from the filbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand.=
Her
little plans and preconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill-le=
arnt
lesson, under the terrible agitation produced by Adam's words. There was a
cruel force in their calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush h=
er
flimsy hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them - she wanted to throw t=
hem
off with angry contradiction - but the determination to conceal what she fe=
lt
still governed her. It was nothing more than a blind prompting now, for she=
was
unable to calculate the effect of her words.
‘You've no right to say as I
love him,’ she said, faintly, but impetuously, plucking another rough
leaf and tearing it up. She was very beautiful in her paleness and agitatio=
n,
with her dark childish eyes dilated and her breath shorter than usual. Adam=
's
heart yearned over her as he looked at her. Ah, if he could but comfort her,
and soothe her, and save her from this pain; if he had but some sort of
strength that would enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would
have rescued her body in the face of all danger!
‘I doubt it must be so, Hett=
y,’
he said, tenderly; ‘for I canna believe you'd let any man kiss you by
yourselves, and give you a gold box with his hair, and go a-walking i' the
Grove to meet him, if you didna love him. I'm not blaming you, for I know it
'ud begin by little and little, till at last you'd not be able to throw it =
off.
It's him I blame for stealing your love i' that way, when he knew he could
never make you the right amends. He's been trifling with you, and making a
plaything of you, and caring nothing about you as a man ought to care.̵=
7;
‘Yes, he does care for me; I
know better nor you,’ Hetty burst out. Everything was forgotten but t=
he
pain and anger she felt at Adam's words.
‘Nay, Hetty,’ said Ada=
m, ‘if
he'd cared for you rightly, he'd never ha' behaved so. He told me himself he
meant nothing by his kissing and presents, and he wanted to make me believe=
as
you thought light of 'em too. But I know better nor that. I can't help thin=
king
as you've been trusting to his loving you well enough to marry you, for all
he's a gentleman. And that's why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, for f=
ear
you should be deceiving yourself. It's never entered his head the thought o'
marrying you.’
‘How do you know? How durst =
you
say so?’ said Hetty, pausing in her walk and trembling. The terrible
decision of Adam's tone shook her with fear. She had no presence of mind le=
ft
for the reflection that Arthur would have his reasons for not telling the t=
ruth
to Adam. Her words and look were enough to determine Adam: he must give her=
the
letter.
‘Perhaps you can't believe m=
e,
Hetty, because you think too well of him - because you think he loves you
better than he does. But I've got a letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself
for me to give you. I've not read the letter, but he says he's told you the
truth in it. But before I give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don't l=
et
it take too much hold on you. It wouldna ha' been good for you if he'd want=
ed
to do such a mad thing as marry you: it 'ud ha' led to no happiness i' th' =
end.’
Hetty said nothing; she felt a rev=
ival
of hope at the mention of a letter which Adam had not read. There would be
something quite different in it from what he thought.
Adam took out the letter, but he h=
eld
it in his hand still, while he said, in a tone of tender entreaty, ‘D=
on't
you bear me ill will, Hetty, because I'm the means o' bringing you this pai=
n.
God knows I'd ha' borne a good deal worse for the sake o' sparing it you. A=
nd
think - there's nobody but me knows about this, and I'll take care of you a=
s if
I was your brother. You're the same as ever to me, for I don't believe you'=
ve
done any wrong knowingly.’
Hetty had laid her hand on the let=
ter,
but Adam did not loose it till he had done speaking. She took no notice of =
what
he said - she had not listened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it i=
nto
her pocket, without opening it, and then began to walk more quickly, as if =
she
wanted to go in.
‘You're in the right not to =
read
it just yet,’ said Adam. ‘Read it when you're by yourself. But =
stay
out a little bit longer, and let us call the children: you look so white and
ill, your aunt may take notice of it.’
Hetty heard the warning. It recall=
ed
to her the necessity of rallying her native powers of concealment, which had
half given way under the shock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in h=
er
pocket: she was sure there was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She=
ran
to find Totty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who
was making a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe
apple that she had set her small teeth in.
‘Hegh, Totty,’ said Ad=
am, ‘come
and ride on my shoulder - ever so high - you'll touch the tops o' the trees=
.’
What little child ever refused to =
be
comforted by that glorious sense of being seized strongly and swung upward?=
I
don't believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, and perhaps
deposited him on Jove's shoulder at the end. Totty smiled down complacently
from her secure height, and pleasant was the sight to the mother's eyes, as=
she
stood at the house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden.
‘Bless your sweet face, my p=
et,’
she said, the mother's strong love filling her keen eyes with mildness, as
Totty leaned forward and put out her arms. She had no eyes for Hetty at that
moment, and only said, without looking at her, ‘You go and draw some =
ale,
Hetty; the gells are both at the cheese.’
After the ale had been drawn and h=
er
uncle's pipe lighted, there was Totty to be taken to bed, and brought down
again in her night-gown because she would cry instead of going to sleep. Th=
en
there was supper to be got ready, and Hetty must be continually in the way =
to
give help. Adam stayed till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected him to go, engaging
her and her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake of leav=
ing
Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he wanted to see her safely through
that evening, and he was delighted to find how much self-command she showed=
. He
knew she had not had time to read the letter, but he did not know she was
buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter would contradict everything he h=
ad
said. It was hard work for him to leave her - hard to think that he should =
not
know for days how she was bearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and =
all
he could do was to press her hand gently as he said ‘Good-bye,’=
and
hope she would take that as a sign that if his love could ever be a refuge =
for
her, it was there the same as ever. How busy his thoughts were, as he walked
home, in devising pitying excuses for her folly, in referring all her weakn=
ess
to the sweet lovingness of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less and less
inclination to admit that his conduct might be extenuated too! His exaspera=
tion
at Hetty's suffering - and also at the sense that she was possibly thrust f=
or
ever out of his own reach - deafened him to any plea for the miscalled frie=
nd
who had wrought this misery. Adam was a clear-sighted, fair-minded man - a =
fine
fellow, indeed, morally as well as physically. But if Aristides the Just was
ever in love and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly magnanimous. =
And
I cannot pretend that Adam, in these painful days, felt nothing but righteo=
us indignation
and loving pity. He was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his love made
him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a vent in his
feeling towards Arthur.
‘Her head was allays likely =
to
be turned,’ he thought, ‘when a gentleman, with his fine manner=
s,
and fine clothes, and his white hands, and that way o' talking gentlefolks
have, came about her, making up to her in a bold way, as a man couldn't do =
that
was only her equal; and it's much if she'll ever like a common man now.R=
17;
He could not help drawing his own hands out of his pocket and looking at th=
em -
at the hard palms and the broken finger-nails. ‘I'm a roughish fellow,
altogether; I don't know, now I come to think on't, what there is much for a
woman to like about me; and yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, i=
f I
hadn't set my heart on her. But it's little matter what other women think a=
bout
me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me, perhaps, as likely as any
other man - there's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid of, if he hadn't come
between us; but now I shall belike be hateful to her because I'm so differe=
nt
to him. And yet there's no telling - she may turn round the other way, when=
she
finds he's made light of her all the while. She may come to feel the vally =
of a
man as 'ud be thankful to be bound to her all his life. But I must put up w=
ith
it whichever way it is - I've only to be thankful it's been no worse. I am =
not
th' only man that's got to do without much happiness i' this life. There's =
many
a good bit o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that's enough
for us: we shouldn't know better how things ought to be than He does, I rec=
kon,
if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling. But it 'ud ha' gone near to spoil=
my
work for me, if I'd seen her brought to sorrow and shame, and through the m=
an
as I've always been proud to think on. Since I've been spared that, I've no
right to grumble. When a man's got his limbs whole, he can bear a smart cut=
or
two.’
As Adam was getting over a stile at
this point in his reflections, he perceived a man walking along the field
before him. He knew it was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, and m=
ade
haste to overtake him.
‘I thought thee'dst be at ho=
me
before me,’ he said, as Seth turned round to wait for him, ‘for=
I'm
later than usual to-night.’
‘Well, I'm later too, for I =
got
into talk, after meeting, with John Barnes, who has lately professed himsel=
f in
a state of perfection, and I'd a question to ask him about his experience. =
It's
one o' them subjects that lead you further than y' expect - they don't lie
along the straight road.’
They walked along together in sile=
nce
two or three minutes. Adam was not inclined to enter into the subtleties of
religious experience, but he was inclined to interchange a word or two of
brotherly affection and confidence with Seth. That was a rare impulse in hi=
m,
much as the brothers loved each other. They hardly ever spoke of personal
matters, or uttered more than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam wa=
s by
nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain timidity
towards his more practical brother.
‘Seth, lad,’ Adam said,
putting his arm on his brother's shoulder, ‘hast heard anything from
Dinah Morris since she went away?’
‘Yes,’ said Seth. R=
16;She
told me I might write her word after a while, how we went on, and how mother
bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her
about thee having a new employment, and how Mother was more contented; and =
last
Wednesday, when I called at the post at Treddles'on, I found a letter from =
her.
I think thee'dst perhaps like to read it, but I didna say anything about it
because thee'st seemed so full of other things. It's quite easy t' read - s=
he
writes wonderful for a woman.’
Seth had drawn the letter from his
pocket and held it out to Adam, who said, as he took it, ‘Aye, lad, I=
've
got a tough load to carry just now - thee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit
silenter and crustier nor usual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for t=
hee.
I know we shall stick together to the last.’
‘I take nought ill o' thee,
Adam. I know well enough what it means if thee't a bit short wi' me now and
then.’
‘There's Mother opening the =
door
to look out for us,’ said Adam, as they mounted the slope. ‘She=
's
been sitting i' the dark as usual. Well, Gyp, well, art glad to see me?R=
17;
Lisbeth went in again quickly and
lighted a candle, for she had heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the
grass, before Gyp's joyful bark.
‘Eh, my lads! Th' hours war
ne'er so long sin' I war born as they'n been this blessed Sunday night. What
can ye both ha' been doin' till this time?’
‘Thee shouldstna sit i' the
dark, Mother,’ said Adam; ‘that makes the time seem longer.R=
17;
‘Eh, what am I to do wi' bur=
nin'
candle of a Sunday, when there's on'y me an' it's sin to do a bit o' knitti=
n'?
The daylight's long enough for me to stare i' the booke as I canna read. It=
'ud
be a fine way o' shortenin' the time, to make it waste the good candle. But
which on you's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I should
think, seein' what time o' night it is.’
‘I'm hungry, Mother,’ =
said
Seth, seating himself at the little table, which had been spread ever since=
it
was light.
‘I've had my supper,’ =
said
Adam. ‘Here, Gyp,’ he added, taking some cold potato from the t=
able
and rubbing the rough grey head that looked up towards him.
‘Thee needstna be gi'in' th'
dog,’ said Lisbeth; ‘I'n fed him well a'ready. I'm not like to
forget him, I reckon, when he's all o' thee I can get sight on.’
‘Come, then, Gyp,’ said
Adam, ‘we'll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I'm very tired.’
‘What ails him, dost know?=
8217;
Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone upstairs. ‘He's like as if he
was struck for death this day or two - he's so cast down. I found him i' the
shop this forenoon, arter thee wast gone, a-sittin' an' doin' nothin' - not=
so
much as a booke afore him.’
‘He's a deal o' work upon him
just now, Mother,’ said Seth, ‘and I think he's a bit troubled =
in
his mind. Don't you take notice of it, because it hurts him when you do. Be=
as
kind to him as you can, Mother, and don't say anything to vex him.’
‘Eh, what dost talk o' my ve=
xin'
him? An' what am I like to be but kind? I'll ma' him a kettle-cake for
breakfast i' the mornin'.’
Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah=
's
letter by the light of his dip candle.
‘My heart is knit to your ag=
ed
mother since it was granted me to be near her in the day of trouble. Speak =
to
her of me, and tell her I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, wh=
en I
am sitting in the dim light as I did with her, and we held one another's ha=
nds,
and I spoke the words of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a bless=
ed
time, isn't it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is a
little wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward light shines t=
he
brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divine strength. I s=
it
on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and it is as if I was out of
the body and could feel no want for evermore. For then, the very hardship, =
and
the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin I have beheld and been ready to =
weep
over - yea, all the anguish of the children of men, which sometimes wraps me
round like sudden darkness - I can bear with a willing pain, as if I was
sharing the Redeemer's cross. For I feel it, I feel it - infinite love is
suffering too - yea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns, it
mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking which wants to be freed from the
sorrow wherewith the whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is n=
ot
true blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in t=
he
world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw it of=
f.
It is not the spirit only that tells me this - I see it in the whole work a=
nd
word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of Sorr=
ows
there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one with =
the
Infinite Love itself - as our love is one with our sorrow?
‘These thoughts have been mu=
ch
borne in on me of late, and I have seen with new clearness the meaning of t=
hose
words, 'If any man love me, let him take up my cross.' I have heard this
enlarged on as if it meant the troubles and persecutions we bring on oursel=
ves
by confessing Jesus. But surely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of=
the
Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this world - that was what lay heavy on =
his
heart - and that is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we m=
ust
drink of with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is o=
ne
with his sorrow.
‘In my outward lot, which you
ask about, I have all things and abound. I have had constant work in the mi=
ll,
though some of the other hands have been turned off for a time, and my body=
is
greatly strengthened, so that I feel little weariness after long walking and
speaking. What you say about staying in your own country with your mother a=
nd
brother shows me that you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there=
by
a clear showing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like lay=
ing
a false offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindle =
it.
My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes think I cling =
too
much to my life among the people here, and should be rebellious if I was ca=
lled
away.
‘I was thankful for your tid=
ings
about the dear friends at the Hall Farm, for though I sent them a letter, b=
y my
aunt's desire, after I came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no =
word
from them. My aunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the h=
ouse
is sufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to her=
and
her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh - yea, and to all in =
that
house. I am carried away to them continually in my sleep, and often in the
midst of work, and even of speech, the thought of them is borne in on me as=
if
they were in need and trouble, which yet is dark to me. There may be some l=
eading
here; but I wait to be taught. You say they are all well.
‘We shall see each other aga=
in
in the body, I trust, though, it may be, not for a long while; for the bret=
hren
and sisters at Leeds are desirous to have me for a short space among them, =
when
I have a door opened me again to leave Snowfield.
‘Farewell, dear brother - and
yet not farewell. For those children of God whom it has been granted to see
each other face to face, and to hold communion together, and to feel the sa=
me
spirit working in both can never more be sundered though the hills may lie
between. For their souls are enlarged for evermore by that union, and they =
bear
one another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength. =
- Your
faithful Sister and fellow-worker in Christ,
‘DINAH MORRIS.’
‘I have not skill to write t=
he
words so small as you do and my pen moves slow. And so I am straitened, and=
say
but little of what is in my mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She
asked me to kiss her twice when we parted.’
Adam had refolded the letter, and =
was
sitting meditatively with his head resting on his arm at the head of the be=
d,
when Seth came upstairs.
‘Hast read the letter?’
said Seth.
‘Yes,’ said Adam. R=
16;I
don't know what I should ha' thought of her and her letter if I'd never seen
her: I daresay I should ha' thought a preaching woman hateful. But she's on=
e as
makes everything seem right she says and does, and I seemed to see her and =
hear
her speaking when I read the letter. It's wonderful how I remember her looks
and her voice. She'd make thee rare and happy, Seth; she's just the woman f=
or
thee.’
‘It's no use thinking o' tha=
t,’
said Seth, despondingly. ‘She spoke so firm, and she's not the woman =
to
say one thing and mean another.’
‘Nay, but her feelings may g=
row
different. A woman may get to love by degrees - the best fire dosna flare up
the soonest. I'd have thee go and see her by and by: I'd make it convenient=
for
thee to be away three or four days, and it 'ud be no walk for thee - only
between twenty and thirty mile.’
‘I should like to see her ag=
ain,
whether or no, if she wouldna be displeased with me for going,’ said
Seth.
‘She'll be none displeased,&=
#8217;
said Adam emphatically, getting up and throwing off his coat. ‘It mig=
ht
be a great happiness to us all if she'd have thee, for mother took to her so
wonderful and seemed so contented to be with her.’
‘Aye,’ said Seth, rath=
er
timidly, ‘and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too; she thinks a deal about her.=
’
Adam made no reply to that, and no
other word but ‘good-night’ passed between them.
IT was no longer light enough to g=
o to
bed without a candle, even in Mrs. Poyser's early household, and Hetty carr=
ied
one with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone,
and bolted the door behind her.
Now she would read her letter. It =
must
- it must have comfort in it. How was Adam to know the truth? It was always
likely he should say what he did say.
She set down the candle and took o=
ut
the letter. It had a faint scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur
were close to her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered sensati=
ons
for a moment or two swept away all fear. But her heart began to flutter
strangely, and her hands to tremble as she broke the seal. She read slowly;=
it
was not easy for her to read a gentleman's handwriting, though Arthur had t=
aken
pains to write plainly.
‘DEAREST HETTY - I have spok=
en
truly when I have said that I loved you, and I shall never forget our love.=
I
shall be your true friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to
you in many ways. If I say anything to pain you in this letter, do not beli=
eve
it is for want of love and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing I w=
ould
not do for you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear=
to
think of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them aw=
ay;
and if I followed only my own inclinations, I should be with her at this mo=
ment
instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part from her - harder still =
for
me to write words which may seem unkind, though they spring from the truest
kindness.
‘Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as =
our
love has been to me, sweet as it would be to me for you to love me always, I
feel that it would have been better for us both if we had never had that
happiness, and that it is my duty to ask you to love me and care for me as
little as you can. The fault has all been mine, for though I have been unab=
le
to resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all the while that your
affection for me might cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my feeling=
s. I
should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I am; but now, since
the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you from any evil that I have
power to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil for you if your
affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of no other man who
might be able to make you happier by his love than I ever can, and if you
continued to look towards something in the future which cannot possibly hap=
pen.
For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what you one day spoke of, and make you my
wife, I should do what you yourself would come to feel was for your misery
instead of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by marrying a=
man
in your own station; and if I were to marry you now, I should only be addin=
g to
any wrong I have done, besides offending against my duty in the other relat=
ions
of life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always
live, and you would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so lit=
tle
in which we should be alike.
‘And since I cannot marry yo= u, we must part - we must try not to feel like lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believe that I shall not always care for you - alway= s be grateful to you - always remember my Hetty; and if any trouble should come = that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power.<= o:p>
‘I have told you where you a=
re to
direct a letter to, if you want to write, but I put it down below lest you
should have forgotten. Do not write unless there is something I can really =
do
for you; for, dear Hetty, we must try to think of each other as little as we
can. Forgive me, and try to forget everything about me, except that I shall=
be,
as long as I live, your affectionate friend,
‘ARTHUR DONNITHORNE.’<= o:p>
Slowly Hetty had read this letter;=
and
when she looked up from it there was the reflection of a blanched face in t=
he
old dim glass - a white marble face with rounded childish forms, but with
something sadder than a child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the face - she
saw nothing - she only felt that she was cold and sick and trembling. The
letter shook and rustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible
sensation - this cold and trembling. It swept away the very ideas that prod=
uced
it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her clothes-press, wrapped =
it
round her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but getting warm.
Presently she took up the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read it
through again. The tears came this time - great rushing tears that blinded =
her
and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur was cruel - cruel =
to
write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could not marry her had no
existence for her mind; how could she believe in any misery that could come=
to
her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and dreaming of? She
had not the ideas that could make up the notion of that misery.
As she threw down the letter again,
she caught sight of her face in the glass; it was reddened now, and wet with
tears; it was almost like a companion that she might complain to - that wou=
ld
pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, and looked into those dark
overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth, and saw how the tears came
thicker and thicker, and how the mouth became convulsed with sobs.
The shattering of all her little
dream-world, the crushing blow on her new-born passion, afflicted her
pleasure-craving nature with an overpowering pain that annihilated all impu=
lse
to resistance, and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went
out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw herself on the=
bed
without undressing and went to sleep.
There was a feeble dawn in the room
when Hetty awoke, a little after four o'clock, with a sense of dull misery,=
the
cause of which broke upon her gradually as she began to discern the objects
round her in the dim light. And then came the frightening thought that she =
had
to conceal her misery as well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that w=
as
coming. She could lie no longer. She got up and went towards the table: the=
re
lay the letter. She opened her treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-rings and=
the
locket - the signs of all her short happiness - the signs of the lifelong
dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the little trinkets which she =
had
once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest of her future paradise of
finery, she lived back in the moments when they had been given to her with =
such
tender caresses, such strangely pretty words, such glowing looks, which fil=
led
her with a bewildering delicious surprise - they were so much sweeter than =
she
had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had spoken to her and loo=
ked
at her in this way, who was present with her now - whose arm she felt round
her, his cheek against hers, his very breath upon her - was the cruel, cruel
Arthur who had written that letter, that letter which she snatched and crus=
hed
and then opened again, that she might read it once more. The half-benumbed
mental condition which was the effect of the last night's violent crying ma=
de
it necessary to her to look again and see if her wretched thoughts were act=
ually
true - if the letter was really so cruel. She had to hold it close to the
window, else she could not have read it by the faint light. Yes! It was wor=
se -
it was more cruel. She crushed it up again in anger. She hated the writer of
that letter - hated him for the very reason that she hung upon him with all=
her
love - all the girlish passion and vanity that made up her love.
She had no tears this morning. She=
had
wept them all away last night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning miser=
y,
which is worse than the first shock because it has the future in it as well=
as
the present. Every morning to come, as far as her imagination could stretch,
she would have to get up and feel that the day would have no joy for her. F=
or
there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments =
of
our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffe=
red
and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope. As Hetty began
languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the night, that she might
wash herself and brush her hair, she had a sickening sense that her life wo=
uld
go on in this way. She should always be doing things she had no pleasure in,
getting up to the old tasks of work, seeing people she cared nothing about,=
going
to church, and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying no h=
appy
thought with her. For her short poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all=
the
little joys that had once made the sweetness of her life - the new frock re=
ady
for Treddleston Fair, the party at Mr Britton's at Broxton wake, the beaux =
that
she would say ‘No’ to for a long while, and the prospect of the
wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gown and a great
many clothes all at once. These things were all flat and dreary to her now;
everything would be a weariness, and she would carry about for ever a hopel=
ess
thirst and longing.
She paused in the midst of her lan=
guid
undressing and leaned against the dark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms
were bare, her hair hung down in delicate rings - and they were just as
beautiful as they were that night two months ago, when she walked up and do=
wn
this bed-chamber glowing with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her =
neck
and arms now; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered
sadly over the dull old chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards the
growing dawn. Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her mind? Of her
foreboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's affectionate entreat=
y to
think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the impression had been too slight=
to
recur. Any affection or comfort Dinah could have given her would have been =
as
indifferent to Hetty this morning as everything else was except her bruised
passion. She was only thinking she could never stay here and go on with the=
old
life - she could better bear something quite new than sinking back into the=
old
everyday round. She would like to run away that very morning, and never see=
any
of the old faces again. But Hetty's was not a nature to face difficulties -=
to
dare to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown
condition. Hers was a luxurious and vain nature - not a passionate one - an=
d if
she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be urged to it by the
desperation of terror. There was not much room for her thoughts to travel in
the narrow circle of her imagination, and she soon fixed on the one thing s=
he
would do to get away from her old life: she would ask her uncle to let her =
go
to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maid would help her to get a situation, if
she krew Hetty had her uncle's leave.
When she had thought of this, she
fastened up her hair and began to wash: it seemed more possible to her to go
downstairs and try to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle this very da=
y.
On Hetty's blooming health it would take a great deal of such mental suffer=
ing
as hers to leave any deep impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as us=
ual
in her working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, an
indifferent observer would have been more struck with the young roundness of
her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes than with any
signs of sadness about her. But when she took up the crushed letter and put=
it
in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting tears, ha=
ving
no relief in them as the great drops had that fell last night, forced their=
way
into her eyes. She wiped them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-tim=
e.
Nobody should find out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was
disappointed about anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and
uncle would be upon her gave her the self-command which often accompanies a
great dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards the
possibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick and weary
prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They would think her conduct
shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty's conscience.
So she locked up her drawer and we=
nt
away to her early work.
In the evening, when Mr Poyser was
smoking his pipe, and his good-nature was therefore at its superlative mome=
nt,
Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt's absence to say, ‘Uncle, I =
wish
you'd let me go for a lady's maid.’
Mr Poyser took the pipe from his m=
outh
and looked at Hetty in mild surprise for some moments. She was sewing, and =
went
on with her work industriously.
‘Why, what's put that into y=
our
head, my wench?’ he said at last, after he had given one conservative
puff.
‘I should like it - I should
like it better than farm-work.’
‘Nay, nay; you fancy so beca=
use
you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn't be half so good for your health, n=
or
for your luck i' life. I'd like you to stay wi' us till you've got a good h=
usband:
you're my own niece, and I wouldn't have you go to service, though it was a
gentleman's house, as long as I've got a home for you.’
Mr Poyser paused, and puffed away =
at
his pipe.
‘I like the needlework,̵=
7;
said Hetty, ‘and I should get good wages.’
‘Has your aunt been a bit sh=
arp
wi' you?’ said Mr Poyser, not noticing Hetty's further argument. R=
16;You
mustna mind that, my wench - she does it for your good. She wishes you well;
an' there isn't many aunts as are no kin to you 'ud ha' done by you as she =
has.’
‘No, it isn't my aunt,’
said Hetty, ‘but I should like the work better.’
‘It was all very well for yo=
u to
learn the work a bit - an' I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin' Mrs.
Pomfret was willing to teach you. For if anything was t' happen, it's well =
to
know how to turn your hand to different sorts o' things. But I niver meant =
you
to go to service, my wench; my family's ate their own bread and cheese as f=
ur
back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father? You wouldna like your grand-chil=
d to
take wage?’
‘Na-a-y,’ said old Mar= tin, with an elongation of the word, meant to make it bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and looked down on the floor. ‘But the wench takes arter her mother. I'd hard work t' hould HER in, an' she married i' s= pite o' me - a feller wi' on'y two head o' stock when there should ha' been ten = on's farm - she might well die o' th' inflammation afore she war thirty.’<= o:p>
It was seldom the old man made so =
long
a speech, but his son's question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the e=
mbers
of a long unextinguished resentment, which had always made the grandfather =
more
indifferent to Hetty than to his son's children. Her mother's fortune had b=
een
spent by that good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel's blood in her
veins.
‘Poor thing, poor thing!R=
17;
said Martin the younger, who was sorry to have provoked this retrospective
harshness. ‘She'd but bad luck. But Hetty's got as good a chance o'
getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i' this country.’
After throwing out this pregnant h=
int,
Mr Poyser recurred to his pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see if =
she
did not give some sign of having renounced her ill-advised wish. But instea=
d of
that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at t=
he
denial, half out of the day's repressed sadness.
‘Hegh, hegh!’ said Mr
Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, ‘don't let's have any crying.
Crying's for them as ha' got no home, not for them as want to get rid o' on=
e.
What dost think?’ he continued to his wife, who now came back into the
house-place, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that movement were a
necessary function, like the twittering of a crab's antennae.
‘Think? Why, I think we shall
have the fowl stole before we are much older, wi' that gell forgetting to l=
ock
the pens up o' nights. What's the matter now, Hetty? What are you crying at=
?’
‘Why, she's been wanting to =
go
for a lady's maid,’ said Mr Poyser. ‘I tell her we can do better
for her nor that.’
‘I thought she'd got some ma=
ggot
in her head, she's gone about wi' her mouth buttoned up so all day. It's all
wi' going so among them servants at the Chase, as we war fools for letting =
her.
She thinks it 'ud be a finer life than being wi' them as are akin to her and
ha' brought her up sin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks there's not=
hing
belongs to being a lady's maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born t=
o,
I'll be bound. It's what rag she can get to stick on her as she's thinking =
on
from morning till night, as I often ask her if she wouldn't like to be the
mawkin i' the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out. I'll ne=
ver
gi' my consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she's got good friends=
to
take care on her till she's married to somebody better nor one o' them vale=
ts,
as is neither a common man nor a gentleman, an' must live on the fat o' the
land, an's like enough to stick his hands under his coat-tails and expect h=
is
wife to work for him.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Mr
Poyser, ‘we must have a better husband for her nor that, and there's =
better
at hand. Come, my wench, give over crying and get to bed. I'll do better for
you nor letting you go for a lady's maid. Let's hear no more on't.’
When Hetty was gone upstairs he sa=
id, ‘I
canna make it out as she should want to go away, for I thought she'd got a =
mind
t' Adam Bede. She's looked like it o' late.’
‘Eh, there's no knowing what
she's got a liking to, for things take no more hold on her than if she was a
dried pea. I believe that gell, Molly - as is aggravatin' enough, for the
matter o' that - but I believe she'd care more about leaving us and the
children, for all she's been here but a year come Michaelmas, nor Hetty wou=
ld.
But she's got this notion o' being a lady's maid wi' going among them serva=
nts
- we might ha' known what it 'ud lead to when we let her go to learn the fi=
ne
work. But I'll put a stop to it pretty quick.’
‘Thee'dst be sorry to part w=
i'
her, if it wasn't for her good,’ said Mr Poyser. ‘She's useful =
to
thee i' the work.’
‘Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on h=
er
nor she deserves - a little hard-hearted hussy, wanting to leave us i' that
way. I can't ha' had her about me these seven year, I reckon, and done for =
her,
and taught her everything wi'out caring about her. An' here I'm having linen
spun, an' thinking all the while it'll make sheeting and table-clothing for=
her
when she's married, an' she'll live i' the parish wi' us, and never go out =
of
our sights - like a fool as I am for thinking aught about her, as is no bet=
ter
nor a cherry wi' a hard stone inside it.’
‘Nay, nay, thee mustna make =
much
of a trifle,’ said Mr Poyser, soothingly. ‘She's fond on us, I'=
ll
be bound; but she's young, an' gets things in her head as she can't rightly
give account on. Them young fillies 'ull run away often wi'-ou; knowing why=
.’
Her uncle's answers, however, had =
had
another effect on Hetty besides that of disappointing her and making her cr=
y.
She knew quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions to marriage, a=
nd
to a sober, solid husband; and when she was in her bedroom again, the
possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself to her in a new light. In=
a
mind where no strong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme sens=
e of
right to which the agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quiet
endurance, one of the first results of sorrow is a desperate vague clutching
after any deed that will change the actual condition. Poor Hetty's vision of
consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic calculation of her own
probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shut out by reckless irritation
under present suffering, and she was ready for one of those convulsive,
motiveless actions by which wretched men and women leap from a temporary so=
rrow
into a lifelong misery.
Why should she not marry Adam? She=
did
not care what she did, so that it made some change in her life. She felt
confident that he would still want to marry her, and any further thought ab=
out
Adam's happiness in the matter had never yet visited her.
‘Strange!’ perhaps you
will say, ‘this rush of impulse to-wards a course that might have see=
med
the most repugnant to her present state of mind, and in only the second nig=
ht
of her sadness!’
Yes, the actions of a little trivi=
al
soul like Hetty's, struggling amidst the serious sad destinies of a human
being, are strange. So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast
tossed about on a stormy sea. How pretty it looked with its parti-coloured =
sail
in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay!
‘Let that man bear the loss =
who
loosed it from its moorings.’
But that will not save the vessel =
- the
pretty thing that might have been a lasting joy.
THE next Saturday evening there was
much excited discussion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident which
had occurred that very day - no less than a second appearance of the smart =
man
in top-boots said by some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm,=
by
others to be the future steward, but by Mr Casson himself, the personal wit=
ness
to the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing better tha=
n a
bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had thought of denyin=
g Mr
Casson's testimony to the fact that he had seen the stranger; nevertheless,=
he
proffered various corroborating circumstances.
‘I see him myself,’ he
said; ‘I see him coming along by the Crab-tree Meadow on a bald-faced
hoss. I'd just been t' hev a pint - it was half after ten i' the fore-noon,
when I hev my pint as reg'lar as the clock - and I says to Knowles, as druv=
up
with his waggon, 'You'll get a bit o' barley to-day, Knowles,' I says, 'if =
you
look about you'; and then I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the
Treddles'on road, and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man =
i'
top-boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss - I wish I may never stir if I
didn't. And I stood still till he come up, and I says, 'Good morning, sir,'=
I
says, for I wanted to hear the turn of his tongue, as I might know whether =
he
was a this-country man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hup for =
the
barley this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, if we've good luck=
.'
And he says, 'Eh, ye may be raight, there's noo tallin',' he says, and I kn=
owed
by that’ - here Mr Casson gave a wink - ‘as he didn't come from=
a
hundred mile off. I daresay he'd think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire f=
olks
allays does hany one as talks the right language.’
‘The right language!’ =
said
Bartle Massey, contemptuously. ‘You're about as near the right langua=
ge
as a pig's squeaking is like a tune played on a key-bugle.’
‘Well, I don't know,’
answered Mr Casson, with an angry smile. ‘I should think a man as has
lived among the gentry from a by, is likely to know what's the right langua=
ge
pretty nigh as well as a schoolmaster.’
‘Aye, aye, man,’ said
Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, ‘you talk the right
language for you. When Mike Holdsworth's goat says ba-a-a, it's all right -=
it
'ud be unnatural for it to make any other noise.’
The rest of the party being Loamsn=
ire
men, Mr Casson had the laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell back on =
the
previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was
renewed in the churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh
interest conferred on all news when there is a fresh person to hear it; and
that fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, ‘never we=
nt
boozin' with that set at Casson's, a-sittin' soakin' in drink, and looking =
as
wise as a lot o' cod-fish wi' red faces.’
It was probably owing to the
conversation she had had with her husband on their way from church concerni=
ng
this problematic stranger that Mrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted =
to
him when, a day or two afterwards, as she was standing at the house-door wi=
th
her knitting, in that eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon
cleaning was done, she saw the old squire enter the yard on his black pony,
followed by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards as a case of
prevision, which really had something more in it than her own remarkable
penetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she said to herself=
, ‘I
shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is a-going to take the Chase
Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay. But Poyser's a fo=
ol
if he does.’
Something unwonted must clearly be=
in the
wind, for the old squire's visits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs.
Poyser had during the last twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, mea=
ning
even more than met the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him t=
he
next time he appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches had
always remained imaginary.
‘Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,̵=
7;
said the old squire, peering at her with his short-sighted eyes - a mode of
looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, ‘allays aggravated me:=
it
was as if you was a insect, and he was going to dab his finger-nail on you.=
’
However, she said, ‘Your
servant, sir,’ and curtsied with an air of perfect deference as she
advanced towards him: she was not the woman to misbehave towards her better=
s,
and fly in the face of the catechism, without severe provocation.
‘Is your husband at home, Mr=
s.
Poyser?’
‘Yes, sir; he's only i' the
rick-yard. I'll send for him in a minute, if you'll please to get down and =
step
in.’
‘Thank you; I will do so. I =
want
to consult him about a little matter; but you are quite as much concerned in
it, if not more. I must have your opinion too.’
‘Hetty, run and tell your un=
cle
to come in,’ said Mrs. Poyser, as they entered the house, and the old
gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty's curtsy; while Totty, conscious of a
pinafore stained with gooseberry jam, stood hiding her face against the clo=
ck
and peeping round furtively.
‘What a fine old kitchen this
is!’ said Mr Donnithorne, looking round admiringly. He always spoke in
the same deliberate, well-chiselled, polite way, whether his words were sug=
ary
or venomous. ‘And you keep it so exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I li=
ke
these premises, do you know, beyond any on the estate.’
‘Well, sir, since you're fon=
d of
'em, I should be glad if you'd let a bit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the
boarding's i' that state as we're like to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and
the cellar, you may stan' up to your knees i' water in't, if you like to go
down; but perhaps you'd rather believe my words. Won't you please to sit do=
wn,
sir?’
‘Not yet; I must see your da=
iry.
I have not seen it for years, and I hear on all hands about your fine cheese
and butter,’ said the squire, looking politely unconscious that there
could be any question on which he and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree.=
‘I
think I see the door open, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a
covetous eye on your cream and butter. I don't expect that Mrs. Satchell's
cream and butter will bear comparison with yours.’
‘I can't say, sir, I'm sure.
It's seldom I see other folks's butter, though there's some on it as one's =
no
need to see - the smell's enough.’
‘Ah, now this I like,’
said Mr Donnithorne, looking round at the damp temple of cleanliness, but
keeping near the door. ‘I'm sure I should like my breakfast better if=
I
knew the butter and cream came from this dairy. Thank you, that really is a
pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism makes me af=
raid
of damp: I'll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you =
do?
In the midst of business, I see, as usual. I've been looking at your wife's
beautiful dairy - the best manager in the parish, is she not?’
Mr Poyser had just entered in
shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with a face a shade redder than usual, fr=
om
the exertion of ‘pitching.’ As he stood, red, rotund, and radia=
nt,
before the small, wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like a prize apple by=
the
side of a withered crab.
‘Will you please to take this
chair, sir?’ he said, lifting his father's arm-chair forward a little=
: ‘you'll
find it easy.’
‘No, thank you, I never sit =
in
easy-chairs,’ said the old gentleman, seating himself on a small chair
near the door. ‘Do you know, Mrs. Poyser - sit down, pray, both of yo=
u - I've
been far from contented, for some time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy manageme=
nt.
I think she has not a good method, as you have.’
‘Indeed, sir, I can't speak =
to
that,’ said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice, rolling and unrolling her
knitting and looking icily out of the window, as she continued to stand
opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if he liked, she thought; she wa=
sn't
going to sit down, as if she'd give in to any such smooth-tongued palaver. =
Mr
Poyser, who looked and felt the reverse of icy, did sit down in his
three-cornered chair.
‘And now, Poyser, as Satchel=
l is
laid up, I am intending to let the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm
tired of having a farm on my own hands - nothing is made the best of in such
cases, as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you=
and
I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrangemen=
t in
consequence, which will be to our mutual advantage.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Poyser, =
with
a good-natured blankness of imagination as to the nature of the arrangement=
.
‘If I'm called upon to speak,
sir,’ said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at her husband with pity at his
softness, ‘you know better than me; but I don't see what the Chase Fa=
rm
is t' us - we've cumber enough wi' our own farm. Not but what I'm glad to h=
ear
o' anybody respectable coming into the parish; there's some as ha' been bro=
ught
in as hasn't been looked on i' that character.’
‘You're likely to find Mr Th=
urle
an excellent neighbour, I assure you - such a one as you will feel glad to =
have
accommodated by the little plan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope =
you
will find it as much to your own advantage as his.’
‘Indeed, sir, if it's anythi=
ng
t' our advantage, it'll be the first offer o' the sort I've heared on. It's
them as take advantage that get advantage i' this world, I think. Folks hav=
e to
wait long enough afore it's brought to 'em.’
‘The fact is, Poyser,’
said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's theory of worldly prosperity, ̵=
6;there
is too much dairy land, and too little plough land, on the Chase Farm to su=
it Thurle's
purpose - indeed, he will only take the farm on condition of some change in=
it:
his wife, it appears, is not a clever dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan
I'm thinking of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hol=
low
Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under =
your
wife's management; and I should request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house
with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the other hand, Poyse=
r,
you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which really, with our
wet seasons, would be a good riddance for you. There is much less risk in d=
airy
land than corn land.’
Mr Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head on one side, and his mouth screwed up - a= pparently absorbed in making the tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with per= fect accuracy the ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through= the whole business, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife's view of t= he subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a poin= t of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to him. So, after a few moment= s' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, ‘What dost say?’<= o:p>
Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed=
on
her husband with cold severity during his silence, but now she turned away =
her
head with a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and
spearing her knitting together with the loose pin, held it firmly between h=
er
clasped hands.
‘Say? Why, I say you may do =
as
you like about giving up any o' your corn-land afore your lease is up, whic=
h it
won't be for a year come next Michaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more
dairy work into my hands, either for love or money; and there's nayther love
nor money here, as I can see, on'y other folks's love o' theirselves, and t=
he
money as is to go into other folks's pockets. I know there's them as is bor=
n t'
own the land, and them as is born to sweat on't’ - here Mrs. Poyser
paused to gasp a little - ‘and I know it's christened folks's duty to
submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not
make a martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and worret mysel=
f as
if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, for no landlord in England, not =
if
he was King George himself.’
‘No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser,
certainly not,’ said the squire, still confident in his own powers of
persuasion, ‘you must not overwork yourself; but don't you think your
work will rather be lessened than increased in this way? There is so much m=
ilk
required at the Abbey that you will have little increase of cheese and butt=
er
making from the addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is t=
he
most profitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?’
‘Aye, that's true,’ sa=
id Mr
Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a question of farming profits, and
forgetting that it was not in this case a purely abstract question.
‘I daresay,’ said Mrs.
Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way towards her husband and looking =
at
the vacant arm-chair - ‘I daresay it's true for men as sit i' th'
chimney-corner and make believe as everything's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit
int' everything else. If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batte=
r,
it 'ud be easy getting dinner. How do I know whether the milk 'ull be wanted
constant? What's to make me sure as the house won't be put o' board wage af=
ore
we're many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights wi' twe=
nty
gallons o' milk on my mind - and Dingall 'ull take no more butter, let alone
paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg the butcher on
our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' the measles. And there's the
fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly half a day's work for a man an' hoss=
- that's
to be took out o' the profits, I reckon? But there's folks 'ud hold a sieve
under the pump and expect to carry away the water.’
‘That difficulty - about the
fetching and carrying - you will not have, Mrs. Poyser,’ said the squ=
ire,
who thought that this entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclina=
tion
to compromise on Mrs. Poyser's part. ‘Bethell will do that regularly =
with
the cart and pony.’
‘Oh, sir, begging your pardo=
n,
I've never been used t' having gentlefolks's servants coming about my back
places, a-making love to both the gells at once and keeping 'em with their
hands on their hips listening to all manner o' gossip when they should be d=
own
on their knees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi' having =
our
back kitchen turned into a public.’
‘Well, Poyser,’ said t=
he
squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had
suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings and left the room, ‘you can t=
urn
the Hollows into feeding-land. I can easily make another arrangement about
supplying my house. And I shall not forget your readiness to accommodate yo=
ur
landlord as well as a neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease
renewed for three years, when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay
Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to take both the farms,=
as
they could be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an old
tenant like you.’
To be thrust out of the discussion=
in
this way would have been enough to complete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even
without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of
their leaving the old place where he had been bred and born - for he believ=
ed the
old squire had small spite enough for anything - was beginning a mild
remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to b=
uy
and sell more stock, with, ‘Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard...=
’
when Mrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her say =
out
this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the only shelter were=
the
work-house.
‘Then, sir, if I may speak -=
as,
for all I'm a woman, and there's folks as thinks a woman's fool enough to s=
tan'
by an' look on while the men sign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for=
I
make one quarter o' the rent, and save another quarter - I say, if Mr Thurl=
e's
so ready to take farms under you, it's a pity but what he should take this,=
and
see if he likes to live in a house wi' all the plagues o' Egypt in't - wi' =
the
cellar full o' water, and frogs and toads hoppin' up the steps by dozens - =
and
the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bit o' cheese, and
runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect 'em to eat us up ali=
ve -
as it's a mercy they hanna eat the children long ago. I should like to see =
if
there's another tenant besides Poyser as 'ud put up wi' never having a bit =
o'
repairs done till a place tumbles down - and not then, on'y wi' begging and
praying and having to pay half - and being strung up wi' the rent as it's m=
uch
if he gets enough out o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own money in=
to
the ground beforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such a life her=
e as
that: a maggot must be born i' the rotten cheese to like it, I reckon. You =
may
run away from my words, sir,’ continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old
squire beyond the door - for after the first moments of stunned surprise he=
had
got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had walked out towar=
ds
his pony. But it was impossible for him to get away immediately, for John w=
as
walking the pony up and down the yard, and was some distance from the cause=
way
when his master beckoned.
‘You may run away from my wo=
rds,
sir, and you may go spinnin' underhand ways o' doing us a mischief, for you=
've
got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for onc=
e as
we're not dumb creatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha' got =
the
lash i' their hands, for want o' knowing how t' undo the tackle. An' if I'm=
th'
only one as speaks my mind, there's plenty o' the same way o' thinking i' t=
his
parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better than a brimstone match=
in
everybody's nose - if it isna two-three old folks as you think o' saving yo=
ur
soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a drop o' porridge. An' you may be
right i' thinking it'll take but little to save your soul, for it'll be the
smallest savin' y' iver made, wi' all your scrapin'.’
There are occasions on which two
servant-girls and a waggoner may be a formidable audience, and as the squire
rode away on his black pony, even the gift of short-sightedness did not pre=
vent
him from being aware that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from
him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was grinning behind him - which
was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick=
's
sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony's heels
carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's solo in an impressive quartet.
Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner
seen the pony move off than she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsel=
s a
look which drove them into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, b=
egan
to knit again with her usual rapidity as she re-entered the house.
‘Thee'st done it now,’
said Mr Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, but not without some triumphant
amusement at his wife's outbreak.
‘Yes, I know I've done it,=
8217;
said Mrs. Poyser; ‘but I've had my say out, and I shall be th' easier
for't all my life. There's no pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up =
for
ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I sha=
n't
repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as th' old squire; and
there's little likelihood - for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here a=
re
th' only folks as aren't wanted i' th' other world.’
‘But thee wutna like moving =
from
th' old place, this Michaelmas twelvemonth,’ said Mr Poyser, ‘a=
nd
going into a strange parish, where thee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon =
us
both, and upo' Father too.’
‘Eh, it's no use worreting;
there's plenty o' things may happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth.
The captain may be master afore them, for what we know,’ said Mrs. Po=
yser,
inclined to take an unusually hopeful view of an embarrassment which had be=
en
brought about by her own merit and not by other people's fault.
‘I'M none for worreting,R=
17;
said Mr Poyser, rising from his three-cornered chair and walking slowly tow=
ards
the door; ‘but I should be loath to leave th' old place, and the pari=
sh
where I was bred and born, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots
behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again.’
THE barley was all carried at last,
and the harvest suppers went by without waiting for the dismal black crop of
beans. The apples and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent of whey depa=
rted
from the farm-houses, and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The woods
behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendour un=
der
the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant basketfu=
ls
of purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and its lads and lasses
leaving or seeking service and winding along between the yellow hedges, with
their bundles under their arms. But though Michaelmas was come, Mr Thurle, =
that
desirable tenant, did not come to the Chase Farm, and the old squire, after
all, had been obliged to put in a new bailiff. It was known throughout the =
two
parishes that the squire's plan had been frustrated because the Poysers had
refused to be ‘put upon,’ and Mrs. Poyser's outbreak was discus=
sed
in all the farm-houses with a zest which was only heightened by frequent
repetition. The news that ‘Bony’ was come back from Egypt was
comparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy was nothing to
Mrs. Poyser's repulse of the old squire. Mr Irwine had heard a version of i=
t in
every parishioner's house, with the one exception of the Chase. But since he
had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel with Mr Donnithorne,=
he
could not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old gentleman's
discomfiture with any one besides his mother, who declared that if she were
rich she should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension for life, and wanted to
invite her to the parsonage that she might hear an account of the scene from
Mrs. Poyser's own lips.
‘No, no, Mother,’ said=
Mr
Irwine; ‘it was a little bit of irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser's pa=
rt,
but a magistrate like me must not countenance irregular justice. There must=
be
no report spread that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose=
the
little good influence I have over the old man.’
‘Well, I like that woman even
better than her cream-cheeses,’ said Mrs. Irwine. ‘She has the
spirit of three men, with that pale face of hers. And she says such sharp
things too.’
‘Sharp! Yes, her tongue is l=
ike
a new-set razor. She's quite original in her talk too; one of those untaught
wits that help to stock a country with proverbs. I told you that capital th=
ing
I heard her say about Craig - that he was like a cock, who thought the sun =
had
risen to hear him crow. Now that's an AEsop's fable in a sentence.’
‘But it will be a bad busine=
ss
if the old gentleman turns them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?’
said Mrs. Irwine.
‘Oh, that must not be; and
Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and
digest his spleen rather than turn them out. But if he should give them not=
ice
at Lady Day, Arthur and I must move heaven and earth to mollify him. Such o=
ld
parishioners as they are must not go.’
‘Ah, there's no knowing what=
may
happen before Lady day,’ said Mrs. Irwine. ‘It struck me on
Arthur's birthday that the old man was a little shaken: he's eighty-three, =
you
know. It's really an unconscionable age. It's only women who have a right to
live as long as that.’
‘When they've got old-bachel=
or
sons who would be forlorn without them,’ said Mr Irwine, laughing, and
kissing his mother's hand.
Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband's
occasional forebodings of a notice to quit with ‘There's no knowing w=
hat
may happen before Lady day’ - one of those undeniable general
propositions which are usually intended to convey a particular meaning very=
far
from undeniable. But it is really too hard upon human nature that it should=
be
held a criminal offence to imagine the death even of the king when he is tu=
rned
eighty-three. It is not to be believed that any but the dullest Britons can=
be
good subjects under that hard condition.
Apart from this foreboding, things
went on much as usual in the Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she noti=
ced
a surprising improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the girl got ‘closer
tempered, and sometimes she seemed as if there'd be no drawing a word from =
her
with cart-ropes,’ but she thought much less about her dress, and went
after the work quite eagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how=
she
never wanted to go out now - indeed, could hardly be persuaded to go; and s=
he bore
her aunt's putting a stop to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chase
without the least grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that she had=
set
her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting to be a lady's m=
aid
must have been caused by some little pique or misunderstanding between them,
which had passed by. For whenever Adam came to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed =
to
be in better spirits and to talk more than at other times, though she was
almost sullen when Mr Craig or any other admirer happened to pay a visit th=
ere.
Adam himself watched her at first =
with
trembling anxiety, which gave way to surprise and delicious hope. Five days
after delivering Arthur's letter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm ag=
ain
- not without dread lest the sight of him might be painful to her. She was =
not
in the house-place when he entered, and he sat talking to Mr and Mrs. Poyser
for a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they might presently =
tell
him Hetty was ill. But by and by there came a light step that he knew, and =
when
Mrs. Poyser said, ‘Come, Hetty, where have you been?’ Adam was
obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the changed look there m=
ust
be in her face. He almost started when he saw her smiling as if she were
pleased to see him - looking the same as ever at a first glance, only that =
she
had her cap on, which he had never seen her in before when he came of an
evening. Still, when he looked at her again and again as she moved about or=
sat
at her work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she
smiled as much as she had ever done of late, but there was something differ=
ent
in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her movements, Adam thou=
ght
- something harder, older, less child-like. ‘Poor thing!’ he sa=
id
to himself, ‘that's allays likely. It's because she's had her first
heartache. But she's got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that.&=
#8217;
As the weeks went by, and he saw h=
er
always looking pleased to see him - turning up her lovely face towards him =
as
if she meant him to understand that she was glad for him to come - and going
about her work in the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began =
to
believe that her feeling towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he
had imagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had been able=
to
think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and would marry=
her
as a folly of which she was timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had
sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be - her heart was re=
ally
turning with all the more warmth towards the man she knew to have a serious
love for her.
Possibly you think that Adam was n=
ot
at all sagacious in his interpretations, and that it was altogether extreme=
ly
unbecoming in a sensible man to behave as he did - falling in love with a g=
irl
who really had nothing more than her beauty to recommend her, attributing
imaginary virtues to her, and even condescending to cleave to her after she=
had
fallen in love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patient
trembling dog waits for his master's eye to be turned upon him. But in so
complex a thing as human nature, we must consider, it is hard to find rules
without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensible men fall in
love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance, see through all the
pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imagine themselves loved when th=
ey
are not loved, cease loving on all proper occasions, and marry the woman mo=
st
fitted for them in every respect - indeed, so as to compel the approbation =
of
all the maiden ladies in their neighbourhood. But even to this rule an
exception will occur now and then in the lapse of centuries, and my friend =
Adam
was one. For my own part, however, I respect him none the less - nay, I thi=
nk
the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed Hetty=
, of
whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the very strengt=
h of
his nature and not out of any inconsistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pr=
ay,
to be wrought on by exquisite music? To feel its wondrous harmonies searchi=
ng
the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no me=
mory
can penetrate, and binding together your whole being past and present in one
unspeakable vibration, melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, a=
ll
the love that has been scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating =
in
one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of
self-renouncing sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow and yo=
ur
present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is it a weaknes=
s to
be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman's cheek and neck and
arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish po=
ut
of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman is like music: what can one s=
ay
more? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one woman's soul th=
at
it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought th=
at
prompted them. It is more than a woman's love that moves us in a woman's ey=
es -
it seems to be a far-off mighty love that has come near to us, and made spe=
ech
for itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something m=
ore
than their prettiness - by their close kinship with all we have known of
tenderness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this impersonal
expression in beauty (it is needless to say that there are gentlemen with
whiskers dyed and undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason,=
the
noblest nature is often the most blinded to the character of the one woman's
soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I fear, the tragedy of human life is
likely to continue for a long time to come, in spite of mental philosophers=
who
are ready with the best receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.
Our good Adam had no fine words in=
to
which he could put his feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise mystery in =
this
way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love frankly a mystery,=
as
you have heard him. He only knew that the sight and memory of her moved him
deeply, touching the spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and coura=
ge
within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in her? =
He
created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish,
tender.
The hopes he felt about Hetty soft=
ened
a little his feeling towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must ha=
ve
been of a slight kind; they were altogether wrong, and such as no man in
Arthur's position ought to have allowed himself, but they must have had an =
air
of playfulness about them, which had probably blinded him to their danger a=
nd
had prevented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty's heart. As the new=
promise
of happiness rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousy began to die out.
Hetty was not made unhappy; he almost believed that she liked him best; and=
the
thought sometimes crossed his mind that the friendship which had once seemed
dead for ever might revive in the days to come, and he would not have to sa=
y ‘good-bye’
to the grand old woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur=
's.
For this new promise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain=
had
an intoxicating effect on the sober Adam, who had all his life been used to
much hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy lot af=
ter
all? It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, Jonathan Burge, findin=
g it
impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up his mind to offer him a sha=
re
in the business, without further condition than that he should continue to =
give
his energies to it and renounce all thought of having a separate business of
his own. Son-in-law or no son-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary t=
o be
parted with, and his headwork was so much more important to Burge than his
skill in handicraft that his having the management of the woods made little
difference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains about the
squire's timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adam saw here =
an
opening into a broadening path of prosperous work such as he had thought of
with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might come to build a
bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always said to himself that
Jonathan Burge's building business was like an acorn, which might be the mo=
ther
of a great tree. So he gave his hand to Burge on that bargain, and went home
with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined reader will perha=
ps
be shocked when I say it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans=
for
seasoning timber at a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening of
bricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for the
strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron girder. What
then? Adam's enthusiasm lay in these things; and our love is inwrought in o=
ur
enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a
subtle presence.
Adam would be able to take a separ=
ate
house now, and provide for his mother in the old one; his prospects would
justify his marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their
mother would perhaps be more contented to live apart from Adam. But he told
himself that he would not be hasty - he would not try Hetty's feeling for h=
im
until it had had time to grow strong and firm. However, tomorrow, after chu=
rch,
he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. Mr Poyser, he knew, wo=
uld
like it better than a five-pound note, and he should see if Hetty's eyes
brightened at it. The months would be short with all he had to fill his min=
d,
and this foolish eagerness which had come over him of late must not hurry h=
im
into any premature words. Yet when he got home and told his mother the good
news, and ate his supper, while she sat by almost crying for joy and wanting
him to eat twice as much as usual because of this good-luck, he could not h=
elp
preparing her gently for the coming change by talking of the old house being
too small for them all to go on living in it always.
IT was a dry Sunday, and really a
pleasant day for the 2d of November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds =
were
high, and the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which fluttered down=
from
the hedgerow elms must have fallen from pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poys=
er
did not go to church, for she had taken a cold too serious to be neglected;
only two winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold; and since =
his
wife did not go to church, Mr Poyser considered that on the whole it would =
be
as well for him to stay away too and ‘keep her company.’ He cou=
ld
perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that determined this
conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds that our firmest
convictions are often dependent on subtle impressions for which words are q=
uite
too coarse a medium. However it was, no one from the Poyser family went to
church that afternoon except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was bold enough to
join them after church, and say that he would walk home with them, though a=
ll
the way through the village he appeared to be chiefly occupied with Marty a=
nd
Tommy, telling them about the squirrels in Binton Coppice, and promising to
take them there some day. But when they came to the fields he said to the b=
oys,
‘Now, then, which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' home-gate
first shall be the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the donkey. But
Tommy must have the start up to the next stile, because he's the smallest.&=
#8217;
Adam had never behaved so much lik=
e a
determined lover before. As soon as the boys had both set off, he looked do=
wn
at Hetty and said, ‘Won't you hang on my arm, Hetty?’ in a plea=
ding
tone, as if he had already asked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at
him smilingly and put her round arm through his in a moment. It was nothing=
to
her, putting her arm through Adam's, but she knew he cared a great deal abo=
ut
having her arm through his, and she wished him to care. Her heart beat no
faster, and she looked at the half-bare hedgerows and the ploughed field wi=
th
the same sense of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcely felt that=
he
was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was pressing her arm a litt=
le -
a very little. Words rushed to his lips that he dared not utter - that he h=
ad
made up his mind not to utter yet - and so he was silent for the length of =
that
field. The calm patience with which he had once waited for Hetty's love,
content only with her presence and the thought of the future, had forsaken =
him
since that terrible shock nearly three months ago. The agitations of jealou=
sy
had given a new restlessness to his passion - had made fear and uncertainty=
too
hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to Hetty of his love, he
would tell her about his new prospects and see if she would be pleased. So =
when
he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, ‘I'm going to tell =
your
uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and I think he'll be glad to h=
ear
it too.’
‘What's that?’ Hetty s=
aid
indifferently.
‘Why, Mr Burge has offered m=
e a
share in his business, and I'm going to take it.’
There was a change in Hetty's face,
certainly not produced by any agreeable impression from this news. In fact =
she
felt a momentary annoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted =
by
her uncle that Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business any d=
ay,
if he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and the thought
immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because of what had
happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. With that thought, and
before she had time to remember any reasons why it could not be true, came a
new sense of forsakenness and disappointment. The one thing - the one perso=
n - her
mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away from her, and
peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She was looking on the ground, b=
ut
Adam saw her face, saw the tears, and before he had finished saying, ‘=
;Hetty,
dear Hetty, what are you crying for?’ his eager rapid thought had flo=
wn
through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half=
the
true one. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge - she didn't like =
him
to marry - perhaps she didn't like him to marry any one but herself? All
caution was swept away - all reason for it was gone, and Adam could feel
nothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her and took her hand, as he s=
aid:
‘I could afford to be married
now, Hetty - I could make a wife comfortable; but I shall never want to be
married if you won't have me.’
Hetty looked up at him and smiled
through her tears, as she had done to Arthur that first evening in the wood,
when she had thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was a feebler
relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great dark eyes and the swe=
et
lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more beautiful, for there was a more
luxuriant womanliness about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in the
happiness of that moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressed her =
arm
close against his heart as he leaned down towards her.
‘Do you really love me, Hett=
y?
Will you be my own wife, to love and take care of as long as I live?’=
Hetty did not speak, but Adam's fa=
ce
was very close to hers, and she put up her round cheek against his, like a
kitten. She wanted to be caressed - she wanted to feel as if Arthur were wi=
th
her again.
Adam cared for no words after that,
and they hardly spoke through the rest of the walk. He only said, ‘I =
may
tell your uncle and aunt, mayn't I, Hetty?’ and she said, ‘Yes.=
’
The red fire-light on the hearth at
the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces that evening, when Hetty was gone upsta=
irs
and Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfa=
ther
that he saw his way to maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had consented=
to
have him.
‘I hope you have no objectio=
ns
against me for her husband,’ said Adam; ‘I'm a poor man as yet,=
but
she shall want nothing as I can work for.’
‘Objections?’ said Mr
Poyser, while the grandfather leaned forward and brought out his long ̵=
6;Nay,
nay.’ ‘What objections can we ha' to you, lad? Never mind your
being poorish as yet; there's money in your head-piece as there's money i' =
the
sown field, but it must ha' time. You'n got enough to begin on, and we can =
do a
deal tow'rt the bit o' furniture you'll want. Thee'st got feathers and line=
n to
spare - plenty, eh?’
This question was of course addres=
sed
to Mrs. Poyser, who was wrapped up in a warm shawl and was too hoarse to sp=
eak
with her usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, but she was
presently unable to resist the temptation to be more explicit.
‘It ud be a poor tale if I h=
adna
feathers and linen,’ she said, hoarsely, ‘when I never sell a f=
owl
but what's plucked, and the wheel's a-going every day o' the week.’
‘Come, my wench,’ said=
Mr
Poyser, when Hetty came down, ‘come and kiss us, and let us wish you
luck.’
Hetty went very quietly and kissed=
the
big good-natured man.
‘There!’ he said, patt=
ing
her on the back, ‘go and kiss your aunt and your grandfather. I'm as
wishful t' have you settled well as if you was my own daughter; and so's yo=
ur
aunt, I'll be bound, for she's done by you this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if yo=
u'd
been her own. Come, come, now,’ he went on, becoming jocose, as soon =
as
Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, ‘Adam wants a kiss too, I'=
ll
warrant, and he's a right to one now.’
Hetty turned away, smiling, towards
her empty chair.
‘Come, Adam, then, take one,=
’
persisted Mr Poyser, ‘else y' arena half a man.’
Adam got up, blushing like a small
maiden - great strong fellow as he was - and, putting his arm round Hetty
stooped down and gently kissed her lips.
It was a pretty scene in the red
fire-light; for there were no candles - why should there be, when the fire =
was
so bright and was reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one
wanted to work on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like contentm=
ent
in the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to her, Adam's caress, sti=
rred
no passion in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity, but they we=
re
the best her life offered her now - they promised her some change.
There was a great deal of discussi=
on
before Adam went away, about the possibility of his finding a house that wo=
uld
do for him to settle in. No house was empty except the one next to Will
Maskery's in the village, and that was too small for Adam now. Mr Poyser
insisted that the best plan would be for Seth and his mother to move and le=
ave
Adam in the old home, which might be enlarged after a while, for there was
plenty of space in the woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning his
mother out.
‘Well, well,’ said Mr
Poyser at last, ‘we needna fix everything to-night. We must take time=
to
consider. You canna think o' getting married afore Easter. I'm not for long
courtships, but there must be a bit o' time to make things comfortable.R=
17;
‘Aye, to be sure,’ said
Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; ‘Christian folks can't be married l=
ike
cuckoos, I reckon.’
‘I'm a bit daunted, though,&=
#8217;
said Mr Poyser, ‘when I think as we may have notice to quit, and beli=
ke
be forced to take a farm twenty mile off.’
‘Eh,’ said the old man,
staring at the floor and lifting his hands up and down, while his arms rest=
ed
on the elbows of his chair, ‘it's a poor tale if I mun leave th' ould
spot an be buried in a strange parish. An' you'll happen ha' double rates to
pay,’ he added, looking up at his son.
‘Well, thee mustna fret
beforehand, father,’ said Martin the younger. ‘Happen the capta=
in
'ull come home and make our peace wi' th' old squire. I build upo' that, fo=
r I
know the captain 'll see folks righted if he can.’
IT was a busy time for Adam - the =
time
between the beginning of November and the beginning of February, and he cou=
ld
see little of Hetty, except on Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for=
it
was taking him nearer and nearer to March, when they were to be married, and
all the little preparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress
towards the longed-for day. Two new rooms had been ‘run up’ to =
the
old house, for his mother and Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth
had cried so piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he had gone to H=
etty
and asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with his mother's w=
ays
and consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hetty said, ‘Yes;=
I'd
as soon she lived with us as not.’ Hetty's mind was oppressed at that
moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth's ways; she could not care=
about
them. So Adam was consoled for the disappointment he had felt when Seth had
come back from his visit to Snowfield and said ‘it was no use - Dinah=
's
heart wasna turned towards marrying.’ For when he told his mother that
Hetty was willing they should all live together and there was no more need =
of
them to think of parting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had he=
ard
her speak in since it had been settled that he was to be married, ‘Eh=
, my
lad, I'll be as still as th' ould tabby, an' ne'er want to do aught but th'
offal work, as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part the platters a=
n'
things, as ha' stood on the shelf together sin' afore thee wast born.’=
;
There was only one cloud that now =
and
then came across Adam's sunshine: Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all
his anxious, tender questions, she replied with an assurance that she was q=
uite
contented and wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was
more lively than usual. It might be that she was a little overdone with work
and anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken another col=
d,
which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confined her to her
room all through January. Hetty had to manage everything downstairs, and
half-supply Molly's place too, while that good damsel waited on her mistres=
s,
and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into her new functions, working
with a grave steadiness which was new in her, that Mr Poyser often told Adam
she was wanting to show him what a good housekeeper he would have; but he &=
#8216;doubted
the lass was o'erdoing it - she must have a bit o' rest when her aunt could
come downstairs.’
This desirable event of Mrs. Poyse=
r's
coming downstairs happened in the early part of February, when some mild
weather thawed the last patch of snow on the Binton Hills. On one of these
days, soon after her aunt came down, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some =
of
the wedding things which were wanting, and which Mrs. Poyser had scolded her
for neglecting, observing that she supposed ‘it was because they were=
not
for th' outside, else she'd ha' bought 'em fast enough.’
It was about ten o'clock when Hetty
set off, and the slight hoar-frost that had whitened the hedges in the early
morning had disappeared as the sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright Februa=
ry
days have a stronger charm of hope about them than any other days in the ye=
ar.
One likes to pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at =
the
patient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that the
beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the same: the=
ir
notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on the trees and
hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And the dark purplish b=
rown
of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. What a glad
world this looks like, as one drives or rides along the valleys and over the
hills! I have often thought so when, in foreign countries, where the fields=
and
woods have looked to me like our English Loamshire - the rich land tilled w=
ith
just as much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green
meadows - I have come on something by the roadside which has reminded me th=
at I
am not in Loamshire: an image of a great agony - the agony of the Cross. It=
has
stood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshine by=
the
cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook was gurgling bel=
ow;
and surely, if there came a traveller to this world who knew nothing of the
story of man's life upon it, this image of agony would seem to him strangely
out of place in the midst of this joyous nature. He would not know that hid=
den
behind the apple-blossoms, or among the golden corn, or under the shrouding
boughs of the wood, there might be a human heart beating heavily with angui=
sh -
perhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from
swift-advancing shame, understanding no more of this life of ours than a
foolish lost lamb wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on the lon=
ely
heath, yet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness.
Such things are sometimes hidden a=
mong
the sunny fields and behind the blossoming orchards; and the sound of the
gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small bush, would be
mingled for your ear with a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion =
has
much sorrow in it: no wonder he needs a suffering God.
Hetty, in her red cloak and warm
bonnet, with her basket in her hand, is turning towards a gate by the side =
of
the Treddleston road, but not that she may have a more lingering enjoyment =
of
the sunshine and think with hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly kno=
ws
that the sun is shining; and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it =
has
been for something at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wan=
ts
to be out of the high-road, that she may walk slowly and not care how her f=
ace
looks, as she dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gate she can get
into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great dark eyes wand=
er
blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is desolate, homeless,
unloved, not the promised bride of a brave tender man. But there are no tea=
rs
in them: her tears were all wept away in the weary night, before she went t=
o sleep.
At the next stile the pathway branches off: there are two roads before her =
- one
along by the hedgerow, which will by and by lead her into the road again, t=
he
other across the fields, which will take her much farther out of the way in=
to
the Scantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see nobody. She chooses
this and begins to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thought of =
an
object towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in the
Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, and she leaves
the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is a clump of trees =
on
the low ground, and she is making her way towards it. No, it is not a clump=
of
trees, but a dark shrouded pool, so full with the wintry rains that the und=
er
boughs of the elder-bushes lie low beneath the water. She sits down on the
grassy bank, against the stooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the
dark pool. She has thought of this pool often in the nights of the month th=
at
has just gone by, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps her han=
ds
round her knees, and leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying=
to
guess what sort of bed it would make for her young round limbs.
No, she has not courage to jump in=
to
that cold watery bed, and if she had, they might find her - they might find=
out
why she had drowned herself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go
away, go where they can't find her.
After the first on-coming of her g=
reat
dread, some weeks after her betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in
the blind vague hope that something would happen to set her free from her
terror; but she could wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been
concentrated on the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with
irresistible dread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of =
her
miserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurred to
her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her that would shelter her
from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbours who once more m=
ade
all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Her imagination no longer s=
aw
happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing that would satisfy or soothe=
her
pride. No, something else would happen - something must happen - to set her
free from this dread. In young, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly
this blind trust in some unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to
believe that a great wretchedness will actually befall them as to believe t=
hat
they will die.
But now necessity was pressing hard
upon her - now the time of her marriage was close at hand - she could no lo=
nger
rest in this blind trust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no
familiar eyes could detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into t=
he
world, of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur a
thought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now, so un=
able
to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwing herself on=
him
had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool
and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that he would receive her
tenderly - that he would care for her and think for her - was like a sense =
of
lulling warmth, that made her for the moment indifferent to everything else;
and she began now to think of nothing but the scheme by which she should get
away.
She had had a letter from Dinah
lately, full of kind words about the coming marriage, which she had heard of
from Seth; and when Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle, he had s=
aid,
‘I wish Dinah 'ud come again now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt
when you're gone. What do you think, my wench, o' going to see her as soon =
as
you can be spared and persuading her to come back wi' you? You might happen
persuade her wi' telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o' n=
ot
being able to come.’ Hetty had not liked the thought of going to
Snowfield, and felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, ‘It's =
so
far off, Uncle.’ But now she thought this proposed visit would serve =
as a
pretext for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again that
she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. And
then, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would ask for the
coach that would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was at Windsor, and=
she
would go to him.
As soon as Hetty had determined on
this scheme, she rose from the grassy bank of the pool, took up her basket,=
and
went on her way to Treddleston, for she must buy the wedding things she had
come out for, though she would never want them. She must be careful not to
raise any suspicion that she was going to run away.
Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably su=
rprised
that Hetty wished to go and see Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over
the wedding. The sooner she went the better, since the weather was pleasant
now; and Adam, when he came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off
to-morrow, he would make time to go with her to Treddleston and see her safe
into the Stoniton coach.
‘I wish I could go with you =
and
take care of you, Hetty,’ he said, the next morning, leaning in at the
coach door; ‘but you won't stay much beyond a week - the time 'ull se=
em
long.’
He was looking at her fondly, and =
his
strong hand held hers in its grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his
presence - she was used to it now: if she could have had the past undone and
known no other love than her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she g=
ave
him the last look.
‘God bless her for loving me=
,’
said Adam, as he went on his way to work again, with Gyp at his heels.
But Hetty's tears were not for Ada=
m - not
for the anguish that would come upon him when he found she was gone from him
for ever. They were for the misery of her own lot, which took her away from
this brave tender man who offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a
poor helpless suppliant, on the man who would think it a misfortune that she
was obliged to cling to him.
At three o'clock that day, when He=
tty
was on the coach that was to take her, they said, to Leicester - part of the
long, long way to Windsor - she felt dimly that she might be travelling all
this weary journey towards the beginning of new misery.
Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would
surely not be angry with her. If he did not mind about her as he used to do=
, he
had promised to be good to her.
A LONG, lonely journey, with sadne=
ss
in the heart; away from the familiar to the strange: that is a hard and dre=
ary
thing even to the rich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when=
we
are called by duty, not urged by dread.
What was it then to Hetty? With her
poor narrow thoughts, no longer melting into vague hopes, but pressed upon =
by
the chill of definite fear, repeating again and again the same small round =
of
memories - shaping again and again the same childish, doubtful images of wh=
at
was to come - seeing nothing in this wide world but the little history of h=
er
own pleasures and pains; with so little money in her pocket, and the way so
long and difficult. Unless she could afford always to go in the coaches - a=
nd
she felt sure she could not, for the journey to Stoniton was more expensive
than she had expected - it was plain that she must trust to carriers' carts=
or
slow waggons; and what a time it would be before she could get to the end of
her journey! The burly old coachman from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty yo=
ung
woman among the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit beside =
him;
and feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open the dialogue
with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off the stones to the
elaboration of one suitable in all respects. After many cuts with his whip =
and
glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye, he lifted his lips above the
edge of his wrapper and said, ‘He's pretty nigh six foot, I'll be bou=
nd,
isna he, now?’
‘Who?’ said Hetty, rat=
her
startled.
‘Why, the sweetheart as you'=
ve
left behind, or else him as you're goin' arter - which is it?’
Hetty felt her face flushing and t=
hen
turning pale. She thought this coachman must know something about her. He m=
ust
know Adam, and might tell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to
country people to believe that those who make a figure in their own parish =
are
not known everywhere else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to underst=
and
that chance words could happen to apply closely to her circumstances. She w=
as
too frightened to speak.
‘Hegh, hegh!’ said the
coachman, seeing that his joke was not so gratifying as he had expected, =
8216;you
munna take it too ser'ous; if he's behaved ill, get another. Such a pretty =
lass
as you can get a sweetheart any day.’
Hetty's fear was allayed by and by,
when she found that the coachman made no further allusion to her personal
concerns; but it still had the effect of preventing her from asking him what
were the places on the road to Windsor. She told him she was only going a
little way out of Stoniton, and when she got down at the inn where the coach
stopped, she hastened away with her basket to another part of the town. When
she had formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen any
difficulties except that of getting away, and after she had overcome this by
proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meeting with Arthur =
and
the question how he would behave to her - not resting on any probable incid=
ents
of the journey. She was too entirely ignorant of traveling to imagine any of
its details, and with all her store of money - her three guineas - in her
pocket, she thought herself amply provided. It was not until she found how =
much
it cost her to get to Stoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journ=
ey,
and then, for the first time, she felt her ignorance as to the places that =
must
be passed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along the g=
rim
Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little inn, where she ho=
ped
to get a cheap lodging for the night. Here she asked the landlord if he cou=
ld
tell her what places she must go to, to get to Windsor.
‘Well, I can't rightly say.
Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it's where the king lives,’ w=
as
the answer. ‘Anyhow, you'd best go t' Ashby next - that's south'ard. =
But
there's as many places from here to London as there's houses in Stoniton, by
what I can make out. I've never been no traveller myself. But how comes a l=
one
young woman like you to be thinking o' taking such a journey as that?’=
;
‘I'm going to my brother - h=
e's a
soldier at Windsor,’ said Hetty, frightened at the landlord's questio=
ning
look. ‘I can't afford to go by the coach; do you think there's a cart
goes toward Ashby in the morning?’
‘Yes, there may be carts if
anybody knowed where they started from; but you might run over the town bef=
ore
you found out. You'd best set off and walk, and trust to summat overtaking =
you.’
Every word sank like lead on Hetty=
's
spirits; she saw the journey stretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get=
to
Ashby seemed a hard thing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and th=
at
was nothing to the rest of the journey. But it must be done - she must get =
to
Arthur. Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who would care for he=
r!
She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeing
familiar faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whose farthest
journey had been to Rosseter on the pillion with her uncle; whose thoughts =
had
always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all the business =
of
her life was managed for her - this kittenlike Hetty, who till a few months=
ago
had never felt any other grief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon=
, or
being girded at by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome
way in loneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but a
tremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the first time, as she=
lay
down to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her home had been a ha=
ppy
one, that her uncle had been very good to her, that her quiet lot at Hayslo=
pe
among the things and people she knew, with her little pride in her one best
gown and bonnet, and nothing to hide from any one, was what she would like =
to
wake up to as a reality, and find that all the feverish life she had known
besides was a short nightmare. She thought of all she had left behind with
yearning regret for her own sake. Her own misery filled her heart - there w=
as
no room in it for other people's sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter,
Arthur had been so tender and loving. The memory of that had still a charm =
for
her, though it was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain
bearable. For Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future
than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had no
delights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew no romance=
s,
and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are the source of romance=
, so
that well-read ladies may find it difficult to understand her state of mind.
She was too ignorant of everything beyond the simple notions and habits in
which she had been brought up to have any more definite idea of her probable
future than that Arthur would take care of her somehow, and shelter her from
anger and scorn. He would not marry her and make her a lady; and apart from
that she could think of nothing he could give towards which she looked with
longing and ambition.
The next morning she rose early, a=
nd
taking only some milk and bread for her breakfast, set out to walk on the r=
oad
towards Ashby, under a leaden-coloured sky, with a narrowing streak of yell=
ow,
like a departing hope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in her faintness of
heart at the length and difficulty of her journey, she was most of all afra=
id
of spending her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have to ask
people's charity; for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud nature but of=
a
proud class - the class that pays the most poor-rates, and most shudders at=
the
idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had not yet occurred to her that she m=
ight
get money for her locket and earrings which she carried with her, and she
applied all her small arithmetic and knowledge of prices to calculating how
many meals and how many rides were contained in her two guineas, and the odd
shillings, which had a melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of t=
he
other bright-flaming coin.
For the first few miles out of
Stoniton, she walked on bravely, always fixing on some tree or gate or
projecting bush at the most distant visible point in the road as a goal, and
feeling a faint joy when she had reached it. But when she came to the fourth
milestone, the first she had happened to notice among the long grass by the
roadside, and read that she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her
courage sank. She had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and al=
most
hungry again in the keen morning air; for though Hetty was accustomed to mu=
ch
movement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks which produce=
d quite
a different sort of fatigue from that of household activity. As she was loo=
king
at the milestone she felt some drops falling on her face - it was beginning=
to
rain. Here was a new trouble which had not entered into her sad thoughts
before, and quite weighed down by this sudden addition to her burden, she s=
at
down on the step of a stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of
hardship is like the first taste of bitter food - it seems for a moment
unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take
another bite and find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her b=
urst
of weeping, she rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and she must =
try
to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter. Presently, as=
she
walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels behind her; a cov=
ered
waggon was coming, creeping slowly along with a slouching driver cracking h=
is
whip beside the horses. She waited for it, thinking that if the waggoner we=
re
not a very sour-looking man, she would ask him to take her up. As the waggon
approached her, the driver had fallen behind, but there was something in the
front of the big vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her
life she would not have noticed it, but now, the new susceptibility that
suffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress her strongly. It
was only a small white-and-liver-coloured spaniel which sat on the front le=
dge
of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and an incessant trembling in the bod=
y,
such as you may have seen in some of these small creatures. Hetty cared lit=
tle
for animals, as you know, but at this moment she felt as if the helpless ti=
mid
creature had some fellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the
reason, she was less doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came
forward - a large ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scar=
f or
mantle.
‘Could you take me up in your
waggon, if you're going towards Ashby?’ said Hetty. ‘I'll pay y=
ou
for it.’
‘Aw,’ said the big fel=
low,
with that slowly dawning smile which belongs to heavy faces, ‘I can t=
ake
y' up fawst enough wi'out bein' paid for't if you dooant mind lyin' a bit
closish a-top o' the wool-packs. Where do you coom from? And what do you wa=
nt
at Ashby?’
‘I come from Stoniton. I'm g=
oing
a long way - to Windsor.’
‘What! Arter some service, or
what?’
‘Going to my brother - he's a
soldier there.’
‘Well, I'm going no furder n=
or
Leicester - and fur enough too - but I'll take you, if you dooant mind bein=
g a
bit long on the road. Th' hosses wooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they f=
eel
the little doog there, as I puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He war los=
t, I
b'lieve, an's been all of a tremble iver sin'. Come, gi' us your basket an'
come behind and let me put y' in.’
To lie on the wool-packs, with a
cranny left between the curtains of the awning to let in the air, was luxur=
y to
Hetty now, and she half-slept away the hours till the driver came to ask he=
r if
she wanted to get down and have ‘some victual’; he himself was
going to eat his dinner at this ‘public.’ Late at night they
reached Leicester, and so this second day of Hetty's journey was past. She =
had
spent no money except what she had paid for her food, but she felt that this
slow journeying would be intolerable for her another day, and in the morning
she found her way to a coach-office to ask about the road to Windsor, and s=
ee
if it would cost her too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Ye=
s!
The distance was too great - the coaches were too dear - she must give them=
up;
but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty anxious face, wr=
ote
down for her the names of the chief places she must pass through. This was =
the
only comfort she got in Leicester, for the men stared at her as she went al=
ong
the street, and for the first time in her life Hetty wished no one would lo=
ok
at her. She set out walking again; but this day she was fortunate, for she =
was
soon overtaken by a carrier's cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the
help of a return chaise, with a drunken postilion - who frightened her by
driving like Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her,
twisting himself backwards on his saddle - she was before night in the hear=
t of
woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles from Windsor, they told
her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard work for her to find her w=
ay
in it! She went by mistake to Stratford-on-Avon, finding Stratford set down=
in
her list of places, and then she was told she had come a long way out of the
right road. It was not till the fifth day that she got to Stony Stratford. =
That
seems but a slight journey as you look at the map, or remember your own
pleasant travels to and from the meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily
long it was to Hetty! It seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, a=
nd
hedgerows, and dotted houses, and villages, and market-towns - all so much
alike to her indifferent eyes - must have no end, and she must go on wander=
ing
among them for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for some cart to come, and
then finding the cart went only a little way - a very little way - to the
miller's a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public houses, wh=
ere
she must go to get food and ask questions, because there were always men
lounging there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Her body was very w=
eary
too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; they had made her look more
pale and worn than all the time of hidden dread she had gone through at hom=
e.
When at last she reached Stony Stratford, her impatience and weariness had
become too strong for her economical caution; she determined to take the co=
ach
for the rest of the way, though it should cost her all her remaining money.=
She
would need nothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare
for the last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at the sig=
n of
the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o'clock in the middle of the seventh day,
hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged her to ‘remember h=
im.’
She put her hand in her pocket and took out the shilling, but the tears came
with the sense of exhaustion and the thought that she was giving away her l=
ast
means of getting food, which she really required before she could go in sea=
rch
of Arthur. As she held out the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled
eyes to the coachman's face and said, ‘Can you give me back sixpence?=
’
‘No, no,’ he said,
gruffly, ‘never mind - put the shilling up again.’
The landlord of the Green Man had =
stood
near enough to witness this scene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding
served to keep his good nature, as well as his person, in high condition. A=
nd
that lovely tearful face of Hetty's would have found out the sensitive fibr=
e in
most men.
‘Come, young woman, come in,=
’
he said, ‘and have adrop o' something; you're pretty well knocked up,=
I
can see that.’
He took her into the bar and said =
to
his wife, ‘Here, missis, take this young woman into the parlour; she'=
s a
little overcome’ - for Hetty's tears were falling fast. They were mer=
ely
hysterical tears: she thought she had no reason for weeping now, and was ve=
xed
that she was too weak and tired to help it. She was at Windsor at last, not=
far
from Arthur.
She looked with eager, hungry eyes=
at
the bread and meat and beer that the landlady brought her, and for some min=
utes
she forgot everything else in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger=
and
recovering from exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and
looked at her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and her
curls had fallen down. Her face was all the more touching in its youth and
beauty because of its weary look, and the good woman's eyes presently wande=
red
to her figure, which in her hurried dressing on her journey she had taken no
pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eye detects what the familiar
unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed.
‘Why, you're not very fit for
travelling,’ she said, glancing while she spoke at Hetty's ringless h=
and.
‘Have you come far?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty, rou=
sed
by this question to exert more self-command, and feeling the better for the
food she had taken. ‘I've come a good long way, and it's very tiring.=
But
I'm better now. Could you tell me which way to go to this place?’ Here
Hetty took from her pocket a bit of paper: it was the end of Arthur's lette=
r on
which he had written his address.
While she was speaking, the landlo=
rd
had come in and had begun to look at her as earnestly as his wife had done.=
He
took up the piece of paper which Hetty handed across the table, and read the
address.
‘Why, what do you want at th=
is
house?’ he said. It is in the nature of innkeepers and all men who ha=
ve
no pressing business of their own to ask as many questions as possible befo=
re
giving any information.
‘I want to see a gentleman a=
s is
there,’ said Hetty.
‘But there's no gentleman th=
ere,’
returned the landlord. ‘It's shut up - been shut up this fortnight. W=
hat
gentleman is it you want? Perhaps I can let you know where to find him.R=
17;
‘It's Captain Donnithorne,=
8217;
said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginning to beat painfully at this
disappointment of her hope that she should find Arthur at once.
‘Captain Donnithorne? Stop a
bit,’ said the landlord, slowly. ‘Was he in the Loamshire Milit=
ia?
A tall young officer with a fairish skin and reddish whiskers - and had a
servant by the name o' Pym?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Hetty; =
‘you
know him - where is he?’
‘A fine sight o' miles away =
from
here. The Loamshire Militia's gone to Ireland; it's been gone this fortnigh=
t.’
‘Look there! She's fainting,=
’
said the landlady, hastening to support Hetty, who had lost her miserable
consciousness and looked like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the s=
ofa
and loosened her dress.
‘Here's a bad business, I
suspect,’ said the landlord, as he brought in some water.
‘Ah, it's plain enough what =
sort
of business it is,’ said the wife. ‘She's not a common flaunting
dratchell, I can see that. She looks like a respectable country girl, and s=
he
comes from a good way off, to judge by her tongue. She talks something like
that ostler we had that come from the north. He was as honest a fellow as we
ever had about the house - they're all honest folks in the north.’
‘I never saw a prettier young
woman in my life,’ said the husband. ‘She's like a pictur in a
shop-winder. It goes to one's 'eart to look at her.’
‘It 'ud have been a good deal
better for her if she'd been uglier and had more conduct,’ said the
landlady, who on any charitable construction must have been supposed to have
more ‘conduct’ than beauty. ‘But she's coming to again. F=
etch
a drop more water.’
HETTY was too ill through the rest=
of
that day for any questions to be addressed to her - too ill even to think w=
ith
any distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt that all her
hope was crushed, and that instead of having found a refuge she had only
reached the borders of a new wilderness where no goal lay before her. The
sensations of bodily sickness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance =
of
the good-natured landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite as
there is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw himself on the
sand instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun.
But when sleep and rest had brought
back the strength necessary for the keenness of mental suffering - when she=
lay
the next morning looking at the growing light which was like a cruel
task-master returning to urge from her a fresh round of hated hopeless labo=
ur -
she began to think what course she must take, to remember that all her money
was gone, to look at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with=
the
new clearness shed on it by the experience of her journey to Windsor. But w=
hich
way could she turn? It was impossible for her to enter into any service, ev=
en
if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediate beggary before her.=
She
thought of a young woman who had been found against the church wall at Hays=
lope
one Sunday, nearly dead with cold and hunger - a tiny infant in her arms. T=
he
woman was rescued and taken to the parish. ‘The parish!’ You can
perhaps hardly understand the effect of that word on a mind like Hetty's,
brought up among people who were somewhat hard in their feelings even towar=
ds
poverty, who lived among the fields, and had little pity for want and rags =
as a
cruel inevitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities, but held them a
mark of idleness and vice - and it was idleness and vice that brought burde=
ns
on the parish. To Hetty the ‘parish’ was next to the prison in
obloquy, and to ask anything of strangers - to beg - lay in the same far-off
hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life thought it
impossible she could ever come near. But now the remembrance of that wretch=
ed
woman whom she had seen herself, on her way from church, being carried into
Joshua Rann's, came back upon her with the new terrible sense that there was
very little now to divide HER from the same lot. And the dread of bodily
hardship mingled with the dread of shame; for Hetty had the luxurious natur=
e of
a round soft-coated pet animal.
How she yearned to be back in her =
safe
home again, cherished and cared for as she had always been! Her aunt's scol=
ding
about trifles would have been music to her ears now; she longed for it; she
used to hear it in a time when she had only trifles to hide. Could she be t=
he
same Hetty that used to make up the butter in the dairy with the Guelder ro=
ses
peeping in at the window - she, a runaway whom her friends would not open t=
heir
doors to again, lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge that she had =
no
money to pay for what she received, and must offer those strangers some of =
the
clothes in her basket? It was then she thought of her locket and ear-rings,=
and
seeing her pocket lie near, she reached it and spread the contents on the b=
ed
before her. There were the locket and ear-rings in the little velvet-lined
boxes, and with them there was a beautiful silver thimble which Adam had bo=
ught
her, the words ‘Remember me’ making the ornament of the border;=
a
steel purse, with her one shilling in it; and a small red-leather case,
fastening with a strap. Those beautiful little ear-rings, with their delica=
te
pearls and garnet, that she had tried in her ears with such longing in the
bright sunshine on the 30th of July! She had no longing to put them in her =
ears
now: her head with its dark rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow,=
and
the sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was something too hard for
regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it was because there
were some thin gold rings in them, which were also worth a little money. Ye=
s,
she could surely get some money for her ornaments: those Arthur had given h=
er
must have cost a great deal of money. The landlord and landlady had been go=
od
to her; perhaps they would help her to get the money for these things.
But this money would not keep her
long. What should she do when it was gone? Where should she go? The horrible
thought of want and beggary drove her once to think she would go back to her
uncle and aunt and ask them to forgive her and have pity on her. But she sh=
rank
from that idea again, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal. She co=
uld
never endure that shame before her uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge, and t=
he
servants at the Chase, and the people at Broxton, and everybody who knew he=
r.
They should never know what had happened to her. What could she do? She wou=
ld
go away from Windsor - travel again as she had done the last week, and get
among the flat green fields with the high hedges round them, where nobody c=
ould
see her or know her; and there, perhaps, when there was nothing else she co=
uld
do, she should get courage to drown herself in some pond like that in the
Scantlands. Yes, she would get away from Windsor as soon as possible: she
didn't like these people at the inn to know about her, to know that she had
come to look for Captain Donnithorne. She must think of some reason to tell
them why she had asked for him.
With this thought she began to put=
the
things back into her pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the landlady
came to her. She had her hand on the red-leather case, when it occurred to =
her
that there might be something in this case which she had forgotten - someth=
ing
worth selling; for without knowing what she should do with her life, she cr=
aved
the means of living as long as possible; and when we desire eagerly to find
something, we are apt to search for it in hopeless places. No, there was
nothing but common needles and pins, and dried tulip-petals between the pap=
er
leaves where she had written down her little money-accounts. But on one of
these leaves there was a name, which, often as she had seen it before, now
flashed on Hetty's mind like a newly discovered message. The name was - Din=
ah
Morris, Snowfield. There was a text above it, written, as well as the name,=
by
Dinah's own hand with a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting
together and Hetty happened to have the red case lying open before her. Het=
ty
did not read the text now: she was only arrested by the name. Now, for the
first time, she remembered without indifference the affectionate kindness D=
inah
had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber - that Hetty must
think of her as a friend in trouble. Suppose she were to go to Dinah, and a=
sk
her to help her? Dinah did not think about things as other people did. She =
was
a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was always kind. She couldn't imagine
Dinah's face turning away from her in dark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice =
willingly
speaking ill of her, or rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did =
not
seem to belong to that world of Hetty's, whose glance she dreaded like
scorching fire. But even to her Hetty shrank from beseeching and confession.
She could not prevail on herself to say, ‘I will go to Dinah’: =
she
only thought of that as a possible alternative, if she had not courage for
death.
The good landlady was amazed when =
she
saw Hetty come downstairs soon after herself, neatly dressed, and looking
resolutely self-possessed. Hetty told her she was quite well this morning. =
She
had only been very tired and overcome with her journey, for she had come a =
long
way to ask about her brother, who had run away, and they thought he was gone
for a soldier, and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he had been very kin=
d to
her brother once. It was a lame story, and the landlady looked doubtfully at
Hetty as she told it; but there was a resolute air of self-reliance about h=
er
this morning, so different from the helpless prostration of yesterday, that=
the
landlady hardly knew how to make a remark that might seem like prying into
other people's affairs. She only invited her to sit down to breakfast with
them, and in the course of it Hetty brought out her ear-rings and locket, a=
nd
asked the landlord if he could help her to get money for them. Her journey,=
she
said, had cost her much more than she expected, and now she had no money to=
get
back to her friends, which she wanted to do at once.
It was not the first time the land=
lady
had seen the ornaments, for she had examined the contents of Hetty's pocket
yesterday, and she and her husband had discussed the fact of a country girl
having these beautiful things, with a stronger conviction than ever that He=
tty
had been miserably deluded by the fine young officer.
‘Well,’ said the landl=
ord,
when Hetty had spread the precious trifles before him, ‘we might take=
'em
to the jeweller's shop, for there's one not far off; but Lord bless you, th=
ey
wouldn't give you a quarter o' what the things are worth. And you wouldn't =
like
to part with 'em?’ he added, looking at her inquiringly.
‘Oh, I don't mind,’ sa=
id
Hetty, hastily, ‘so as I can get money to go back.’
‘And they might think the th=
ings
were stolen, as you wanted to sell 'em,’ he went on, ‘for it is=
n't
usual for a young woman like you to have fine jew'llery like that.’
The blood rushed to Hetty's face w=
ith
anger. ‘I belong to respectable folks,’ she said; ‘I'm no=
t a
thief.’
‘No, that you aren't, I'll be
bound,’ said the landlady; ‘and you'd no call to say that,̵=
7;
looking indignantly at her husband. ‘The things were gev to her: that=
's
plain enough to be seen.’
‘I didn't mean as I thought =
so,’
said the husband, apologetically, ‘but I said it was what the jeweller
might think, and so he wouldn't be offering much money for 'em.’
‘Well,’ said the wife,=
‘suppose
you were to advance some money on the things yourself, and then if she like=
d to
redeem 'em when she got home, she could. But if we heard nothing from her a=
fter
two months, we might do as we liked with 'em.’
I will not say that in this
accommodating proposition the landlady had no regard whatever to the possib=
le
reward of her good nature in the ultimate possession of the locket and
ear-rings: indeed, the effect they would have in that case on the mind of t=
he grocer's
wife had presented itself with remarkable vividness to her rapid imaginatio=
n.
The landlord took up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative
manner. He wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many of your
well-wishers would decline to make a little gain out of you? Your landlady =
is
sincerely affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and will really
rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the same time she hands =
you
a bill by which she gains as high a percentage as possible.
‘How much money do you want =
to
get home with, young woman?’ said the well-wisher, at length.
‘Three guineas,’ answe=
red
Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, for want of any other standard, =
and
afraid of asking too much.
‘Well, I've no objections to
advance you three guineas,’ said the landlord; ‘and if you like=
to
send it me back and get the jewellery again, you can, you know. The Green M=
an
isn't going to run away.’
‘Oh yes, I'll be very glad if
you'll give me that,’ said Hetty, relieved at the thought that she wo=
uld
not have to go to the jeweller's and be stared at and questioned.
‘But if you want the things
again, you'll write before long,’ said the landlady, ‘because w=
hen
two months are up, we shall make up our minds as you don't want 'em.’=
‘Yes,’ said Hetty
indifferently.
The husband and wife were equally
content with this arrangement. The husband thought, if the ornaments were n=
ot
redeemed, he could make a good thing of it by taking them to London and sel=
ling
them. The wife thought she would coax the good man into letting her keep th=
em.
And they were accommodating Hetty, poor thing - a pretty, respectable-looki=
ng
young woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anything for h=
er
food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at eleven o'clock Hetty said ̵=
6;Good-bye’
to them with the same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the morning,
mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles back along the way she=
had
come.
There is a strength of self-posses=
sion
which is the sign that the last hope has departed. Despair no more leans on
others than perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be countera=
cted
by the sense of dependence.
Hetty felt that no one could deliv=
er
her from the evils that would make life hateful to her; and no one, she sai=
d to
herself, should ever know her misery and humiliation. No; she would not con=
fess
even to Dinah. She would wander out of sight, and drown herself where her b=
ody
would never be found, and no one should know what had become of her.
When she got off this coach, she b=
egan
to walk again, and take cheap rides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on=
and
on without distinct purpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the=
way
she had come, though she was determined not to go back to her own country.
Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshire
fields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a hiding-place even=
in
this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, often getting over
the stiles and sitting for hours under the hedgerows, looking before her wi=
th
blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself at the edge of a hidden pool, low d=
own,
like that in the Scantlands; wondering if it were very painful to be drowne=
d,
and if there would be anything worse after death than what she dreaded in l=
ife.
Religious doctrines had taken no hold on Hetty's mind. She was one of those
numerous people who have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their
catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and yet, for any
practical result of strength in life, or trust in death, have never
appropriated a single Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would
misunderstand her thoughts during these wretched days, if you imagined that
they were influenced either by religious fears or religious hopes.
She chose to go to Stratford-on-Av=
on
again, where she had gone before by mistake, for she remembered some grassy
fields on her former way towards it - fields among which she thought she mi=
ght
find just the sort of pool she had in her mind. Yet she took care of her mo=
ney
still; she carried her basket; death seemed still a long way off, and life =
was
so strong in her. She craved food and rest - she hastened towards them at t=
he
very moment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she would leap
towards death. It was already five days since she had left Windsor, for she=
had
wandered about, always avoiding speech or questioning looks, and recovering=
her
air of proud self-dependence whenever she was under observation, choosing h=
er
decent lodging at night, and dressing herself neatly in the morning, and
setting off on her way steadily, or remaining under shelter if it rained, a=
s if
she had a happy life to cherish.
And yet, even in her most
self-conscious moments, the face was sadly different from that which had sm=
iled
at itself in the old specked glass, or smiled at others when they glanced a=
t it
admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had come in the eyes, though their
lashes were as long as ever, and they had all their dark brightness. And the
cheek was never dimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting,
childish prettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from it =
- the
sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, with the passionate,
passionless lips.
At last she was among the fields s=
he
had been dreaming of, on a long narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If t=
here
should be a pool in that wood! It would be better hidden than one in the
fields. No, it was not a wood, only a wild brake, where there had once been
gravel-pits, leaving mounds and hollows studded with brushwood and small tr=
ees.
She roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow
before she came to it, till her limbs were weary, and she sat down to rest.=
The
afternoon was far advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun
were setting behind it. After a little while Hetty started up again, feeling
that darkness would soon come on; and she must put off finding the pool till
to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter for the night. She had quite lo=
st
her way in the fields, and might as well go in one direction as another, for
aught she knew. She walked through field after field, and no village, no ho=
use
was in sight; but there, at the corner of this pasture, there was a break in
the hedges; the land seemed to dip down a little, and two trees leaned towa=
rds
each other across the opening. Hetty's heart gave a great heat as she thoug=
ht
there must be a pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the tufted
grass, with pale lips and a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were
come in spite of herself, instead of being the object of her search.
There it was, black under the
darkening sky: no motion, no sound near. She set down her basket, and then =
sank
down herself on the grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry depth now: by=
the
time it got shallow, as she remembered the pools did at Hayslope, in the
summer, no one could find out that it was her body. But then there was her
basket - she must hide that too. She must throw it into the water - make it
heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look about for
stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid down beside her basket,
and then sat down again. There was no need to hurry - there was all the nig=
ht
to drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She was weary,
hungry. There were some buns in her basket - three, which she had supplied
herself with at the place where she ate her dinner. She took them out now a=
nd ate
them eagerly, and then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed
sensation that came over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this
fixed dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank d=
own
on her knees. She was fast asleep.
When she awoke it was deep night, =
and
she felt chill. She was frightened at this darkness - frightened at the long
night before her. If she could but throw herself into the water! No, not ye=
t.
She began to walk about that she might get warm again, as if she would have
more resolution then. Oh how long the time was in that darkness! The bright
hearth and the warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising and lying
down, the familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and holidays wi=
th their
simple joys of dress and feasting - all the sweets of her young life rushed
before her now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms towards them acros=
s a
great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of Arthur. She cursed him,
without knowing what her cursing would do. She wished he too might know
desolation, and cold, and a life of shame that he dared not end by death.
The horror of this cold, and darkn=
ess,
and solitude - out of all human reach - became greater every long minute. It
was almost as if she were dead already, and knew that she was dead, and lon=
ged
to get back to life again. But no: she was alive still; she had not taken t=
he
dreadful leap. She felt a strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation:
wretchedness, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that she was
still in life - that she might yet know light and warmth again. She walked
backwards and forwards to warm herself, beginning to discern something of t=
he
objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed to the night - the darker
line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living creature - perhaps a
field-mouse - rushing across the grass. She no longer felt as if the darkne=
ss
hedged her in. She thought she could walk back across the field, and get ov=
er
the stile; and then, in the very next field, she thought she remembered the=
re
was a hovel of furze near a sheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she
would be warmer. She could pass the night there, for that was what Alick di=
d at
Hayslope in lambing-time. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a=
new
hope. She took up her basket and walked across the field, but it was some t=
ime
before she got in the right direction for the stile. The exercise and the
occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to her, however, and lighte=
ned
the horror of the darkness and solitude. There were sheep in the next field,
and she startled a group as she set down her basket and got over the stile;=
and
the sound of their movement comforted her, for it assured her that her
impression was right - this was the field where she had seen the hovel, for=
it
was the field where the sheep were. Right on along the path, and she would =
get
to it. She reached the opposite gate, and felt her way along its rails and =
the
rails of the sheep-fold, till her hand encountered the pricking of the gorsy
wall. Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped her way,
touching the prickly gorse, to the door, and pushed it open. It was an
ill-smelling close place, but warm, and there was straw on the ground. Hetty
sank down on the straw with a sense of escape. Tears came - she had never s=
hed
tears before since she left Windsor - tears and sobs of hysterical joy that=
she
had still hold of life, that she was still on the familiar earth, with the
sheep near her. The very consciousness of her own limbs was a delight to he=
r:
she turned up her sleeves, and kissed her arms with the passionate love of
life. Soon warmth and weariness lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she
fell continually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the pool aga=
in -
fancying that she had jumped into the water, and then awaking with a start,=
and
wondering where she was. But at last deep dreamless sleep came; her head,
guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow against the gorsy wall, and the poor
soul, driven to and fro between two equal terrors, found the one relief that
was possible to it - the relief of unconsciousness.
Alas! That relief seems to end the
moment it has begun. It seemed to Hetty as if those dozen dreams had only p=
assed
into another dream - that she was in the hovel, and her aunt was standing o=
ver
her with a candle in her hand. She trembled under her aunt's glance, and op=
ened
her eyes. There was no candle, but there was light in the hovel - the light=
of
early morning through the open door. And there was a face looking down on h=
er;
but it was an unknown face, belonging to an elderly man in a smock-frock.
‘Why, what do you do here, y=
oung
woman?’ the man said roughly.
Hetty trembled still worse under t=
his
real fear and shame than she had done in her momentary dream under her aunt=
's
glance. She felt that she was like a beggar already - found sleeping in that
place. But in spite of her trembling, she was so eager to account to the man
for her presence here, that she found words at once.
‘I lost my way,’ she s=
aid.
‘I'm travelling - north'ard, and I got away from the road into the
fields, and was overtaken by the dark. Will you tell me the way to the near=
est
village?’
She got up as she was speaking, and
put her hands to her bonnet to adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket.=
The man looked at her with a slow
bovine gaze, without giving her any answer, for some seconds. Then he turned
away and walked towards the door of the hovel, but it was not till he got t=
here
that he stood still, and, turning his shoulder half-round towards her, said=
, ‘Aw,
I can show you the way to Norton, if you like. But what do you do gettin' o=
ut
o' the highroad?’ he added, with a tone of gruff reproof. ‘Y'ul=
l be
gettin' into mischief, if you dooant mind.’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty, =
216;I
won't do it again. I'll keep in the road, if you'll be so good as show me h=
ow
to get to it.’
‘Why dooant you keep where
there's a finger-poasses an' folks to ax the way on?’ the man said, s=
till
more gruffly. ‘Anybody 'ud think you was a wild woman, an' look at ye=
r.’
Hetty was frightened at this gruff=
old
man, and still more at this last suggestion that she looked like a wild wom=
an.
As she followed him out of the hovel she thought she would give him a sixpe=
nce
for telling her the way, and then he would not suppose she was wild. As he
stopped to point out the road to her, she put her hand in her pocket to get=
the
six-pence ready, and when he was turning away, without saying good-morning,=
she
held it out to him and said, ‘Thank you; will you please to take
something for your trouble?’
He looked slowly at the sixpence, =
and
then said, ‘I want none o' your money. You'd better take care on't, e=
lse
you'll get it stool from yer, if you go trapesin' about the fields like a m=
ad
woman a-thatway.’
The man left her without further
speech, and Hetty held on her way. Another day had risen, and she must wand=
er
on. It was no use to think of drowning herself - she could not do it, at le=
ast
while she had money left to buy food and strength to journey on. But the
incident on her waking this morning heightened her dread of that time when =
her
money would be all gone; she would have to sell her basket and clothes then,
and she would really look like a beggar or a wild woman, as the man had sai=
d.
The passionate joy in life she had felt in the night, after escaping from t=
he
brink of the black cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by the
morning light, with the impression of that man's hard wondering look at her,
was as full of dread as death - it was worse; it was a dread to which she f=
elt
chained, from which she shrank and shrank as she did from the black pool, a=
nd
yet could find no refuge from it.
She took out her money from her pu=
rse,
and looked at it. She had still two-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her
for many days more, or it would help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, wi=
thin
reach of Dinah. The thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since =
the
experience of the night had driven her shuddering imagination away from the
pool. If it had been only going to Dinah - if nobody besides Dinah would ev=
er
know - Hetty could have made up her mind to go to her. The soft voice, the
pitying eyes, would have drawn her. But afterwards the other people must kn=
ow,
and she could no more rush on that shame than she could rush on death.
She must wander on and on, and wait
for a lower depth of despair to give her courage. Perhaps death would come =
to
her, for she was getting less and less able to bear the day's weariness. And
yet - such is the strange action of our souls, drawing us by a lurking desi=
re
towards the very ends we dread - Hetty, when she set out again from Norton,
asked the straightest road northwards towards Stonyshire, and kept it all t=
hat
day.
Poor wandering Hetty, with the rou=
nded
childish face and the hard, unloving, despairing soul looking out of it - w=
ith
the narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but h=
er
own, and tasting that sorrow with the more intense bitterness! My heart ble=
eds
for her as I see her toiling along on her weary feet, or seated in a cart, =
with
her eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, never thinking or caring
whither it tends, till hunger comes and makes her desire that a village may=
be
near.
What will be the end, the end of h= er objectless wandering, apart from all love, caring for human beings only thr= ough her pride, clinging to life only as the hunted wounded brute clings to it?<= o:p>
God preserve you and me from being=
the
beginners of such misery!
THE first ten days after Hetty's
departure passed as quietly as any other days with the family at the Hall F=
arm,
and with Adam at his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay away a wee=
k or
ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, bec=
ause
there might then be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortn=
ight
had passed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not return; =
she
must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could ha=
ve
supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient to see her, and he
resolved that, if she did not appear the next day (Saturday), he would set =
out
on Sunday morning to fetch her. There was no coach on a Sunday, but by sett=
ing
out before it was light, and perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he
would arrive pretty early at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day -=
Dinah
too, if she were coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would af=
ford
to lose his Monday for the sake of bringing her.
His project was quite approved at =
the
Farm when he went there on Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him
emphatically not to come back without Hetty, for she had been quite too long
away, considering the things she had to get ready by the middle of March, a=
nd a
week was surely enough for any one to go out for their health. As for Dinah,
Mrs. Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could make her
believe the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at
Snowfield. ‘Though,’ said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, =
8216;you
might tell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to=
a
shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off her next
Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange folks, and leave t=
he
children fatherless and motherless.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr
Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man perfectly heart-whole, ‘it
isna so bad as that. Thee't looking rarely now, and getting flesh every day.
But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, for she'd help thee wi' the little uns: =
they
took t' her wonderful.’
So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set
off. Seth went with him the first mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield=
and
the possibility that Dinah might come again made him restless, and the walk=
with
Adam in the cold morning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give hi=
m a
sense of Sunday calm. It was the last morning in February, with a low grey =
sky,
and a slight hoar-frost on the green border of the road and on the black
hedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the hill,
and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked in silence, th=
ough
with a pleased sense of companionship.
‘Good-bye, lad,’ said
Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and looking at him affectionately =
as
they were about to part. ‘I wish thee wast going all the way wi' me, =
and
as happy as I am.’
‘I'm content, Addy, I'm cont=
ent,’
said Seth cheerfully. ‘I'll be an old bachelor, belike, and make a fu=
ss
wi' thy children.’
The'y turned away from each other,=
and
Seth walked leisurely homeward, mentally repeating one of his favourite hym=
ns -
he was very fond of hymns:
Dark and cheerless is the morn
Unaccompanied by thee: Joyless is the day's return Till thy mercy's beams I
see: Till thou inward light impart, Glad my eyes and warm my heart.
Visit, then, this soul of mine, Pi=
erce
the gloom of sin and grief - =
Fill
me, Radiancy Divine, Scatter all my unbelief. More and more thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.
Adam walked much faster, and any o=
ne
coming along the Oakbourne road at sunrise that morning must have had a
pleasant sight in this tall broad-chested man, striding along with a carria=
ge
as upright and firm as any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the
dark-blue hills as they began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam=
's
life had his face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this
morning; and this freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical
minds like his, made him all the more observant of the objects round him and
all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite
plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love - the knowledge that his s=
teps
were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was so soon to be his - w=
as
to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was to his sensations: it gave h=
im a
consciousness of well-being that made activity delightful. Every now and th=
en
there was a rush of more intense feeling towards her, which chased away oth=
er
images than Hetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness =
that
all this happiness was given to him - that this life of ours had such sweet=
ness
in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of
devout words, and his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that t=
he
one could hardly be stirred without the other. But after feeling had welled=
up
and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would come back with the
greater vigour; and this morning it was intent on schemes by which the roads
might be improved that were so imperfect all through the country, and on
picturing all the benefits that might come from the exertions of a single
country gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in
his own district.
It seemed a very short walk, the t=
en
miles to Oakbourne, that pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where =
he
break-fasted. After this, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling
woods, no more wide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy
hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismal
wide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been and we=
re
no longer. ‘A hungry land,’ said Adam to himself. ‘I'd ra=
ther
go south'ard, where they say it's as flat as a table, than come to live her=
e;
though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfor=
t to
folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she must look as if she=
'd
come straight from heaven, like th' angels in the desert, to strengthen the=
m as
ha' got nothing t' eat.’ And when at last he came in sight of Snowfie=
ld,
he thought it looked like a town that was ‘fellow to the country,R=
17;
though the stream through the valley where the great mill stood gave a plea=
sant
greenness to the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, =
up
the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at present, for
Seth had told him where to find Dinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside=
the
town, a little way from the mill - an old cottage, standing sideways towards
the road, with a little bit of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged w=
ith
an elderly couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn
where they were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be o=
ut
on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Hetty at home. Ad=
am
could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by the roadside
before him, there shone out in his face that involuntary smile which belong=
s to
the expectation of a near joy.
He hurried his step along the narr=
ow
causeway, and rapped at the door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, =
with
a slow palsied shake of the head.
‘Is Dinah Morris at home?=
217;
said Adam.
‘Eh?...no,’ said the o=
ld
woman, looking up at this tall stranger with a wonder that made her slower =
of
speech than usual. ‘Will you please to come in?’ she added,
retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself. ‘Why, ye're broth=
er
to the young man as come afore, arena ye?’
‘Yes,’ said Adam,
entering. ‘That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam. He told me to gi=
ve
his respects to you and your good master.’
‘Aye, the same t' him. He wa=
s a
gracious young man. An' ye feature him, on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' t=
h'
arm-chair. My man isna come home from meeting.’
Adam sat down patiently, not likin=
g to
hurry the shaking old woman with questions, but looking eagerly towards the
narrow twisting stairs in one corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty
might have heard his voice and would come down them.
‘So you're come to see Dinah
Morris?’ said the old woman, standing opposite to him. ‘An' you
didn' know she was away from home, then?’
‘No,’ said Adam, ̵=
6;but
I thought it likely she might be away, seeing as it's Sunday. But the other
young woman - is she at home, or gone along with Dinah?’
The old woman looked at Adam with a
bewildered air.
‘Gone along wi' her?’ =
she
said. ‘Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big town ye may ha' heared on, wh=
ere
there's a many o' the Lord's people. She's been gone sin' Friday was a
fortnight: they sent her the money for her journey. You may see her room he=
re,’
she went on, opening a door and not noticing the effect of her words on Ada=
m.
He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance into the little room w=
ith
its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying=
on
the large Bible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He
could not speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an
undefined fear had seized him - something had happened to Hetty on the jour=
ney.
Still the old woman was so slow of; speech and apprehension, that Hetty mig=
ht
be at Snowfield after all.
‘It's a pity ye didna know,&=
#8217;
she said. ‘Have ye come from your own country o' purpose to see her?&=
#8217;
‘But Hetty - Hetty Sorrel,=
8217;
said Adam, abruptly; ‘Where is she?’
‘I know nobody by that name,=
’
said the old woman, wonderingly. ‘Is it anybody ye've heared on at
Snowfield?’
‘Did there come no young wom=
an
here - very young and pretty - Friday was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?=
’
‘Nay; I'n seen no young woma=
n.’
‘Think; are you quite sure? A
girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, and a red clo=
ak
on, and a basket on her arm? You couldn't forget her if you saw her.’=
‘Nay; Friday was a fortnight=
- it
was the day as Dinah went away - there come nobody. There's ne'er been nobo=
dy
asking for her till you come, for the folks about know as she's gone. Eh de=
ar,
eh dear, is there summat the matter?’
The old woman had seen the ghastly
look of fear in Adam's face. But he was not stunned or confounded: he was
thinking eagerly where he could inquire about Hetty.
‘Yes; a young woman started =
from
our country to see Dinah, Friday was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back.=
I'm
afraid something has happened to her. I can't stop. Good-bye.’
He hastened out of the cottage, and
the old woman followed him to the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking
head as he almost ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at the place
where the Oakbourne coach stopped.
No! No young woman like Hetty had =
been
seen there. Had any accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And
there was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would w=
alk:
he couldn't stay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that
Adam was in great anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the
eagerness of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his
pockets looking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him =
back
to Oakbourne in his own ‘taxed cart’ this very evening. It was =
not
five o'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to g=
et
to Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he really want=
ed
to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night; he should have all Monday
before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the =
food
in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready to set
off. As they approached the cottage, it occurred to him that he would do we=
ll
to learn from the old woman where Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there =
was
trouble at the Hall Farm - he only half-admitted the foreboding that there
would be - the Poysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left=
any
address, and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not re=
call
the name of the ‘blessed woman’ who was Dinah's chief friend in=
the
Society at Leeds.
During that long, long journey in =
the
taxed cart, there was time for all the conjectures of importunate fear and
struggling hope. In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had not =
been
to Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pa=
ng,
but he tried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with m=
odes
of accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerable thou=
ght.
Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance, got into a w=
rong
vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and did not want to frighten
them by letting them know. But this frail fence of vague improbabilities was
soon hurled down by a rush of distinct agonizing fears. Hetty had been
deceiving herself in thinking that she could love and marry him: she had be=
en
loving Arthur all the while; and now, in her desperation at the nearness of
their marriage, she had run away. And she was gone to him. The old indignat=
ion
and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been
dealing falsely - had written to Hetty - had tempted her to come to him - b=
eing
unwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besides himself.
Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had given her
directions how to follow him to Ireland - for Adam knew that Arthur had been
gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt it at the Chase. Every=
sad
look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged to Adam, returned upon him now =
with
all the exaggeration of painful retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine =
and
confident. The poor thing hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long whil=
e;
had thought that she could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards
the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to bl=
ame
her: she never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with th=
at
man who had selfishly played with her heart - had perhaps even deliberately
lured her away.
At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Ro=
yal
Oak remembered such a young woman as Adam described getting out of the
Treddleston coach more than a fortnight ago - wasn't likely to forget such a
pretty lass as that in a hurry - was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton
coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went =
away
with the horses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straigh=
t to
the house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was the most obv=
ious
place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might be her destination, for she
would hardly venture on any but the chief coach-roads. She had been noticed
here too, and was remembered to have sat on the box by the coachman; but the
coachman could not be seen, for another man had been driving on that road in
his stead the last three or four days. He could probably be seen at Stonito=
n,
through inquiry at the inn where the coach put up. So the anxious
heart-stricken Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till morning - n=
ay,
till eleven o'clock, when the coach started.
At Stoniton another delay occurred,
for the old coachman who had driven Hetty would not be in the town again ti=
ll
night. When he did come he remembered Hetty well, and remembered his own jo=
ke
addressed to her, quoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal
frequency that he thought there was something more than common, because Het=
ty
had not laughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done =
at
the inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of the
next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from whic=
h a
coach started - (all in vain, for you know Hetty did not start from Stoniti=
on
by coach, but on foot in the grey morning) - and then in walking out to the
first toll-gates on the different lines of road, in the forlorn hope of fin=
ding
some recollection of her there. No, she was not to be traced any farther; a=
nd
the next hard task for Adam was to go home and carry the wretched tidings to
the Hall Farm. As to what he should do beyond that, he had come to two dist=
inct
resolutions amidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on wit=
hin
him while he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of Arthur
Donnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for it: it
was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure might be an in=
jury
or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been home and done what was
necessary there to prepare for his further absence, he would start off to
Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road, he would go straight to
Arthur Donnithorne and make himself certain how far he was acquainted with =
her
movements. Several times the thought occurred to him that he would consult =
Mr
Irwine, but that would be useless unless he told him all, and so betrayed t=
he
secret about Arthur. It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupatio=
n of
his mind about Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that she
had gone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the
reason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur
uncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to such a step, a=
fter
that letter written in August. There were but two alternatives in his mind:
either Arthur had written to her again and enticed her away, or she had sim=
ply
fled from her approaching marriage with himself because she found, after al=
l,
she could not love him well enough, and yet was afraid of her friends' ange=
r if
she retracted.
With this last determination on his
mind, of going straight to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in
inquiries which had proved to be almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and
yet, since he would not tell the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty w=
as
gone, or his intention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them
that he had traced her as far as possible.
It was after twelve o'clock on Tue=
sday
night when Adam reached Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother a=
nd
Seth, and also to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself
without undressing on a bed at the ‘Waggon Overthrown,’ and sle=
pt
hard from pure weariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five
o'clock he set out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always
kept a key of the workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let himself=
in;
and he wished to enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxious to av=
oid
telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and asking him to
tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gently along the yard, and
turned the key gently in the door; but, as he expected, Gyp, who lay in the
workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided when he saw Adam, holding up his
finger at him to impose silence, and in his dumb, tailless joy he must cont=
ent
himself with rubbing his body against his master's legs.
Adam was too heart-sick to take no=
tice
of Gyp's fondling. He threw himself on the bench and stared dully at the wo=
od
and the signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel
pleasure in them again, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wro=
ng
with his master, laid his rough grey head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his b=
rows
to look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constant=
ly
among strange people and in strange places, having no associations with the
details of his daily life, and now that by the light of this new morning he=
was
come back to his home and surrounded by the familiar objects that seemed for
ever robbed of their charm, the reality - the hard, inevitable reality of h=
is
troubles pressed upon him with a new weight. Right before him was an unfini=
shed
chest of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's use,
when his home should be hers.
Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp's bark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressing himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother:= he would come home to-day, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly= by to-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday than he= had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was the greatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he had no hope left = that she would ever love him well enough to marry him; but he had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and brother than any other woma= n's husband. If he could but be always near her, instead of living so far off!<= o:p>
He came downstairs and opened the
inner door leading from the kitchen into the workshop, intending to let out
Gyp; but he stood still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the
sight of Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken b=
lank
eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant wh=
at
the marks meant - not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up =
at
him without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himself
trembling so that speech did not come readily.
‘God have mercy on us, Addy,=
’
he said, in a low voice, sitting down on the bench beside Adam, ‘what=
is
it?’
Adam was unable to speak. The stro=
ng
man, accustomed to suppress the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell l=
ike
a child's at this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and
sobbed.
Seth was prepared for the worst no=
w,
for, even in his recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed befo=
re.
‘Is it death, Adam? Is she d=
ead?’
he asked, in a low tone, when Adam raised his head and was recovering himse=
lf.
‘No, lad; but she's gone - g=
one
away from us. She's never been to Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds eve=
r since
last Friday was a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out w=
here
she went after she got to Stoniton.’
Seth was silent from utter
astonishment: he knew nothing that could suggest to him a reason for Hetty's
going away.
‘Hast any notion what she's =
done
it for?’ he said, at last.
‘She can't ha' loved me. She
didn't like our marriage when it came nigh - that must be it,’ said A=
dam.
He had determined to mention no further reason.
‘I hear Mother stirring,R=
17;
said Seth. ‘Must we tell her?’
‘No, not yet,’ said Ad=
am,
rising from the bench and pushing the hair from his face, as if he wanted to
rouse himself. ‘I can't have her told yet; and I must set out on anot=
her
journey directly, after I've been to the village and th' Hall Farm. I can't
tell thee where I'm going, and thee must say to her I'm gone on business as
nobody is to know anything about. I'll go and wash myself now.’ Adam
moved towards the door of the workshop, but after a step or two he turned
round, and, meeting Seth's eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, ‘I m=
ust
take all the money out o' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, =
all
the rest 'll be thine, to take care o' Mother with.’
Seth was pale and trembling: he fe=
lt
there was some terrible secret under all this. ‘Brother,’ he sa=
id,
faintly - he never called Adam ‘Brother’ except in solemn momen=
ts -
‘I don't believe you'll do anything as you can't ask God's blessing o=
n.’
‘Nay, lad,’ said Adam,=
‘don't
be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what's a man's duty.’
The thought that if he betrayed his
trouble to his mother, she would only distress him by words, half of blunde=
ring
affection, half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be h=
is
wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness=
and
self-command. He had felt ill on his journey home - he told her when she ca=
me
down - had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad
headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for his paleness
and heavy eyes.
He determined to go to the village=
, in
the first place, attend to his business for an hour, and give notice to Bur=
ge
of his being obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not to menti=
on
to any one; for he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-ti=
me,
when the children and servants would be in the house-place, and there must =
be
exclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty. He
waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard at the vill=
age,
and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It was an immense relief=
to
him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr Poyser advancing towards him,
for this would spare him the pain of going to the house. Mr Poyser was walk=
ing
briskly this March morning, with a sense of spring business on his mind: he=
was
going to cast the master's eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying=
his
spud as a useful companion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught
sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.
‘Why, Adam, lad, is't you? H=
ave
ye been all this time away and not brought the lasses back, after all? Where
are they?’
‘No, I've not brought 'em,=
8217;
said Adam, turning round, to indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr
Poyser.
‘Why,’ said Martin, lo=
oking
with sharper attention at Adam, ‘ye look bad. Is there anything happe=
ned?’
‘Yes,’ said Adam, heav=
ily.
‘A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hetty at Snowfield.’
Mr Poyser's good-natured face show=
ed
signs of troubled astonishment. ‘Not find her? What's happened to her=
?’
he said, his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident.
‘That I can't tell, whether
anything's happened to her. She never went to Snowfield - she took the coac=
h to
Stoniton, but I can't learn nothing of her after she got down from the Ston=
iton
coach.’
‘Why, you donna mean she's r=
un
away?’ said Martin, standing still, so puzzled and bewildered that the
fact did not yet make itself felt as a trouble by him.
‘She must ha' done,’ s=
aid
Adam. ‘She didn't like our marriage when it came to the point - that =
must
be it. She'd mistook her feelings.’
Martin was silent for a minute or =
two,
looking on the ground and rooting up the grass with his spud, without knowi=
ng
what he was doing. His usual slowness was always trebled when the subject of
speech was painful. At last he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, =
216;Then
she didna deserve t' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault myself, for she wa=
s my
niece, and I was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can ma=
ke
ye, lad - the more's the pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt.’
Adam could say nothing; and Mr Poy=
ser,
after pursuing his walk for a little while, went on, ‘I'll be bound s=
he's
gone after trying to get a lady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her h=
ead
half a year ago, and wanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd thought better on=
her’
- he added, shaking his head slowly and sadly - ‘I'd thought better on
her, nor to look for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything be=
en
got ready.’
Adam had the strongest motives for=
encouraging
this supposition in Mr Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might
possibly be true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to
Arthur.
‘It was better it should be =
so,’
he said, as quietly as he could, ‘if she felt she couldn't like me fo=
r a
husband. Better run away before than repent after. I hope you won't look
harshly on her if she comes back, as she may do if she finds it hard to get=
on
away from home.’
‘I canna look on her as I've
done before,’ said Martin decisively. ‘She's acted bad by you, =
and
by all of us. But I'll not turn my back on her: she's but a young un, and i=
t's
the first harm I've knowed on her. It'll be a hard job for me to tell her a=
unt.
Why didna Dinah come back wi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit=
.’
‘Dinah wasn't at Snowfield.
She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and I couldn't learn from th' old
woman any direction where she is at Leeds, else I should ha' brought it you=
.’
‘She'd a deal better be stay=
ing
wi' her own kin,’ said Mr Poyser, indignantly, ‘than going
preaching among strange folks a-that'n.’
‘I must leave you now, Mr
Poyser,’ said Adam, ‘for I've a deal to see to.’
‘Aye, you'd best be after yo=
ur
business, and I must tell the missis when I go home. It's a hard job.’=
;
‘But,’ said Adam, R= 16;I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quiet for a week or two. I've n= ot told my mother yet, and there's no knowing how things may turn out.’<= o:p>
‘Aye, aye; least said, soone=
st
mended. We'n no need to say why the match is broke off, an' we may hear of =
her
after a bit. Shake hands wi' me, lad: I wish I could make thee amends.̵=
7;
There was something in Martin Poys=
er's
throat at that moment which caused him to bring out those scanty words in
rather a broken fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and =
the
two honest men grasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding.
There was nothing now to hinder Ad=
am
from setting off. He had told Seth to go to the Chase and leave a message f=
or
the squire, saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start off suddenly on=
a
journey - and to say as much, and no more, to any one else who made inquiri=
es
about him. If the Poysers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew th=
ey
would infer that he was gone in search of Hetty.
He had intended to go right on his=
way
from the Hall Farm, but now the impulse which had frequently visited him be=
fore
- to go to Mr Irwine, and make a confidant of him - recurred with the new f=
orce
which belongs to a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journe=
y - a
difficult one - by sea - and no soul would know where he was gone. If anyth=
ing
happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matter concerning
Hetty? Mr Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling which made Adam shrink =
from
telling anything which was her secret must give way before the need there w=
as
that she should have some one else besides himself who would be prepared to
defend her in the worst extremity. Towards Arthur, even though he might have
incurred no new guilt, Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when
Hetty's interest called on him to speak.
‘I must do it,’ said A=
dam,
when these thoughts, which had spread themselves through hours of his sad
journeying, now rushed upon him in an instant, like a wave that had been sl=
owly
gathering; ‘it's the right thing. I can't stand alone in this way any
longer.’
But the hoofs were turned towards =
the
gate, not away from it, and though there was a horse against the stable doo=
r,
it was not Mr Irwine's: it had evidently had a journey this morning, and mu=
st
belong to some one who had come on business. Mr Irwine was at home, then; b=
ut
Adam could hardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to
speak to the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow h=
ad
begun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as he
threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the clock on=
the
opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said, but he heard the
study door open - the stranger seemed to be coming out, and as Adam was in a
hurry, he would let the master know at once.
Adam sat looking at the clock: the
minute-hand was hurrying along the last five minutes to ten with a loud, ha=
rd,
indifferent tick, and Adam watched the movement and listened to the sound a=
s if
he had had some reason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there=
are
almost always these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everything
but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came to g=
ive
us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us in our sleep=
.
Carroll, coming back, recalled Ada=
m to
the sense of his burden. He was to go into the study immediately. ‘I
can't think what that strange person's come about,’ the butler added,
from mere incontinence of remark, as he preceded Adam to the door, ‘h=
e's
gone i' the dining-room. And master looks unaccountable - as if he was frig=
htened.’
Adam took no notice of the words: he could not care about other people's
business. But when he entered the study and looked in Mr Irwine's face, he =
felt
in an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely different fr=
om
the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open =
on
the table, and Mr Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed glance he cast on
Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation with some disagreeable
business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's entrance
were a matter of poignant anxiety to him.
‘You want to speak to me, Ad=
am,’
he said, in that low constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is
determined to suppress agitation. ‘Sit down here.’ He pointed t=
o a
chair just opposite to him, at no more than a yard's distance from his own,=
and
Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr Irwine's gave an
additional unexpected difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made =
up
his mind to a measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but impera=
tive
reasons.
‘I come to you, sir,’ =
he
said, ‘as the gentleman I look up to most of anybody. I've something =
very
painful to tell you - something as it'll pain you to hear as well as me to
tell. But if I speak o' the wrong other people have done, you'll see I didn=
't
speak till I'd good reason.’
Mr Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam = went on rather tremulously, ‘You was t' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, y= ou know, sir, o' the fifteenth o' this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' the parish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me.’<= o:p>
Mr Irwine started up from his chai=
r,
as if involuntarily, but then, determined to control himself, walked to the
window and looked out.
‘She's gone away, sir, and we
don't know where. She said she was going to Snowfield o' Friday was a
fortnight, and I went last Sunday to fetch her back; but she'd never been
there, and she took the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that I can't trace he=
r.
But now I'm going a long journey to look for her, and I can't trust t' anyb=
ody
but you where I'm going.’
Mr Irwine came back from the window
and sat down.
‘Have you no idea of the rea=
son
why she went away?’ he said.
‘It's plain enough she didn't
want to marry me, sir,’ said Adam. ‘She didn't like it when it =
came
so near. But that isn't all, I doubt. There's something else I must tell yo=
u,
sir. There's somebody else concerned besides me.’
A gleam of something - it was almo=
st
like relief or joy - came across the eager anxiety of Mr Irwine's face at t=
hat
moment. Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a little: the next words
were hard to speak. But when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked
straight at Mr Irwine. He would do the thing he had resolved to do, without
flinching.
‘You know who's the man I've
reckoned my greatest friend,’ he said, ‘and used to be proud to
think as I should pass my life i' working for him, and had felt so ever sin=
ce
we were lads....’
Mr Irwine, as if all self-control =
had
forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it
tightly like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, &=
#8216;No,
Adam, no - don't say it, for God's sake!’
Adam, surprised at the violence of=
Mr
Irwine's feeling, repented of the words that had passed his lips and sat in
distressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr Irwine t=
hrew
himself back in his chair, saying, ‘Go on - I must know it.’
‘That man played with Hetty's
feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no right to do to a girl in her statio=
n o'
life - made her presents and used to go and meet her out a-walking. I found=
it
out only two days before he went away - found him a-kissing her as they were
parting in the Grove. There'd been nothing said between me and Hetty then,
though I'd loved her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him
with his wrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he said
solemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no more than a =
bit
o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty he'd meant nothing,
for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn't understood at the
time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and I thought she'd belike go on think=
ing
of him and never come to love another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave
her the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd
expected...and she behaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't k=
now
her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was =
too
late...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceive me.
But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and - you know the rest, sir. B=
ut
it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away, and she's go=
ne
to him - and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to work again till I =
know
what's become of her.’
During Adam's narrative, Mr Irwine=
had
had time to recover his self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that
crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him now - that morning when
Arthur breakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a
confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. And if t=
heir
words had taken another turn...if he himself had been less fastidious about
intruding on another man's secrets...it was cruel to think how thin a film =
had
shut out rescue from all this guilt and misery. He saw the whole history no=
w by
that terrible illumination which the present sheds back upon the past. But
every other feeling as it rushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity,
deep respectful pity, for the man who sat before him - already so bruised,
going forth with sad blind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real o=
ne
was close upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever t=
o have
feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes over u=
s in
the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he must inflict on Adam was
already present to him. Again he put his hand on the arm that lay on the ta=
ble,
but very gently this time, as he said solemnly:
‘Adam, my dear friend, you h=
ave
had some hard trials in your life. You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as=
act
manfully. God requires both tasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorr=
ow
coming upon you than any you have yet known. But you are not guilty - you h=
ave
not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who has!’
The two pale faces looked at each
other; in Adam's there was trembling suspense, in Mr Irwine's hesitating,
shrinking pity. But he went on.
‘I have had news of Hetty th=
is
morning. She is not gone to him. She is in Stonyshire - at Stoniton.’=
Adam started up from his chair, as=
if
he thought he could have leaped to her that moment. But Mr Irwine laid hold=
of
his arm again and said, persuasively, ‘Wait, Adam, wait.’ So he=
sat
down.
‘She is in a very unhappy
position - one which will make it worse for you to find her, my poor friend,
than to have lost her for ever.’
Adam's lips moved tremulously, but=
no
sound came. They moved again, and he whispered, ‘Tell me.’
‘She has been arrested...she=
is
in prison.’
It was as if an insulting blow had
brought back the spirit of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his fa=
ce,
and he said, loudly and sharply, ‘For what?’
‘For a great crime - the mur=
der
of her child.’
‘It CAN'T BE!’ Adam al=
most
shouted, starting up from his chair and making a stride towards the door; b=
ut
he turned round again, setting his back against the bookcase, and looking
fiercely at Mr Irwine. ‘It isn't possible. She never had a child. She
can't be guilty. WHO says it?’
‘God grant she may be innoce=
nt,
Adam. We can still hope she is.’
‘But who says she is guilty?=
’
said Adam violently. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘Here is a letter from the
magistrate before whom she was taken, and the constable who arrested her is=
in
the dining-room. She will not confess her name or where she comes from; but=
I
fear, I fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. The description of her per=
son
corresponds, only that she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a sma=
ll
red-leather pocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it - one at=
the
beginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah Mor=
ris,
Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own name - she denies everything,=
and
will answer no questions, and application has been made to me, as a magistr=
ate,
that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was thought probable t=
hat
the name which stands first is her own name.’
‘But what proof have they got
against her, if it IS Hetty?’ said Adam, still violently, with an eff=
ort
that seemed to shake his whole frame. ‘I'll not believe it. It couldn=
't
ha' been, and none of us know it.’
‘Terrible proof that she was
under the temptation to commit the crime; but we have room to hope that she=
did
not really commit it. Try and read that letter, Adam.’
Adam took the letter between his
shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr Irwine meanwhile
went out to give some orders. When he came back, Adam's eyes were still on =
the
first page - he couldn't read - he could not put the words together and make
out what they meant. He threw it down at last and clenched his fist.
‘It's HIS doing,’ he s=
aid;
‘if there's been any crime, it's at his door, not at hers. HE taught =
her
to deceive - HE deceived me first. Let 'em put HIM on his trial - let him s=
tand
in court beside her, and I'll tell 'em how he got hold of her heart, and 't=
iced
her t' evil, and then lied to me. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the
punishment on her...so weak and young?’
The image called up by these last
words gave a new direction to poor Adam's maddened feelings. He was silent,
looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something there. Then he bur=
st
out again, in a tone of appealing anguish, ‘I can't bear it...O God, =
it's
too hard to lay upon me - it's too hard to think she's wicked.’
Mr Irwine had sat down again in
silence. He was too wise to utter soothing words at present, and indeed, the
sight of Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes
over a young face in moments of terrible emotion - the hard bloodless look =
of
the skin, the deep lines about the quivering mouth, the furrows in the brow=
- the
sight of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow,
moved him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless, with h=
is
eyes vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that short space he=
was
living through all his love again.
‘She can't ha' done it,̵=
7;
he said, still without moving his eyes, as if he were only talking to himse=
lf: ‘it
was fear made her hide it...I forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee,
Hetty...thee wast deceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...b=
ut
they'll never make me believe it.’
He was silent again for a few mome=
nts,
and then he said, with fierce abruptness, ‘I'll go to him - I'll bring
him back - I'll make him go and look at her in her misery - he shall look at
her till he can't forget it - it shall follow him night and day - as long a=
s he
lives it shall follow him - he shan't escape wi' lies this time - I'll fetch
him, I'll drag him myself.’
In the act of going towards the do=
or,
Adam paused automatically and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious w=
here
he was or who was present with him. Mr Irwine had followed him, and now took
him by the arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, ‘No, Adam, no; I=
'm
sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead of
going on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall wit=
hout
your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his way home -=
or
would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for h=
im
to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go with me to Stoniton. I =
have
ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can compose yoursel=
f.’
While Mr Irwine was speaking, Adam
recovered his consciousness of the actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his
forehead and listened.
‘Remember,’ Mr Irwine =
went
on, ‘there are others to think of, and act for, besides yourself, Ada=
m:
there are Hetty's friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall =
more
heavily than I can bear to think. I expect it from your strength of mind, A=
dam
- from your sense of duty to God and man - that you will try to act as long=
as
action can be of any use.’
In reality, Mr Irwine proposed this
journey to Stoniton for Adam's own sake. Movement, with some object before =
him,
was the best means of counteracting the violence of suffering in these first
hours.
‘You will go with me to
Stoniton, Adam?’ he said again, after a moment's pause. ‘We hav=
e to
see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Adam,=
‘I'll
do what you think right. But the folks at th' Hall Farm?’
‘I wish them not to know til=
l I
return to tell them myself. I shall have ascertained things then which I am
uncertain about now, and I shall return as soon as possible. Come now, the
horses are ready.’
MR IRWINE returned from Stoniton i=
n a
post-chaise that night, and the first words Carroll said to him, as he ente=
red
the house, were, that Squire Donnithorne was dead - found dead in his bed at
ten o'clock that morning - and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she shou=
ld
be awake when Mr Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed with=
out
seeing her.
‘Well, Dauphin,’ Mrs.
Irwine said, as her son entered her room, ‘you're come at last. So the
old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits, which made him send for Arthur=
in
that sudden way, really meant something. I suppose Carroll has told you that
Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this morning. You will believe my
prognostications another time, though I daresay I shan't live to prognostic=
ate
anything but my own death.’
‘What have they done about
Arthur?’ said Mr Irwine. ‘Sent a messenger to await him at
Liverpool?’
‘Yes, Ralph was gone before =
the
news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at =
the
Chase, and making good times on the estate, like a generous-hearted fellow =
as
he is. He'll be as happy as a king now.’
Mr Irwine could not help giving a
slight groan: he was worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light
words were almost intolerable.
‘What are you so dismal abou=
t,
Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are you thinking of the danger for Arthu=
r in
crossing that frightful Irish Channel at this time of year?’
‘No, Mother, I'm not thinkin=
g of
that; but I'm not prepared to rejoice just now.’
‘You've been worried by this=
law
business that you've been to Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that =
you
can't tell me?’
‘You will know by and by,
mother. It would not be right for me to tell you at present. Good-night: yo=
u'll
sleep now you have no longer anything to listen for.’
Mr Irwine gave up his intention of
sending a letter to meet Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return: =
the
news of his grandfather's death would bring him as soon as he could possibly
come. He could go to bed now and get some needful rest, before the time came
for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm
and to Adam's home.
Adam himself was not come back from
Stoniton, for though he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go t=
o a
distance from her again.
‘It's no use, sir,’ he
said to the rector, ‘it's no use for me to go back. I can't go to work
again while she's here, and I couldn't bear the sight o' the things and fol=
ks
round home. I'll take a bit of a room here, where I can see the prison wall=
s,
and perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing her.’
Adam had not been shaken in his be=
lief
that Hetty was innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr Irwine,
feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's
load, had kept from him the facts which left no hope in his own mind. There=
was
not any reason for thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr Irwin=
e,
at parting, only said, ‘If the evidence should tell too strongly agai=
nst
her, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other circumstances
will be a plea for her.’
‘Ah, and it's right people s=
hould
know how she was tempted into the wrong way,’ said Adam, with bitter
earnestness. ‘It's right they should know it was a fine gentleman made
love to her, and turned her head wi' notions. You'll remember, sir, you've
promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the people at the farm, who it wa=
s as
led her wrong, else they'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be
doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, l=
et
her ha' done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose him!’
‘I think your demand is just,
Adam,’ said Mr Irwine, ‘but when you are calmer, you will judge
Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in o=
ther
hands than ours.’
Mr Irwine felt it hard upon him th=
at
he should have to tell of Arthur's sad part in the story of sin and sorrow =
- he
who cared for Arthur with fatherly affection, who had cared for him with
fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the secret must be known before lon=
g,
even apart from Adam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed =
that
Hetty would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his min=
d to
withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at once, for
there was no time to rob the tidings of their suddenness. Hetty's trial must
come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton the next
week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser could escape the pain =
of
being called as a witness, and it was better he should know everything as l=
ong
beforehand as possible.
Before ten o'clock on Thursday mor=
ning
the home at the Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to =
be
worse than death. The sense of family dishonour was too keen even in the
kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger to leave room for any compassion tow=
ards
Hetty. He and his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarni=
shed
character, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head and =
paid
its way as far back as its name was in the parish register; and Hetty had
brought disgrace on them all - disgrace that could never be wiped out. That=
was
the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of father and son - the scorchi=
ng
sense of disgrace, which neutralised all other sensibility - and Mr Irwine =
was
struck with surprise to observe that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her
husband. We are often startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional
occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be under the =
yoke
of traditional impressions.
‘I'm willing to pay any mone=
y as
is wanted towards trying to bring her off,’ said Martin the younger w=
hen Mr
Irwine was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite chair=
, ‘but
I'll not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my own will. She's made ou=
r bread
bitter to us for all our lives to come, an' we shall ne'er hold up our head=
s i'
this parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's po=
or
amends pity 'ull make us.’
‘Pity?’ said the
grandfather, sharply. ‘I ne'er wanted folks's pity i' MY life afore..=
.an'
I mun begin to be looked down on now, an' me turned seventy-two last St.
Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pall-bearers as I'n picked for my
funeral are i' this parish and the next to 't....It's o' no use now...I mun=
be
ta'en to the grave by strangers.’
‘Don't fret so, father,̵=
7;
said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little, being almost overawed by her
husband's unusual hardness and decision. ‘You'll have your children w=
i'
you; an' there's the lads and the little un 'ull grow up in a new parish as
well as i' th' old un.’
‘Ah, there's no staying i' t=
his
country for us now,’ said Mr Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slow=
ly
down his round cheeks. ‘We thought it 'ud be bad luck if the old squi=
re
gave us notice this Lady day, but I must gi' notice myself now, an' see if
there can anybody be got to come an' take to the crops as I'n put i' the
ground; for I wonna stay upo' that man's land a day longer nor I'm forced t=
o't.
An' me, as thought him such a good upright young man, as I should be glad w=
hen
he come to be our landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i'=
the
same church wi' him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an'
pretended to be such a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a fine frie=
nd
he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine, an' all the while
poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' this country any m=
ore
nor we can.’
‘An' you t' ha' to go into
court, and own you're akin t' her,’ said the old man. ‘Why, the=
y'll
cast it up to the little un, as isn't four 'ear old, some day - they'll cas=
t it
up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the 'sizes for murder.’
‘It'll be their own wickedne=
ss,
then,’ said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in her voice. ‘But there's =
One
above 'ull take care o' the innicent child, else it's but little truth they
tell us at church. It'll be harder nor ever to die an' leave the little uns,
an' nobody to be a mother to 'em.’
‘We'd better ha' sent for Di=
nah,
if we'd known where she is,’ said Mr Poyser; ‘but Adam said she=
'd
left no direction where she'd be at Leeds.’
‘Why, she'd be wi' that woma=
n as
was a friend t' her Aunt Judith,’ said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a littl=
e by
this suggestion of her husbands. ‘I've often heard Dinah talk of her,=
but
I can't remember what name she called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's l=
ike
enough to know, for she's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal =
on.’
‘I'll send to Seth,’ s=
aid Mr
Poyser. ‘I'll send Alick to tell him to come, or else to send up word=
o'
the woman's name, an' thee canst write a letter ready to send off to
Treddles'on as soon as we can make out a direction.’
‘It's poor work writing lett=
ers
when you want folks to come to you i' trouble,’ said Mrs. Poyser. =
216;Happen
it'll be ever so long on the road, an' never reach her at last.’
Before Alick arrived with the mess=
age,
Lisbeth's thoughts too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth=
, ‘Eh,
there's no comfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get D=
inah
Morris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to come=
in
an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me. She'd tell me the rights on'=
t,
belike - she'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an' heart-break co=
min'
upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's life, but war better =
nor
anybody else's son, pick the country round. Eh, my lad...Adam, my poor lad!=
’
‘Thee wouldstna like me to l=
eave
thee, to go and fetch Dinah?’ said Seth, as his mother sobbed and roc=
ked
herself to and fro.
‘Fetch her?’ said Lisb=
eth,
looking up and pausing from her grief, like a crying child who hears some
promise of consolation. ‘Why, what place is't she's at, do they say?&=
#8217;
‘It's a good way off, mother=
- Leeds,
a big town. But I could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me.=
217;
‘Nay, nay, I canna spare the=
e.
Thee must go an' see thy brother, an' bring me word what he's a-doin'. Mest=
er
Irwine said he'd come an' tell me, but I canna make out so well what it mea=
ns
when he tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Wr=
ite
a letter to Dinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin' when nobody wants
thee.’
‘I'm not sure where she'd be=
i'
that big town,’ said Seth. ‘If I'd gone myself, I could ha' fou=
nd
out by asking the members o' the Society. But perhaps if I put Sarah
Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o' th' outside, it might get to her;=
for
most like she'd be wi' Sarah Williamson.’
Alick came now with the message, a=
nd
Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention =
of
writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could sug=
gest
about the address of the letter, and warn them that there might be some del=
ay
in the delivery, from his not knowing an exact direction.
On leaving Lisbeth, Mr Irwine had =
gone
to Jonathan Burge, who had also a claim to be acquainted with what was like=
ly
to keep Adam away from business for some time; and before six o'clock that
evening there were few people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not heard the=
sad
news. Mr Irwine had not mentioned Arthur's name to Burge, and yet the story=
of
his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by its
terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his grandfather =
was
dead, and that he was come into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motiv=
e to
keep silence towards the one or two neighbours who ventured to come and sha=
ke
him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his trouble; and Carroll, w=
ho
kept his ears open to all that passed at the rectory, had framed an inferen=
tial
version of the story, and found early opportunities of communicating it.
One of those neighbours who came to
Martin Poyser and shook him by the hand without speaking for some minutes w=
as
Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on his way to the rectory,
where he arrived about half-past seven in the evening, and, sending his dut=
y to
Mr Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had something
particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr Irwine soon
joined him.
‘Well, Bartle?’ said Mr
Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his usual way of saluting the
schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much ali=
ke. ‘Sit
down.’
‘You know what I'm come abou=
t as
well as I do, sir, I daresay,’ said Bartle.
‘You wish to know the truth
about the sad news that has reached you...about Hetty Sorrel?’
‘Nay, sir, what I wish to kn=
ow
is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the fa=
vour
of you to tell me what's the state of the poor lad's mind, and what he mean=
s to
do. For as for that bit o' pink-and-white they've taken the trouble to put =
in
jail, I don't value her a rotten nut - not a rotten nut - only for the harm=
or
good that may come out of her to an honest man - a lad I've set such store =
by -
trusted to, that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in the
world....Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid country th=
at
ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn't had so mu=
ch
hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher branches, =
and
then this might never have happened - might never have happened.’
Bartle was heated by the exertion =
of
walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check himsel=
f on
this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his m=
oist
forehead, and probably his moist eyes also.
‘You'll excuse me, sir,̵=
7;
he said, when this pause had given him time to reflect, ‘for running =
on
in this way about my own feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in=
a
storm, when there's nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak,=
not
to talk myself - if you'll take the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's
doing.’
‘Don't put yourself under any
restraint, Bartle,’ said Mr Irwine. ‘The fact is, I'm very much=
in
the same condition as you just now; I've a great deal that's painful on my
mind, and I find it hard work to be quite silent about my own feelings and =
only
attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the only =
one
whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton
till after the trial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He has tak=
en a
room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better he sho=
uld
be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes H=
etty
is innocent - he wants to summon up courage to see her if he can; he is
unwilling to leave the spot where she is.’
‘Do you think the creatur's
guilty, then?’ said Bartle. ‘Do you think they'll hang her?R=
17;
‘I'm afraid it will go hard =
with
her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies
everything - denies that she has had a child in the face of the most positi=
ve
evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately silent to me; she shran=
k up
like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life=
as
at the change in her. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a
pardon for the sake of the innocent who are involved.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ =
said
Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was speaking. ‘I beg =
your
pardon, sir, I mean it's stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about =
her
being hanged. For my own part, I think the sooner such women are put out o'=
the
world the better; and the men that help 'em to do mischief had better go al=
ong
with 'em for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin aliv=
e,
eating the victual that 'ud feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough=
to
care about it, I don't want him to suffer more than's needful....Is he very
much cut up, poor fellow?’ Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and
putting them on, as if they would assist his imagination.
‘Yes, I'm afraid the grief c=
uts
very deep,’ said Mr Irwine. ‘He looks terribly shattered, and a
certain violence came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I
could have remained near him. But I shall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, a=
nd I
have confidence enough in the strength of Adam's principle to trust that he
will be able to endure the worst without being driven to anything rash.R=
17;
Mr Irwine, who was involuntarily
uttering his own thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last
sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance to-w=
ards
Arthur, which was the form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make
him seek an encounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in t=
he
Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward=
to
Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr Irwine was referring to suicide, and
his face wore a new alarm.
‘I'll tell you what I have i=
n my
head, sir,’ he said, ‘and I hope you'll approve of it. I'm goin=
g to
shut up my school - if the scholars come, they must go back again, that's a=
ll -
and I shall go to Stoniton and look after Adam till this business is over. =
I'll
pretend I'm come to look on at the assizes; he can't object to that. What do
you think about it, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Mr Irwine,
rather hesitatingly, ‘there would be some real advantages in that...a=
nd I
honour you for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But...you must be caref=
ul
what you say to him, you know. I'm afraid you have too little fellow-feelin=
g in
what you consider his weakness about Hetty.’
‘Trust to me, sir - trust to=
me.
I know what you mean. I've been a fool myself in my time, but that's between
you and me. I shan't thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see =
that
he gets some good food, and put in a word here and there.’
‘Then,’ said Mr Irwine,
reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion, ‘I think you'll be doin=
g a
good deed; and it will be well for you to let Adam's mother and brother know
that you're going.’
‘Yes, sir, yes,’ said
Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles, ‘I'll do that, I'll do
that; though the mother's a whimpering thing - I don't like to come within
earshot of her; however, she's a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your
slatterns. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spar=
ed
me. You're everybody's friend in this business - everybody's friend. It's a
heavy weight you've got on your shoulders.’
‘Good-bye, Bartle, till we m=
eet
at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall.’
Bartle hurried away from the recto=
ry,
evading Carroll's conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated ton=
e to
Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, ‘Now, I sh=
all
be obliged to take you with me, you good-for-nothing woman. You'd go fretti=
ng
yourself to death if I left you - you know you would, and perhaps get snapp=
ed
up by some tramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting
your nose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do
anything disgraceful, I'll disown you - mind that, madam, mind that!’=
AN upper room in a dull Stoniton
street, with two beds in it - one laid on the floor. It is ten o'clock on
Thursday night, and the dark wall opposite the window shuts out the moonlig=
ht
that might have struggled with the light of the one dip candle by which Bar=
tle
Massey is pretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacle=
s at
Adam Bede, seated near the dark window.
You would hardly have known it was
Adam without being told. His face has got thinner this last week: he has the
sunken eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from a sick-bed. His h=
eavy
black hair hangs over his forehead, and there is no active impulse in him w=
hich
inclines him to push it off, that he may be more awake to what is around hi=
m.
He has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down =
at
his clasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door.
‘There he is,’ said Ba=
rtle
Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the door. It was Mr Irwine.
Adam rose from his chair with
instinctive respect, as Mr Irwine approached him and took his hand.
‘I'm late, Adam,’ he s=
aid,
sitting down on the chair which Bartle placed for him, ‘but I was lat=
er
in setting off from Broxton than I intended to be, and I have been incessan=
tly
occupied since I arrived. I have done everything now, however - everything =
that
can be done to-night, at least. Let us all sit down.’
Adam took his chair again
mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was no chair remaining, sat on the=
bed
in the background.
‘Have you seen her, sir?R=
17;
said Adam tremulously.
‘Yes, Adam; I and the chapla=
in
have both been with her this evening.’
‘Did you ask her, sir...did =
you
say anything about me?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Irwine,
with some hesitation, ‘I spoke of you. I said you wished to see her
before the trial, if she consented.’
As Mr Irwine paused, Adam looked at
him with eager, questioning eyes.
‘You know she shrinks from
seeing any one, Adam. It is not only you - some fatal influence seems to ha=
ve
shut up her heart against her fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anyth=
ing
more than 'No' either to me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before=
you
were mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family =
whom
she would like to see - to whom she could open her mind - she said, with a
violent shudder, 'Tell them not to come near me - I won't see any of them.'=
‘
Adam's head was hanging down again,
and he did not speak. There was silence for a few minutes, and then Mr Irwi=
ne
said, ‘I don't like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if
they now urge you strongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without
her consent. It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contra=
ry,
that the interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I have
scarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned your n=
ame;
she only said 'No,' in the same cold, obstinate way as usual. And if the
meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless suffering to y=
ou -
severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed...’
Adam started up from his chair and
seized his hat, which lay on the table. But he stood still then, and looked=
at Mr
Irwine, as if he had a question to ask which it was yet difficult to utter.
Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key in the door, and put it in his
pocket.
‘Is he come back?’ said
Adam at last.
‘No, he is not,’ said =
Mr
Irwine, quietly. ‘Lay down your hat, Adam, unless you like to walk out
with me for a little fresh air. I fear you have not been out again to-day.&=
#8217;
‘You needn't deceive me, sir=
,’
said Adam, looking hard at Mr Irwine and speaking in a tone of angry suspic=
ion.
‘You needn't be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to feel
what she feels. It's his work...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybo=
dy's
heart to look at...I don't care what she's done...it was him brought her to=
it.
And he shall know it...he shall feel it...if there's a just God, he shall f=
eel
what it is t' ha' brought a child like her to sin and misery.’
‘I'm not deceiving you, Adam=
,’
said Mr Irwine. ‘Arthur Donnithorne is not come back - was not come b=
ack
when I left. I have left a letter for him: he will know all as soon as he
arrives.’
‘But you don't mind about it=
,’
said Adam indignantly. ‘You think it doesn't matter as she lies there=
in
shame and misery, and he knows nothing about it - he suffers nothing.’=
;
‘Adam, he WILL know - he WILL
suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heart and a conscience: I can't be enti=
rely
deceived in his character. I am convinced - I am sure he didn't fall under
temptation without a struggle. He may be weak, but he is not callous, not
coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this will be a shock of which he will f=
eel
the effects all his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount=
of
torture that you could inflict on him could benefit her.’
‘No - O God, no,’ Adam
groaned out, sinking on his chair again; ‘but then, that's the deepest
curse of all...that's what makes the blackness of it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDO=
NE.
My poor Hetty...she can never be my sweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing=
God
had made - smiling up at me...I thought she loved me...and was good...̵=
7;
Adam's voice had been gradually
sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if he were only talking to himself; but=
now
he said abruptly, looking at Mr Irwine, ‘But she isn't as guilty as t=
hey
say? You don't think she is, sir? She can't ha' done it.’
‘That perhaps can never be k=
nown
with certainty, Adam,’ Mr Irwine answered gently. ‘In these cas=
es
we sometimes form our judgment on what seems to us strong evidence, and yet,
for want of knowing some small fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the
worst: you have no right to say that the guilt of her crime lies with him, =
and
that he ought to bear the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the
shares of moral guilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mista=
kes
even in determining who has committed a single criminal act, and the problem
how far a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of =
his
own deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The evil c=
onsequences
that may lie folded in a single act of selfish indulgence is a thought so a=
wful
that it ought surely to awaken some feeling less presumptuous than a rash
desire to punish. You have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, when
you are calm. Don't suppose I can't enter into the anguish that drives you =
into
this state of revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey your
passion - for it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it justice=
- it
might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay, worse; your
passion might lead you yourself into a horrible crime.’
‘No - not worse,’ said
Adam, bitterly; ‘I don't believe it's worse - I'd sooner do it - I'd
sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myself than ha' brought HER=
to
do wickedness and then stand by and see 'em punish her while they let me al=
one;
and all for a bit o' pleasure, as, if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd h=
a'
cut his hand off sooner than he'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee
what's happened? He foresaw enough; he'd no right to expect anything but ha=
rm
and shame to her. And then he wanted to smooth it off wi' lies. No - there's
plenty o' things folks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a ma=
n do
what he will, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't hal=
f so
bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t' himself and knows all =
the
while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else.’
‘There again you partly dece=
ive
yourself, Adam. There is no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the
punishment alone; you can't isolate yourself and say that the evil which is=
in
you shall not spread. Men's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other=
as
the air they breathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel
the terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others;=
but
so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commit it. An=
act
of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply be another evil added=
to
those we are suffering under: you could not bear the punishment alone; you
would entail the worst sorrows on every one who loves you. You would have
committed an act of blind fury that would leave all the present evils just =
as
they were and add worse evils to them. You may tell me that you meditate no
fatal act of vengeance, but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to
such actions, and as long as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that=
to
fix your mind on Arthur's punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in
danger of being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what=
you
told me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in the
Grove.’
Adam was silent: the last words had
called up a vivid image of the past, and Mr Irwine left him to his thoughts,
while he spoke to Bartle Massey about old Mr Donnithorne's funeral and other
matters of an indifferent kind. But at length Adam turned round and said, i=
n a
more subdued tone, ‘I've not asked about 'em at th' Hall Farm, sir. I=
s Mr
Poyser coming?’
‘He is come; he is in Stonit=
on
to-night. But I could not advise him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a
very perturbed state, and it is best he should not see you till you are cal=
mer.’
‘Is Dinah Morris come to 'em,
sir? Seth said they'd sent for her.’
‘No. Mr Poyser tells me she =
was
not come when he left. They're afraid the letter has not reached her. It se=
ems
they had no exact address.’
Adam sat ruminating a little while,
and then said, ‘I wonder if Dinah 'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps
the Poysers would ha' been sorely against it, since they won't come nigh her
themselves. But I think she would, for the Methodists are great folks for g=
oing
into the prisons; and Seth said he thought she would. She'd a very tender w=
ay
with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha' done any good. You never saw
her, sir, did you?’
‘Yes, I did. I had a
conversation with her - she pleased me a good deal. And now you mention it,=
I
wish she would come, for it is possible that a gentle mild woman like her m=
ight
move Hetty to open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather harsh in his mann=
er.’
‘But it's o' no use if she
doesn't come,’ said Adam sadly.
‘If I'd thought of it earlie=
r, I
would have taken some measures for finding her out,’ said Mr Irwine, =
‘but
it's too late now, I fear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest
to-night. God bless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning.’
AT one o'clock the next day, Adam =
was
alone in his dull upper room; his watch lay before him on the table, as if =
he
were counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be
said by the witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particul=
ars
connected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave active man, who wo=
uld
have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an apprehended
wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplate irremediable evil
and suffering. The susceptibility which would have been an impelling force =
where
there was any possibility of action became helpless anguish when he was obl=
iged
to be passive, or else sought an active outlet in the thought of inflicting
justice on Arthur. Energetic natures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will
often rush away from a hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It =
is
the overmastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an
ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. Adam had broug=
ht
himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because =
he
thought the meeting might possibly be a good to her - might help to melt aw=
ay
this terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will=
for
what she had done to him, she might open her heart to him. But this resolut=
ion
had been an immense effort - he trembled at the thought of seeing her chang=
ed
face, as a timid woman trembles at the thought of the surgeon's knife, and =
he
chose now to bear the long hours of suspense rather than encounter what see=
med
to him the more intolerable agony of witnessing her trial.
Deep unspeakable suffering may wel=
l be
called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The year=
ning
memories, the bitter regret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals =
to
the Invisible Right - all the intense emotions which had filled the days and
nights of the past week, and were compressing themselves again like an eager
crowd into the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all the
previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only =
now
awaked to full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he had always before
thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all that he had hims=
elf
endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's stroke that had never =
left
a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may do the work of years, and we may co=
me
out from that baptism of fire with a soul full of new awe and new pity.
‘O God,’ Adam groaned,=
as
he leaned on the table and looked blankly at the face of the watch, ‘=
and
men have suffered like this before...and poor helpless young things have
suffered like her....Such a little while ago looking so happy and so
pretty...kissing 'em all, her grandfather and all of 'em, and they wishing =
her
luck....O my poor, poor Hetty...dost think on it now?’
Adam started and looked round towa=
rds
the door. Vixen had begun to whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a
lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all ov=
er?
Bartle entered quietly, and, going=
up to
Adam, grasped his hand and said, ‘I'm just come to look at you, my bo=
y,
for the folks are gone out of court for a bit.’
Adam's heart beat so violently he =
was
unable to speak - he could only return the pressure of his friend's hand - =
and
Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off
his hat and his spectacles.
‘That's a thing never happen=
ed
to me before,’ he observed, ‘to go out o' the door with my
spectacles on. I clean forgot to take 'em off.’
The old man made this trivial rema=
rk,
thinking it better not to respond at all to Adam's agitation: he would gath=
er,
in an indirect way, that there was nothing decisive to communicate at prese=
nt.
‘And now,’ he said, ri=
sing
again, ‘I must see to your having a bit of the loaf, and some of that
wine Mr Irwine sent this morning. He'll be angry with me if you don't have =
it.
Come, now,’ he went on, bringing forward the bottle and the loaf and
pouring some wine into a cup, ‘I must have a bit and a sup myself. Dr=
ink
a drop with me, my lad - drink with me.’
Adam pushed the cup gently away and
said, entreatingly, ‘Tell me about it, Mr Massey - tell me all about =
it.
Was she there? Have they begun?’
‘Yes, my boy, yes - it's tak=
en
all the time since I first went; but they're slow, they're slow; and there's
the counsel they've got for her puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, =
and
makes a deal to do with cross-examining the witnesses and quarrelling with =
the
other lawyers. That's all he can do for the money they give him; and it's a=
big
sum - it's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow, with an eye that 'ud pick the
needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it 'ud be =
as
good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in court; but a tender he=
art
makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures for ever only to have had some =
good
news to bring to you, my poor lad.’
‘But does it seem to be going
against her?’ said Adam. ‘Tell me what they've said. I must kno=
w it
now - I must know what they have to bring against her.’
‘Why, the chief evidence yet=
has
been the doctors; all but Martin Poyser - poor Martin. Everybody in court f=
elt
for him - it was like one sob, the sound they made when he came down again.=
The
worst was when they told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard
work, poor fellow - it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily =
on
him as well as you; you must help poor Martin; you must show courage. Drink
some wine now, and show me you mean to bear it like a man.’
Bartle had made the right sort of
appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet obedience, took up the cup and drank a
little.
‘Tell me how SHE looked,R=
17;
he said presently.
‘Frightened, very frightened,
when they first brought her in; it was the first sight of the crowd and the
judge, poor creatur. And there's a lot o' foolish women in fine clothes, wi=
th
gewgaws all up their arms and feathers on their heads, sitting near the jud=
ge:
they've dressed themselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be scarecrows=
and
warnings against any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up their
glasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a white im=
age,
staring down at her hands and seeming neither to hear nor see anything. And
she's as white as a sheet. She didn't speak when they asked her if she'd pl=
ead
'guilty' or 'not guilty,' and they pleaded 'not guilty' for her. But when s=
he
heard her uncle's name, there seemed to go a shiver right through her; and =
when
they told him to look at her, she hung her head down, and cowered, and hid =
her
face in her hands. He'd much ado to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. =
And
the counsellors - who look as hard as nails mostly - I saw, spared him as m=
uch
as they could. Mr Irwine put himself near him and went with him out o' cour=
t.
Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by a neighbour a=
nd
uphold him in such trouble as that.’
‘God bless him, and you too,= Mr Massey,’ said Adam, in a low voice, laying his hand on Bartle's arm.<= o:p>
‘Aye, aye, he's good metal; =
he
gives the right ring when you try him, our parson does. A man o' sense - sa=
ys
no more than's needful. He's not one of those that think they can comfort y=
ou
with chattering, as if folks who stand by and look on knew a deal better wh=
at
the trouble was than those who have to bear it. I've had to do with such fo=
lks
in my time - in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr Irwine is to be=
a
witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her character
and bringing up.’
‘But the other evidence...do=
es
it go hard against her!’ said Adam. ‘What do you think, Mr Mass=
ey?
Tell me the truth.’
‘Yes, my lad, yes. The truth=
is
the best thing to tell. It must come at last. The doctors' evidence is heav=
y on
her - is heavy. But she's gone on denying she's had a child from first to l=
ast.
These poor silly women-things - they've not the sense to know it's no use
denying what's proved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her b=
eing
so obstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the verdic=
t's
against her. But Mr Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned with the judge - you
may rely upon that, Adam.’
‘Is there nobody to stand by=
her
and seem to care for her in the court?’ said Adam.
‘There's the chaplain o' the
jail sits near her, but he's a sharp ferrety-faced man - another sort o' fl=
esh
and blood to Mr Irwine. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end =
o'
the clergy.’
‘There's one man as ought to=
be
there,’ said Adam bitterly. Presently he drew himself up and looked
fixedly out of the window, apparently turning over some new idea in his min=
d.
‘Mr Massey,’ he said at
last, pushing the hair off his forehead, ‘I'll go back with you. I'll=
go
into court. It's cowardly of me to keep away. I'll stand by her - I'll own =
her
- for all she's been deceitful. They oughtn't to cast her off - her own fle=
sh
and blood. We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves. I us=
ed
to be hard sometimes: I'll never be hard again. I'll go, Mr Massey - I'll go
with you.’
There was a decision in Adam's man=
ner
which would have prevented Bartle from opposing him, even if he had wished =
to
do so. He only said, ‘Take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the
love of me. See, I must stop and eat a morsel. Now, you take some.’
Nerved by an active resolution, Ad=
am
took a morsel of bread and drank some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as=
he
had been yesterday, but he stood upright again, and looked more like the Ad=
am
Bede of former days.
THE place fitted up that day as a
court of justice was a grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday li=
ght
that fell on the close pavement of human heads was shed through a line of h=
igh
pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim
dusty armour hung in high relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the =
farther
end, and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window opposite was sp=
read
a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozi=
ng
indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that through the rest of the y=
ear
was haunted with the shadowy memories of old kings and queens, unhappy,
discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all those shadows had fled, and not a so=
ul
in the vast hall felt the presence of any but a living sorrow, which was
quivering in warm hearts.
But that sorrow seemed to have mad=
e it
itself feebly felt hitherto, now when Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly =
seen
being ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight of =
the
great hall, among the sleek shaven faces of other men, the marks of sufferi=
ng in
his face were startling even to Mr Irwine, who had last seen him in the dim
light of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope who were present,=
and
who told Hetty Sorrel's story by their firesides in their old age, never fo=
rgot
to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head th=
an
most of the people round him, came into court and took his place by her sid=
e.
But Hetty did not see him. She was
standing in the same position Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed
over each other and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at h=
er
in the first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was
withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face towards her with a resoluti=
on
not to shrink.
Why did they say she was so change=
d?
In the corpse we love, it is the likeness we see - it is the likeness, which
makes itself felt the more keenly because something else was and is not. Th=
ere
they were - the sweet face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the lo=
ng
dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting lips - pale and thin, yes, b=
ut
like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had =
cast
a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, and left =
only
a hard despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that completest typ=
e of
the life in another life which is the essence of real human love, feels the
presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man; and to A=
dam,
this pale, hard-looking culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the
garden under the apple-tree boughs - she was that Hetty's corpse, which he =
had
trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his
eyes from.
But presently he heard something t=
hat
compelled him to listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman
was in the witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct
voice. She said, ‘My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a sm=
all
shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church Lane, Stoniton. The
prisoner at the bar is the same young woman who came, looking ill and tired,
with a basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday
evening, the 27th of February. She had taken the house for a public, because
there was a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't take in lodge=
rs,
the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to go anywhere else, =
and
she only wanted a bed for one night. And her prettiness, and her condition,=
and
something respectable about her clothes and looks, and the trouble she seem=
ed
to be in made me as I couldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I
asked her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was
going, and where her friends were. She said she was going home to her frien=
ds:
they were farming folks a good way off, and she'd had a long journey that h=
ad
cost her more money than she expected, so as she'd hardly any money left in=
her
pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much. She had been
obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd thankfully =
give
a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn't take the young woman =
in
for the night. I had only one room, but there were two beds in it, and I to=
ld
her she might stay with me. I thought she'd been led wrong, and got into
trouble, but if she was going to her friends, it would be a good work to ke=
ep
her out of further harm.’
The witness then stated that in the
night a child was born, and she identified the baby-clothes then shown to h=
er
as those in which she had herself dressed the child.
‘Those are the clothes. I ma=
de
them myself, and had kept them by me ever since my last child was born. I t=
ook
a deal of trouble both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking=
to
the little thing and being anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for
there seemed no need. I told the mother in the day-time she must tell me the
name of her friends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She sa=
id,
by and by she would write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay, b=
ut
she would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say. She sa=
id
she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what spirit she showed. =
But
I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, and towards evening I made =
up
my mind I'd go, after Meeting was over, and speak to our minister about it.=
I
left the house about half-past eight o'clock. I didn't go out at the shop d=
oor,
but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only got the
ground-floor of the house, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the
alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen with the b=
aby
on her lap. She hadn't cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night bef=
ore.
I thought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed
towards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and ask =
an
acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back with me when I went
out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the door behind me; there wa=
s no
lock; it was a latch with a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the h=
ouse
I always went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in
leaving it unfastened that little while. I was longer than I meant to be, f=
or I
had to wait for the woman that came back with me. It was an hour and a half
before we got back, and when we went in, the candle was standing burning ju=
st
as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her=
cloak
and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I was dreadful
frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't go to give information,
because I'd no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knew she had money in
her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't like to set the constable
after her, for she'd a right to go from me if she liked.’
The effect of this evidence on Adam
was electrical; it gave him new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the cri=
me -
her heart must have clung to her baby - else why should she have taken it w=
ith
her? She might have left it behind. The little creature had died naturally,=
and
then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to death - and there might be=
the
strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied w=
ith
imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that he could not listen to the
cross-examination by Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit
evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of maternal affection t=
owards
the child. The whole time this witness was being examined, Hetty had stood =
as
motionless as before: no word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the
next witness's voice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave a s=
tart
and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned away her head and
looked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough peasant=
. He
said:
‘My name is John Olding. I a=
m a
labourer, and live at Tedd's Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last M=
onday,
towards one o'clock in the afternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, a=
nd
about a quarter of a mile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red clo=
ak,
sitting under a bit of a haystack not far off the stile. She got up when she
saw me, and seemed as if she'd be walking on the other way. It was a regular
road through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman the=
re,
but I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I should have
thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. I thought she lo=
oked
a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood and looked back after =
her,
but she went right on while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side=
of
the coppice to look after some stakes. There's a road right through it, and
bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been cut down, and so=
me
of 'em not carried away. I didn't go straight along the road, but turned off
towards the middle, and took a shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get=
to.
I hadn't got far out of the road into one of the open places before I heard=
a
strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't =
for
stopping to look about just then. But it went on, and seemed so strange to =
me
in that place, I couldn't help stopping to look. I began to think I might m=
ake
some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which =
way
it came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs. And the=
n I
thought it came from the ground; and there was a lot of timber-choppings ly=
ing
about, and loose pieces of turf, and a trunk or two. And I looked about amo=
ng
them, but could find nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giv=
ing
it up, and I went on about my business. But when I came back the same way
pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down my stakes to have
another look. And just as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw
something odd and round and whitish lying on the ground under a nut-bush by=
the
side of me. And I stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw =
it
was a little baby's hand.’
At these words a thrill ran through
the court. Hetty was visibly trembling; now, for the first time, she seemed=
to
be listening to what a witness said.
‘There was a lot of
timber-choppings put together just where the ground went hollow, like, under
the bush, and the hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left =
in
one place and I could see down it and see the child's head; and I made haste
and did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the child. It had got
comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dea=
d. I
made haste back with it out of the wood, and took it home to my wife. She s=
aid
it was dead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the constable. A=
nd I
said, 'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to the
coppice.' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took the chil=
d on
to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on to Justice Hardy. A=
nd
then we went looking after the young woman till dark at night, and we went =
and
gave information at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning,
another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot where I found the
child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner a-sitting against the =
bush
where I found the child; and she cried out when she saw us, but she never
offered to move. She'd got a big piece of bread on her lap.’
Adam had given a faint groan of
despair while this witness was speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm,
which rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of =
his
suffering: Hetty was guilty; and he was silently calling to God for help. He
heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious when the case for the
prosecution had closed - unconscious that Mr Irwine was in the witness-box,
telling of Hetty's unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtu=
ous
habits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could have no influ=
ence
on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy which her o=
wn
counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for her - a favour =
not
granted to criminals in those stern times.
At last Adam lifted up his head, f=
or
there was a general movement round him. The judge had addressed the jury, a=
nd
they were retiring. The decisive moment was not far off Adam felt a shudder=
ing
horror that would not let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into=
her
blank hard indifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she sto=
od
like a statue of dull despair.
'There was a mingled rustling,
whispering, and low buzzing throughout the court during this interval. The
desire to listen was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to
express in undertones. Adam sat looking blankly before him, but he did not =
see
the objects that were right in front of his eyes - the counsel and attorneys
talking with an air of cool business, and Mr Irwine in low earnest conversa=
tion
with the judge - did not see Mr Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake
his head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward action was t=
oo
intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong sensation rou=
sed
him.
It was not very long, hardly more =
than
a quarter of an hour, before the knock which told that the jury had come to
their decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is sublime - t=
hat
sudden pause of a great multitude which tells that one soul moves in them a=
ll.
Deeper and deeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, w=
hile
the jurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up =
her
hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict.
‘Guilty.’
It was the verdict every one expec=
ted,
but there was a sigh of disappointment from some hearts that it was followe=
d by
no recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with the
prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly by the =
side
of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even the verdict, to distant
eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who were near saw her trembli=
ng.
The stillness was less intense unt=
il
the judge put on his black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was obse=
rved
behind him. Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command
silence. If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of beating
hearts. The judge spoke, ‘Hester Sorrel....’
The blood rushed to Hetty's face, =
and
then fled back again as she looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open e=
yes
fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her,
there was a deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words =
‘and
then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead,’ a piercing shriek ra=
ng
through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet and stret=
ched
out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her: she had fallen =
down
in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.
When Arthur Donnithorne landed at
Liverpool and read the letter from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his
grand-father's death, his first feeling was, ‘Poor Grandfather! I wis=
h I
could have got to him to be with him when he died. He might have felt or wi=
shed
something at the last that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death.=
8217;
It is impossible to say that his g=
rief
was deeper than that. Pity and softened memory took place of the old
antagonism, and in his busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried
him rapidly along towards the home where he was now to be master, there was=
a
continually recurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a
regard for his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherished
aims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in human nat=
ure
- only in human pretence - for a young man like Arthur, with a fine
constitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that oth=
ers
think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give them more and
more reason for that good opinion - it is not possible for such a young man,
just coming into a splendid estate through the death of a very old man whom=
he
was not fond of, to feel anything very different from exultant joy. Now his
real life was beginning; now he would have room and opportunity for action,=
and
he would use them. He would show the Loamshire people what a fine country
gentleman was; he would not exchange that career for any other under the su=
n.
He felt himself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking af=
ter
favourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings =
as
the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days=
as
a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches at election dinners, and
showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the patron of new ploughs and
drills, the severe upbraider of negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fe=
llow
that everybody must like - happy faces greeting him everywhere on his own
estate, and the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The Irwin=
es
should dine with him every week, and have their own carriage to come in, fo=
r in
some very delicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of the
Hayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the vic=
ar;
and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the
Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways - at least until he w=
as
married, and that event lay in the indistinct background, for Arthur had not
yet seen the woman who would play the lady-wife to the first-rate country
gentleman.
These were Arthur's chief thoughts=
, so
far as a man's thoughts through hours of travelling can be compressed into a
few sentences, which are only like the list of names telling you what are t=
he
scenes in a long long panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The
happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ru=
ddy
faces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there - the whole Poyser fam=
ily.
What - Hetty?
Yes; for Arthur was at ease about
Hetty - not quite at ease about the past, for a certain burning of the ears
would come whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August, but at =
ease
about her present lot. Mr Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, tel=
ling
him all the news about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly
three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had thou=
ght,
but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself had both told Mr Ir=
wine
all about it - that Adam had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years,
and that now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That stalwart
rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector had thought; it was really
quite an idyllic love affair; and if it had not been too long to tell in a
letter, he would have liked to describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the
simple strong words with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He k=
new Arthur
would like to hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect.
Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was=
not
air enough in the room to satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that
passage in the letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into=
the
December air, and greeted every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, =
as
if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the first time that d=
ay
since he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load that =
had
been pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He thought=
he
could conquer his bitterness towards Adam now - could offer him his hand, a=
nd
ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory which would sti=
ll
make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, and he had been forced to tel=
l a
lie: such things make a scar, do what we will. But if Adam were the same ag=
ain
as in the old days, Arthur wished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixe=
d up
with his business and his future, as he had always desired before the accur=
sed
meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he shou=
ld
otherwise have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband had a
special claim on him - Hetty herself should feel that any pain she had suff=
ered
through Arthur in the past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really=
she
could not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to marry A=
dam.
You perceive clearly what sort of
picture Adam and Hetty made in the panorama of Arthur's thoughts on his jou=
rney
homeward. It was March now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were
already married. And now it was actually in his power to do a great deal for
them. Sweet - sweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn't cared for him half=
as
much as he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still - was alm=
ost
afraid of seeing her - indeed, had not cared much to look at any other woman
since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards him in the Grov=
e,
those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him - that
picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she would look just
the same. It was impossible to think how he could meet her: he should certa=
inly
tremble. Strange, how long this sort of influence lasts, for he was certain=
ly
not in love with Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that
she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his
happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage. It was the
exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little =
more
quickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as she re=
ally
was, as Adam's wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home, he should
perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had
turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and interests to fill =
his
life now, and not be in danger of playing the fool again.
Pleasant the crack of the post-boy=
's
whip! Pleasant the sense of being hurried along in swift ease through Engli=
sh
scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so charming. Here =
was
a market-town - very much like Treddleston - where the arms of the neighbou=
ring
lord of the manor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fi=
elds
and hedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestio=
n of
high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more
frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a moderate
eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and chimneys among the
dense-looking masses of oaks and elms - masses reddened now with early buds.
And close at hand came the village: the small church, with its red-tiled ro=
of,
looking humble even among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green
gravestones with nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the child=
ren,
opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the
gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope w=
as!
And it should not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go =
on
everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in post-chaise=
s,
coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing but admire as they went. =
And
Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in Burge's
business now, and, if he liked, Arthur would put some money into the concern
and buy the old man out in another year or two. That was an ugly fault in
Arthur's life, that affair last summer, but the future should make amends. =
Many
men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he wo=
uld
not - he would resolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had
certainly been very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and
violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in lo=
ve,
and had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind
towards any human being: he was happy, and would make every one else happy =
that
came within his reach.
And here was dear old Hayslope at
last, sleeping, on the hill, like a quiet old place as it was, in the late
afternoon sunlight, and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hi=
lls,
below them the purplish blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale
front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anx=
ious
for the heir's return. ‘Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He =
was
a young fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the wo=
rld
goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be
indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido.’
The wheels of Arthur's chaise had =
been
anxiously listened for at the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral=
had
already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the
courtyard, all the servants in the house were assembled to receive him with=
a
grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it
would have been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in
their faces, when Mr Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts of =
the
head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the death of the o=
ld
squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as Mr
Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel - pretty Hetty Sorrel=
- whom
they used to see every week. They had the partisanship of household servants
who like their places, and were not inclined to go the full length of the
severe indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to m=
ake
excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of
neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help fee=
ling
that the longed-for event of the young squire's coming into the estate had =
been
robbed of all its pleasantness.
To Arthur it was nothing surprising
that the servants looked grave and sad: he himself was very much touched on
seeing them all again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It
was that sort of pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it -=
which
is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man,
conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelled agreea=
bly
as he said, ‘Well, Mills, how is my aunt?’
But now Mr Bygate, the lawyer, who=
had
been in the house ever since the death, came forward to give deferential
greetings and answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the
library, where his Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only pe=
rson
in the house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughter =
was
unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral
arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women, she
mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the more because
she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in other hear=
ts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face
more tenderly than he had ever done in his life before.
‘Dear Aunt,’ he said
affectionately, as he held her hand, ‘YOUR loss is the greatest of al=
l,
but you must tell me how to try and make it up to you all the rest of your
life.’
‘It was so sudden and so
dreadful, Arthur,’ poor Miss Lydia began, pouring out her little plai=
nts,
and Arthur sat down to listen with impatient patience. When a pause came, he
said:
‘Now, Aunt, I'll leave you f=
or a
quarter of an hour just to go to my own room, and then I shall come and give
full attention to everything.’
‘My room is all ready for me=
, I
suppose, Mills?’ he said to the butler, who seemed to be lingering
uneasily about the entrance-hall.
‘Yes, sir, and there are let=
ters
for you; they are all laid on the writing-table in your dressing-room.̵=
7;
On entering the small anteroom whi=
ch
was called a dressing-room, but which Arthur really used only to lounge and
write in, he just cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw that there we=
re
several letters and packets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable du=
sty
condition of a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really
refresh himself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his
letters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, with a
delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new day, =
he
went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level rays of the=
low
afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and as Arthur seated himself =
in
his velvet chair with their pleasant warmth upon him, he was conscious of t=
hat
quiet well-being which perhaps you and I have felt on a sunny afternoon whe=
n,
in our brightest youth and health, life has opened a new vista for us, and =
long
to-morrows of activity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which t=
here
was no need for hurrying to look at, because it was all our own.
The top letter was placed with its
address upwards: it was in Mr Irwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and
below the address was written, ‘To be delivered as soon as he arrives=
.’
Nothing could have been less surprising to him than a letter from Mr Irwine=
at
that moment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlier
than it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that it =
was
quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say. Arthur bro=
ke
the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the writer.
‘I send this letter to meet =
you
on your arrival, Arthur, because I may then be at Stoniton, whither I am ca=
lled
by the most painful duty it has ever been given me to perform, and it is ri=
ght
that you should know what I have to tell you without delay.
‘I will not attempt to add by
one word of reproach to the retribution that is now falling on you: any oth=
er
words that I could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the s=
ide
of those in which I must tell you the simple fact.
‘Hetty Sorrel is in prison, =
and
will be tried on Friday for the crime of child-murder.’...
Arthur read no more. He started up
from his chair and stood for a single minute with a sense of violent convul=
sion
in his whole frame, as if the life were going out of him with horrible thro=
bs;
but the next minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching the lett=
er -
he was hurrying along the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills
was still there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted man
across the hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out after him =
as
fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where the young
squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a h=
orse
was being saddled, and Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining wor=
ds
of the letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to him,=
and
at that moment caught sight of Mills' anxious face in front of him.
‘Tell them I'm gone - gone to
Stoniton,’ he said in a muffled tone of agitation - sprang into the
saddle, and set off at a gallop.
NEAR sunset that evening an elderly
gentleman was standing with his back against the smaller entrance-door of
Stoniton jail, saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The chapl=
ain
walked away, but the elderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the
pavement and stroking his chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by=
a
sweet clear woman's voice, saying, ‘Can I get into the prison, if you
please?’
He turned his head and looked fixe=
dly
at the speaker for a few moments without answering.
‘I have seen you before,R=
17;
he said at last. ‘Do you remember preaching on the village green at
Hayslope in Loamshire?’
‘Yes, sir, surely. Are you t=
he
gentleman that stayed to listen on horseback?’
‘Yes. Why do you want to go =
into
the prison?’
‘I want to go to Hetty Sorre=
l,
the young woman who has been condemned to death - and to stay with her, if I
may be permitted. Have you power in the prison, sir?’
‘Yes; I am a magistrate, and=
can
get admittance for you. But did you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?’=
;
‘Yes, we are kin. My own aunt
married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I was away at Leeds, and didn't know =
of
this great trouble in time to get here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, f=
or
the love of our heavenly Father, to let me go to her and stay with her.R=
17;
‘How did you know she was
condemned to death, if you are only just come from Leeds?’
‘I have seen my uncle since =
the
trial, sir. He is gone back to his home now, and the poor sinner is forsake=
n of
all. I beseech you to get leave for me to be with her.’
‘What! Have you courage to s=
tay
all night in the prison? She is very sullen, and will scarcely make answer =
when
she is spoken to.’
‘Oh, sir, it may please God =
to
open her heart still. Don't let us delay.’
‘Come, then,’ said the
elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission, ‘I know you have a =
key
to unlock hearts.’
Dinah mechanically took off her bo=
nnet
and shawl as soon as they were within the prison court, from the habit she =
had
of throwing them off when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and =
when
they entered the jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly.
There was no agitation visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as=
if,
even when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseen
support.
After speaking to the jailer, the
magistrate turned to her and said, ‘The turnkey will take you to the
prisoner's cell and leave you there for the night, if you desire it, but you
can't have a light during the night - it is contrary to rules. My name is
Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, ask the jailer for my addre=
ss
and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of =
that
fine fellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening I
heard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked.R=
17;
‘Ah, sir, can you tell me an=
ything
about him? Can you tell me where he lodges? For my poor uncle was too much
weighed down with trouble to remember.’
‘Close by here. I inquired a=
ll
about him of Mr Irwine. He lodges over a tinman's shop, in the street on the
right hand as you entered the prison. There is an old school-master with hi=
m.
Now, good-bye: I wish you success.’
‘Farewell, sir. I am gratefu=
l to
you.’
As Dinah crossed the prison court =
with
the turnkey, the solemn evening light seemed to make the walls higher than =
they
were by day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a w=
hite
flower on this background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all t=
he
while, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rude voice
would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered the dark corr=
idor
leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his most civil tone, ‘=
;It'll
be pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I can stop with my light a bit=
, if
you like.’
‘Nay, friend, thank you,R=
17;
said Dinah. ‘I wish to go in alone.’
‘As you like,’ said the
jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and opening the door wide enough =
to
admit Dinah. A jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of=
the
cell, where Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in h=
er
knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock wou=
ld
have been likely to waken her.
The door closed again, and the only
light in the cell was that of the evening sky, through the small high grati=
ng -
enough to discern human faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitatin=
g to
speak because Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap wit=
h a
yearning heart. Then she said, softly, ‘Hetty!’
There was a slight movement
perceptible in Hetty's frame - a start such as might have been produced by a
feeble electrical shock - but she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a =
tone
made stronger by irrepressible emotion, ‘Hetty...it's Dinah.’
Again there was a slight startled
movement through Hetty's frame, and without uncovering her face, she raised=
her
head a little, as if listening.
‘Hetty...Dinah is come to yo=
u.’
After a moment's pause, Hetty lift=
ed
her head slowly and timidly from her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale
faces were looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the o=
ther
full of sad yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched
them out.
‘Don't you know me, Hetty? D=
on't
you remember Dinah? Did you think I wouldn't come to you in trouble?’=
Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah=
's
face - at first like an animal that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.
‘I'm come to be with you, He=
tty
- not to leave you - to stay with you - to be your sister to the last.̵=
7;
Slowly, while Dinah was speaking,
Hetty rose, took a step forward, and was clasped in Dinah's arms.
They stood so a long while, for
neither of them felt the impulse to move apart again. Hetty, without any
distinct thought of it, hung on this something that was come to clasp her n=
ow,
while she was sinking helpless in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in=
the
first sign that her love was welcomed by the wretched lost one. The light g=
ot
fainter as they stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet
together, their faces had become indistinct.
Not a word was spoken. Dinah waite=
d,
hoping for a spontaneous word from Hetty, but she sat in the same dull desp=
air,
only clutching the hand that held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah'=
s.
It was the human contact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into
the dark gulf.
Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty=
was
conscious who it was that sat beside her. She thought suffering and fear mi=
ght
have driven the poor sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, =
as
she afterwards said, that she must not hurry God's work: we are overhasty to
speak - as if God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make =
his
love felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way, but=
it
got darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light on the
opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divine presence =
more
and more - nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the Divine =
pity
that was beating in her heart and was willing the rescue of this helpless o=
ne.
At last she was prompted to speak and find out how far Hetty was conscious =
of
the present.
‘Hetty,’ she said gent=
ly, ‘do
you know who it is that sits by your side?’
‘Yes,’ Hetty answered
slowly, ‘it's Dinah.’
‘And do you remember the time
when we were at the Hall Farm together, and that night when I told you to be
sure and think of me as a friend in trouble?’
‘Yes,’ said Hetty. The=
n,
after a pause, she added, ‘But you can do nothing for me. You can't m=
ake
'em do anything. They'll hang me o' Monday - it's Friday now.’
As Hetty said the last words, she
clung closer to Dinah, shuddering.
‘No, Hetty, I can't save you
from that death. But isn't the suffering less hard when you have somebody w=
ith
you, that feels for you - that you can speak to, and say what's in your
heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on me: you are glad to have me with you.̵=
7;
‘You won't leave me, Dinah?
You'll keep close to me?’
‘No, Hetty, I won't leave yo=
u.
I'll stay with you to the last....But, Hetty, there is some one else in this
cell besides me, some one close to you.’
Hetty said, in a frightened whispe=
r, ‘Who?’
‘Some one who has been with =
you
through all your hours of sin and trouble - who has known every thought you
have had - has seen where you went, where you lay down and rose up again, a=
nd
all the deeds you have tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can=
't
follow you - when my arms can't reach you - when death has parted us - He w=
ho
is with us now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no differenc=
e - whether
we live or die, we are in the presence of God.’
‘Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do
anything for me? Will they hang me for certain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd=
let
me live.’
‘My poor Hetty, death is very
dreadful to you. I know it's dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care=
of
you after death - in that other world - some one whose love is greater than
mine - who can do everything?...If God our Father was your friend, and was
willing to save you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither know
wicked feelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would
help you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn't be so ha=
rd
to die on Monday, would it?’
‘But I can't know anything a=
bout
it,’ Hetty said, with sullen sadness.
‘Because, Hetty, you are shu=
tting
up your soul against him, by trying to hide the truth. God's love and mercy=
can
overcome all things - our ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our
past wickedness - all things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling to, and =
will
not give up. You believe in my love and pity for you, Hetty, but if you had=
not
let me come near you, if you wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me, yo=
u'd
have shut me out from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel my love; I
couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God's love out in th=
at
way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while you have one falsehood =
in
your soul; his pardoning mercy can't reach you until you open your heart to
him, and say, 'I have done this great wickedness; O God, save me, make me p=
ure
from sin.' While you cling to one sin and will not part with it, it must dr=
ag
you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you to misery here in this
world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and
despair: there is light and blessedness for us as soon as we cast it off. G=
od
enters our souls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Ca=
st
it off now, Hetty - now: confess the wickedness you have done - the sin you
have been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down togethe=
r,
for we are in the presence of God.’
Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and
sank on her knees. They still held each other's hands, and there was long
silence. Then Dinah said, ‘Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for
you to tell the truth.’
Still there was silence. At last H=
etty
spoke, in a tone of beseeching -
‘Dinah...help me...I can't f=
eel
anything like you...my heart is hard.’
Dinah held the clinging hand, and =
all
her soul went forth in her voice:
‘Jesus, thou present Saviour!
Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow: thou hast entered that black dark=
ness
where God is not, and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and
gather of the fruits of thy travail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy han=
d,
thou who art mighty to save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She=
is
clothed round with thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her, and=
she
cannot stir to come to thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is
helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour! It is a blind cry =
to
thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy face of love and
sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied thee, and melt her hard heart=
.
‘See, Lord, I bring her, as =
they
of old brought the sick and helpless, and thou didst heal them. I bear her =
on
my arms and carry her before thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on he=
r,
but she trembles only at the pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her t=
hy
life-giving Spirit, and put a new fear within her - the fear of her sin. Ma=
ke
her dread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel the
presence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom the darkness =
is
as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for her to turn to hi=
m,
and confess her sin, and cry for mercy - now, before the night of death com=
es,
and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday that returneth no=
t.
‘Saviour! It is yet time - t=
ime
to snatch this poor soul from everlasting darkness. I believe - I believe in
thy infinite love. What is my love or my pleading? It is quenched in thine.=
I
can only clasp her in my weak arms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou - t=
hou
wilt breathe on the dead soul, and it shall arise from the unanswering slee=
p of
death.
‘Yea, Lord, I see thee, comi=
ng
through the darkness coming, like the morning, with healing on thy wings. T=
he
marks of thy agony are upon thee - I see, I see thou art able and willing to
save - thou wilt not let her perish for ever. Come, mighty Saviour! Let the
dead hear thy voice. Let the eyes of the blind be opened. Let her see that =
God
encompasses her. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off
from him. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her
whole soul, 'Father, I have sinned.'...’
‘Dinah,’ Hetty sobbed =
out,
throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, ‘I will speak...I will tell...I
won't hide it any more.’
But the tears and sobs were too
violent. Dinah raised her gently from her knees and seated her on the pallet
again, sitting down by her side. It was a long time before the convulsed th=
roat
was quiet, and even then they sat some time in stillness and darkness, hold=
ing
each other's hands. At last Hetty whispered, ‘I did do it, Dinah...I
buried it in the wood...the little baby...and it cried...I heard it cry...e=
ver
such a way off...all night...and I went back because it cried.’
She paused, and then spoke hurried=
ly
in a louder, pleading tone.
‘But I thought perhaps it
wouldn't die - there might somebody find it. I didn't kill it - I didn't ki=
ll
it myself. I put it down there and covered it up, and when I came back it w=
as
gone....It was because I was so very miserable, Dinah...I didn't know where=
to
go...and I tried to kill myself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I tried so to d=
rown
myself in the pool, and I couldn't. I went to Windsor - I ran away - did you
know? I went to find him, as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and
then I didn't know what to do. I daredn't go back home again - I couldn't b=
ear
it. I couldn't have bore to look at anybody, for they'd have scorned me. I
thought o' you sometimes, and thought I'd come to you, for I didn't think y=
ou'd
be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I thought I could tell you. But then=
the
other folks 'ud come to know it at last, and I couldn't bear that. It was
partly thinking o' you made me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so
frightened at going wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and had noth=
ing;
and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the farm sooner than that. =
Oh,
it was so dreadful, Dinah...I was so miserable...I wished I'd never been bo=
rn
into this world. I should never like to go into the green fields again - I
hated 'em so in my misery.’
Hetty paused again, as if the sens=
e of
the past were too strong upon her for words.
‘And then I got to Stoniton,=
and
I began to feel frightened that night, because I was so near home. And then=
the
little baby was born, when I didn't expect it; and the thought came into my
mind that I might get rid of it and go home again. The thought came all of a
sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got stronger and stronger...I lon=
ged
so to go back again...I couldn't bear being so lonely and coming to beg for
want. And it gave me strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I =
felt
I must do it...I didn't know how...I thought I'd find a pool, if I could, l=
ike
that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And when the woman went
out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do anything...I thought I should g=
et
rid of all my misery, and go back home, and never let 'em know why I ran aw=
ay I
put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby
under my cloak; and I walked fast till I got into a street a good way off, =
and
there was a public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I
walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and it got lighte=
r,
for there came the moon - oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it first looked =
at
me out o' the clouds - it never looked so before; and I turned out of the r=
oad
into the fields, for I was afraid o' meeting anybody with the moon shining =
on
me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I could lie down and keep mys=
elf
warm all night. There was a place cut into it, where I could make me a bed,=
and
I lay comfortable, and the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to
sleep for a good while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light,=
and
the baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off...I thought there'd =
perhaps
be a ditch or a pond there...and it was so early I thought I could hide the
child there, and get a long way off before folks was up. And then I thought=
I'd
go home - I'd get rides in carts and go home and tell 'em I'd been to try a=
nd
see for a place, and couldn't get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I longed =
so
to be safe at home. I don't know how I felt about the baby. I seemed to hat=
e it
- it was like a heavy weight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went
through me, and I daredn't look at its little hands and face. But I went on=
to
the wood, and I walked about, but there was no water....’
Hetty shuddered. She was silent for
some moments, and when she began again, it was in a whisper.
‘I came to a place where the=
re
was lots of chips and turf, and I sat down on the trunk of a tree to think =
what
I should do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a li=
ttle
grave. And it darted into me like lightning - I'd lay the baby there and co=
ver
it with the grass and the chips. I couldn't kill it any other way. And I'd =
done
it in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, Dinah - I couldn't cover it quite up =
- I
thought perhaps somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and then it wouldn't
die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it crying all the
while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I was held fast - I
couldn't go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I sat against the haystack=
to
watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very hungry, and I'd only a bit of bread l=
eft,
but I couldn't go away. And after ever such a while - hours and hours - the=
man
came - him in a smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I
made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and would perhaps
find the baby. And I went right on, till I came to a village, a long way off
from the wood, and I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something =
to
eat there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby
crying, and thought the other folks heard it too - and I went on. But I was=
so
tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the roadside there =
was
a barn - ever such a way off any house - like the barn in Abbot's Close, an=
d I
thought I could go in there and hide myself among the hay and straw, and no=
body
'ud be likely to come. I went in, and it was half full o' trusses of straw,=
and
there was some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where
nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep....But o=
h,
the baby's crying kept waking me, and I thought that man as looked at me so=
was
come and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long while at last, tho=
ugh
I didn't know, for when I got up and went out of the barn, I didn't know
whether it was night or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting
lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I couldn't help it, Dinah; it =
was
the baby's crying made me go - and yet I was frightened to death. I thought
that man in the smock-frock 'ud see me and know I put the baby there. But I=
went
on, for all that. I'd left off thinking about going home - it had gone out =
o'
my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I'd buried the baby=
...I
see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?’
Hetty clung round Dinah and shudde=
red
again. The silence seemed long before she went on.
‘I met nobody, for it was ve=
ry
early, and I got into the wood....I knew the way to the place...the place
against the nut-tree; and I could hear it crying at every step....I thought=
it
was alive....I don't know whether I was frightened or glad...I don't know w=
hat
I felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't know what I
felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I'd put it there, I thought I
should like somebody to find it and save it from dying; but when I saw it w=
as
gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o' stirring, I =
felt
so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'ud know about=
the
baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or try for anything; it s=
eemed
like as if I should stay there for ever, and nothing 'ud ever change. But t=
hey
came and took me away.’
Hetty was silent, but she shuddered
again, as if there was still something behind; and Dinah waited, for her he=
art
was so full that tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, wit=
h a
sob, ‘Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the plac=
e in
the wood, now I've told everything?’
‘Let us pray, poor sinner. L=
et
us fall on our knees again, and pray to the God of all mercy.’
ON Sunday morning, when the church
bells in Stoniton were ringing for morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered
Adam's room, after a short absence, and said, ‘Adam, here's a visitor
wants to see you.’
Adam was seated with is back towar=
ds
the door, but he started up and turned round instantly, with a flushed face=
and
an eager look. His face was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it
before, but he was washed and shaven this Sunday morning.
‘Is it any news?’ he s=
aid.
‘Keep yourself quiet, my lad=
,’
said Bartle; ‘keep quiet. It's not what you're thinking of. It's the
young Methodist woman come from the prison. She's at the bottom o' the stai=
rs,
and wants to know if you think well to see her, for she has something to sa=
y to
you about that poor castaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, =
she
said. She thought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These
preaching women are not so back'ard commonly,’ Bartle muttered to
himself.
‘Ask her to come in,’ =
said
Adam.
He was standing with his face towa=
rds
the door, and as Dinah entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, =
she
saw at once the great change that had come since the day when she had looke=
d up
at the tall man in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as=
she
put her hand into his and said, ‘Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has
not forsaken her.’
‘Bless you for coming to her=
,’
Adam said. ‘Mr Massey brought me word yesterday as you was come.̵=
7;
They could neither of them say any
more just yet, but stood before each other in silence; and Bartle Massey, t=
oo,
who had put on his spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. B=
ut
he recovered himself first, and said, ‘Sit down, young woman, sit dow=
n,’
placing the chair for her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.
‘Thank you, friend; I won't =
sit
down,’ said Dinah, ‘for I must hasten back. She entreated me no=
t to
stay long away. What I came for, Adam Bede, was to pray you to go and see t=
he
poor sinner and bid her farewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and =
it
is meet you should see her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when t=
he
time will be short.’
Adam stood trembling, and at last =
sank
down on his chair again.
‘It won't be,’ he said=
, ‘it'll
be put off - there'll perhaps come a pardon. Mr Irwine said there was hope.=
He
said, I needn't quite give it up.’
‘That's a blessed thought to=
me,’
said Dinah, her eyes filling with tears. ‘It's a fearful thing hurryi=
ng
her soul away so fast.’
‘But let what will be,’
she added presently. ‘You will surely come, and let her speak the wor=
ds
that are in her heart. Although her poor soul is very dark and discerns lit=
tle
beyond the things of the flesh, she is no longer hard. She is contrite, she=
has
confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given way, and she leans on=
me
for help and desires to be taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot b=
ut
think that the brethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the
sinner's knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the Ha=
ll
Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were her=
e,
she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to forgive me.'
You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back with me.’
‘I can't,’ Adam said. =
‘I
can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'm listening, and listening - I
can't think o' nothing but that. It can't be as she'll die that shameful de=
ath
- I can't bring my mind to it.’
He got up from his chair again and
looked away out of the window, while Dinah stood with compassionate patienc=
e.
In a minute or two he turned round and said, ‘I will come,
Dinah...to-morrow morning...if it must be. I may have more strength to bear=
it,
if I know it must be. Tell her, I forgive her; tell her I will come - at the
very last.’
‘I will not urge you against=
the
voice of your own heart,’ said Dinah. ‘I must hasten back to he=
r,
for it is wonderful how she clings now, and was not willing to let me out of
her sight. She used never to make any return to my affection before, but now
tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfo=
rt
you and strengthen you to bear all things.’ Dinah put out her hand, a=
nd
Adam pressed it in silence.
Bartle Massey was getting up to li=
ft
the stiff latch of the door for her, but before he could reach it, she had =
said
gently, ‘Farewell, friend,’ and was gone, with her light step d=
own
the stairs.
‘Well,’ said Bartle,
taking off his spectacles and putting them into his pocket, ‘if there
must be women to make trouble in the world, it's but fair there should be w=
omen
to be comforters under it; and she's one - she's one. It's a pity she's a
Methodist; but there's no getting a woman without some foolishness or other=
.’
Adam never went to bed that night.=
The
excitement of suspense, heightening with every hour that brought him nearer=
the
fatal moment, was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his
promises that he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.
‘What does it matter to me, =
lad?’
Bartle said: ‘a night's sleep more or less? I shall sleep long enough=
, by
and by, underground. Let me keep thee company in trouble while I can.’=
;
It was a long and dreary night in =
that
small chamber. Adam would sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards=
along
the short space from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face,
and no sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or t=
he
falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully tended.
Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, ‘If I could ha' do=
ne
anything to save her - if my bearing anything would ha' done any good...but=
t'
have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it's hard for a man to
bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if it hadn't been for HIM..=
..O
God, it's the very day we should ha' been married.’
‘Aye, my lad,’ said Ba=
rtle
tenderly, ‘it's heavy - it's heavy. But you must remember this: when =
you
thought of marrying her, you'd a notion she'd got another sort of a nature
inside her. You didn't think she could have got hardened in that little whi=
le
to do what she's done.’
‘I know - I know that,’
said Adam. ‘I thought she was loving and tender-hearted, and wouldn't
tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could I think any other way? And if he'd
never come near her, and I'd married her, and been loving to her, and took =
care
of her, she might never ha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified =
- my
having a bit o' trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this.’
‘There's no knowing, my lad =
- there's
no knowing what might have come. The smart's bad for you to bear now: you m=
ust
have time - you must have time. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll r=
ise
above it all and be a man again, and there may good come out of this that w=
e don't
see.’
‘Good come out of it!’
said Adam passionately. ‘That doesn't alter th' evil: HER ruin can't =
be
undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if there was a way o' making amends =
for
everything. They'd more need be brought to see as the wrong they do can nev=
er
be altered. When a man's spoiled his fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to
comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good
doesn't alter her shame and misery.’
‘Well, lad, well,’ said
Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast with his usual peremptorine=
ss
and impatience of contradiction, ‘it's likely enough I talk foolishne=
ss.
I'm an old fellow, and it's a good many years since I was in trouble myself.
It's easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient.’
‘Mr Massey,’ said Adam
penitently, ‘I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you something different; b=
ut
you mustn't take it ill of me.’
‘Not I, lad - not I.’<= o:p>
So the night wore on in agitation =
till
the chill dawn and the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that comes=
on
the brink of despair. There would soon be no more suspense.
‘Let us go to the prison now=
, Mr
Massey,’ said Adam, when he saw the hand of his watch at six. ‘=
If
there's any news come, we shall hear about it.’
The people were astir already, mov=
ing
rapidly, in one direction, through the streets. Adam tried not to think whe=
re
they were going, as they hurried past him in that short space between his
lodging and the prison gates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in fr=
om
seeing those eager people.
No; there was no news come - no pa=
rdon
- no reprieve.
Adam lingered in the court half an
hour before he could bring himself to send word to Dinah that he was come. =
But
a voice caught his ear: he could not shut out the words.
‘The cart is to set off at h=
alf-past
seven.’
It must be said - the last good-by=
e:
there was no help.
In ten minutes from that time, Adam
was at the door of the cell. Dinah had sent him word that she could not com=
e to
him; she could not leave Hetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the
meeting.
He could not see her when he enter=
ed,
for agitation deadened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him.=
He
stood a moment after the door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.
But he began to see through the
dimness - to see the dark eyes lifted up to him once more, but with no smil=
e in
them. O God, how sad they looked! The last time they had met his was when he
parted from her with his heart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked=
out
with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marb=
le
now; the sweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples we=
re
all gone - all but one, that never went; and the eyes - O, the worst of all=
was
the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes looking at him with
that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the dead to tell hi=
m of
her misery.
She was clinging close to Dinah; h=
er
cheek was against Dinah's. It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope=
lay
in that contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face look=
ed
like a visible pledge of the Invisible Mercy.
When the sad eyes met - when Hetty=
and
Adam looked at each other - she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to
strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen any being wh=
ose
face seemed to reflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the
dreadful past and the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at =
him.
‘Speak to him, Hetty,’
Dinah said; ‘tell him what is in your heart.’
Hetty obeyed her, like a little ch=
ild.
‘Adam...I'm very sorry...I
behaved very wrong to you...will you forgive me...before I die?’
Adam answered with a half-sob, =
216;Yes,
I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave thee long ago.’
It had seemed to Adam as if his br=
ain
would burst with the anguish of meeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, =
but
the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched a chord which =
had
been less strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming
unbearable, and the rare tears came - they had never come before, since he =
had
hung on Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.
Hetty made an involuntary movement
towards him, some of the love that she had once lived in the midst of was c=
ome
near her again. She kept hold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and =
said
timidly, ‘Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked?&=
#8217;
Adam took the blanched wasted hand=
she
put out to him, and they gave each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a
lifelong parting.
‘And tell him,’ Hetty
said, in rather a stronger voice, ‘tell him...for there's nobody else=
to
tell him...as I went after him and couldn't find him...and I hated him and
cursed him once...but Dinah says I should forgive him...and I try...for else
God won't forgive me.’
There was a noise at the door of t=
he
cell now - the key was being turned in the lock, and when the door opened, =
Adam
saw indistinctly that there were several faces there. He was too agitated to
see more - even to see that Mr Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that =
the
last preparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room was
silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in loneliness,
leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end.
IT was a sight that some people
remembered better even than their own sorrows - the sight in that grey clear
morning, when the fatal cart with the two young women in it was descried by=
the
waiting watching multitude, cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of =
a deliberately
inflicted sudden death.
All Stoniton had heard of Dinah
Morris, the young Methodist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal to
confess, and there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the wretched
Hetty.
But Dinah was hardly conscious of =
the
multitude. When Hetty had caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, s=
he
had clutched Dinah convulsively.
‘Close your eyes, Hetty,R=
17;
Dinah said, ‘and let us pray without ceasing to God.’
And in a low voice, as the cart we=
nt
slowly along through the midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her so=
ul
with the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling creature
that clung to her and clutched her as the only visible sign of love and pit=
y.
Dinah did not know that the crowd =
was
silent, gazing at her with a sort of awe - she did not even know how near t=
hey
were to the fatal spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a
loud shout hideous to her ear, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty's shriek
mingled with the sound, and they clasped each other in mutual horror.
But it was not a shout of execrati=
on -
not a yell of exultant cruelty.
It was a shout of sudden excitemen=
t at
the appearance of a horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is
hot and distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks =
as
if his eyes were glazed by madness, and he saw nothing but what was unseen =
by
others. See, he has something in his hand - he is holding it up as if it we=
re a
signal.
The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur
Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a hard-won release from death.
THE next day, at evening, two men =
were
walking from opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a com=
mon
memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men
were.
The old squire's funeral had taken
place that morning, the will had been read, and now in the first
breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he
might look fixedly at the new future before him and confirm himself in a sad
resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove.
Adam too had come from Stontion on
Monday evening, and to-day he had not left home, except to go to the family=
at
the Hall Farm and tell them everything that Mr Irwine had left untold. He h=
ad
agreed with the Poysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhoo=
d,
wherever that might be, for he meant to give up the management of the woods,
and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business with Jona=
than
Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home within reach of the fri=
ends
to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow.
‘Seth and me are sure to find
work,’ he said. ‘A man that's got our trade at his finger-ends =
is
at home everywhere; and we must make a new start. My mother won't stand in =
the
way, for she's told me, since I came home, she'd made up her mind to being
buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I'd be more comfortable
elsewhere. It's wonderful how quiet she's been ever since I came back. It s=
eems
as if the very greatness o' the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall
all be better in a new country, though there's some I shall be loath to lea=
ve
behind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr Poyser.
Trouble's made us kin.’
‘Aye, lad,’ said Marti=
n. ‘We'll
go out o' hearing o' that man's name. But I doubt we shall ne'er go far eno=
ugh
for folks not to find out as we've got them belonging to us as are transpor=
ted
o'er the seas, and were like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in =
our
faces, and our children's after us.’
That was a long visit to the Hall
Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam's energies for him to think of seeing
others, or re-entering on his old occupations till the morrow. ‘But t=
o-morrow,’
he said to himself, ‘I'll go to work again. I shall learn to like it
again some time, maybe; and it's right whether I like it or not.’
This evening was the last he would
allow to be absorbed by sorrow: suspense was gone now, and he must bear the=
unalterable.
He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to
avoid him. He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen
Arthur. And Adam distrusted himself - he had learned to dread the violence =
of
his own feeling. That word of Mr Irwine's - that he must remember what he h=
ad
felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove - had remained with =
him.
These thoughts about Arthur, like =
all
thoughts that are charged with strong feeling, were continually recurring, =
and
they always called up the image of the Grove - of that spot under the
overarching boughs where he had caught sight of the two bending figures, and
had been possessed by sudden rage.
‘I'll go and see it again
to-night for the last time,’ he said; ‘it'll do me good; it'll =
make
me feel over again what I felt when I'd knocked him down. I felt what poor
empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it, before I began to think he might=
be
dead.’
In this way it happened that Arthur
and Adam were walking towards the same spot at the same time.
Adam had on his working-dress agai=
n,
now, for he had thrown off the other with a sense of relief as soon as he c=
ame
home; and if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have
been taken, with his pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who
entered the Grove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no ba=
sket
of tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenly rou=
nd
him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyes rested chiefly=
on
the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and now he paused before a
beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary mark of his youth - the
sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest, strongest feelings had
left him. He felt sure they would never return. And yet, at this moment, th=
ere
was a stirring of affection at the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne w=
hom
he had believed in before he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It=
was
affection for the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer.
He was disturbed by the sound of
approaching footsteps, but the beech stood at a turning in the road, and he
could not see who was coming until the tall slim figure in deep mourning
suddenly stood before him at only two yards' distance. They both started, a=
nd
looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had
imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that
should be as harrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just sha=
re
in the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such a
meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always seen
Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, l=
ight
of speech; and the figure before him touched him with the signs of sufferin=
g.
Adam knew what suffering was - he could not lay a cruel finger on a bruised
man. He felt no impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just than
reproach. Arthur was the first to speak.
‘Adam,’ he said, quiet=
ly, ‘it
may be a good thing that we have met here, for I wished to see you. I should
have asked to see you to-morrow.’
He paused, but Adam said nothing.<= o:p>
‘I know it is painful to you=
to
meet me,’ Arthur went on, ‘but it is not likely to happen again=
for
years to come.’
‘No, sir,’ said Adam,
coldly, ‘that was what I meant to write to you to-morrow, as it would=
be
better all dealings should be at an end between us, and somebody else put i=
n my
place.’
Arthur felt the answer keenly, and=
it
was not without an effort that he spoke again.
‘It was partly on that subje=
ct I
wished to speak to you. I don't want to lessen your indignation against me,=
or
ask you to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help=
me
to lessen the evil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't
mean consequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, I kn=
ow.
I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be done, and y=
ou
can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Adam,
after some hesitation; ‘I'll hear what it is. If I can help to mend
anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know. We've had enough o' that=
.’
‘I was going to the Hermitag=
e,’
said Arthur. ‘Will you go there with me and sit down? We can talk bet=
ter
there.’
The Hermitage had never been enter=
ed
since they left it together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. =
And
now, when he opened the door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket;
there was the chair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there =
was
the waste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt in =
an
instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have been
painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had been less painfu=
l.
They sat down opposite each other =
in
the old places, and Arthur said, ‘I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into
the army.’
Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought t=
o be
affected by this announcement - ought to have a movement of sympathy towards
him. But Adam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face
unchanged.
‘What I want to say to you,&=
#8217;
Arthur continued, ‘is this: one of my reasons for going away is that =
no
one else may leave Hayslope - may leave their home on my account. I would do
anything, there is no sacrifice I would not make, to prevent any further in=
jury
to others through my - through what has happened.’
Arthur's words had precisely the
opposite effect to that he had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in th=
em
that notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing att=
empt
to make evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused his
indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right in the
face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the
wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a rich man. He fe=
lt
his old severity returning as he said, ‘The time's past for that, sir=
. A
man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong; sacrifices won't
undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got a deadly wound, they
can't be cured with favours.’
‘Favours!’ said Arthur,
passionately; ‘no; how can you suppose I meant that? But the Poysers =
- Mr
Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave the place where they have lived so
many years - for generations. Don't you see, as Mr Irwine does, that if they
could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them away, it would =
be
much better for them in the end to remain on the old spot, among the friends
and neighbours who know them?’
‘That's true,’ said Ad=
am
coldly. ‘But then, sir, folks's feelings are not so easily overcome.
It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to a strange place, among strange fac=
es,
when he's been bred up on the Hall Farm, and his father before him; but the=
n it
'ud be harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thin=
g's
to be made any other than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be
made up for.’
Arthur was silent some moments. In
spite of other feelings dominant in him this evening, his pride winced under
Adam's mode of treating him. Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too
obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes? It was now as it had been eig=
ht
months ago - Adam was forcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocable=
ness
of his own wrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was t=
he
most irritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued =
by
the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confronted each
other - by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. The momentary
struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal from Adam, to
whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; but there was a touch of
pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said, ‘But people may make
injuries worse by unreasonable conduct - by giving way to anger and satisfy=
ing
that for the moment, instead of thinking what will be the effect in the fut=
ure.
‘If I were going to stay here
and act as landlord,’ he added presently, with still more eagerness -
‘if I were careless about what I've done - what I've been the cause o=
f,
you would have some excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging others to =
go.
You would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil worse. But when=
I
tell you I'm going away for years - when you know what that means for me, h=
ow
it cuts off every plan of happiness I've ever formed - it is impossible for=
a
sensible man like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poys=
ers
refusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace - Mr Irwine has tol=
d me
all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of this idea that
they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours, and that they can't rem=
ain
on my estate, if you would join him in his efforts - if you would stay your=
self
and go on managing the old woods.’
Arthur paused a moment and then ad=
ded,
pleadingly, ‘You know that's a good work to do for the sake of other
people, besides the owner. And you don't know but that they may have a bett=
er
owner soon, whom you will like to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett wi=
ll
have the estate and take my name. He is a good fellow.’
Adam could not help being moved: it
was impossible for him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest
warm-hearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old days; but ne=
arer
memories would not be thrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer =
in
his face that induced him to go on, with growing earnestness.
‘And then, if you would talk=
to
the Poysers - if you would talk the matter over with Mr Irwine - he means to
see you to-morrow - and then if you would join your arguments to his to pre=
vail
on them not to go....I know, of course, that they would not accept any favo=
ur
from me - I mean nothing of that kind - but I'm sure they would suffer less=
in
the end. Irwine thinks so too. And Mr Irwine is to have the chief authority=
on
the estate - he has consented to undertake that. They will really be under =
no
man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the same with you, Adam,
and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that could incli=
ne
you to go.’
Arthur was silent again for a litt=
le
while, and then said, with some agitation in his voice, ‘I wouldn't a=
ct
so towards you, I know. If you were in my place and I in yours, I should tr=
y to
help you to do the best.’
Adam made a hasty movement on his
chair and looked on the ground. Arthur went on, ‘Perhaps you've never
done anything you've had bitterly to repent of in your life, Adam; if you h=
ad,
you would be more generous. You would know then that it's worse for me than=
for
you.’
Arthur rose from his seat with the
last words, and went to one of the windows, looking out and turning his bac=
k on
Adam, as he continued, passionately, ‘Haven't I loved her too? Didn't=
I
see her yesterday? Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much =
as
you will? And don't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?=
’
There was silence for several minu=
tes,
for the struggle in Adam's mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, who=
se
emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward
resistance he overcame before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arth=
ur.
Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look
with which Adam said, ‘It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard - it's i=
n my
nature. I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit har=
d t'
everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough - her suffering cut
into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard with her=
, I
said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch about =
her
has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known what it is in my life to repe=
nt
and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been too harsh to my father when he was =
gone
from me - I feel it now, when I think of him. I've no right to be hard towa=
rds
them as have done wrong and repent.’
Adam spoke these words with the fi=
rm
distinctness of a man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bo=
und
to say; but he went on with more hesitation.
‘I wouldn't shake hands with=
you
once, sir, when you asked me - but if you're willing to do it now, for all I
refused then...’
Arthur's white hand was in Adam's
large grasp in an instant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on
both sides, of the old, boyish affection.
‘Adam,’ Arthur said,
impelled to full confession now, ‘it would never have happened if I'd
known you loved her. That would have helped to save me from it. And I did
struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived you afterwards - and that=
led
on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I thought it was the best
thing I could do. And in that letter I told her to let me know if she were =
in
any trouble: don't think I would not have done everything I could. But I was
all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows,
I'd give my life if I could undo it.’
They sat down again opposite each
other, and Adam said, tremulously, ‘How did she seem when you left he=
r,
sir?’
‘Don't ask me, Adam,’
Arthur said; ‘I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with thinking of=
her
looks and what she said to me, and then, that I couldn't get a full pardon =
- that
I couldn't save her from that wretched fate of being transported - that I c=
an
do nothing for her all those years; and she may die under it, and never know
comfort any more.’
‘Ah, sir,’ said Adam, =
for
the first time feeling his own pain merged in sympathy for Arthur, ‘y=
ou
and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing, when we're a long way off one
another. I'll pray God to help you, as I pray him to help me.’
‘But there's that sweet woma=
n - that
Dinah Morris,’ Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts and not knowing
what had been the sense of Adam's words, ‘she says she shall stay with
her to the very last moment - till she goes; and the poor thing clings to h=
er
as if she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; I don't kn=
ow
what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she com=
es
back. I could say nothing to her yesterday - nothing of what I felt towards
her. Tell her,’ Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the
emotion with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, ‘=
tell
her I asked you to give her this in remembrance of me - of the man to whom =
she
is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she doesn't care a=
bout
such things - or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she will
use the watch - I shall like to think of her using it.’
‘I'll give it to her, sir,=
8217;
Adam said, ‘and tell her your words. She told me she should come back=
to
the people at the Hall Farm.’
‘And you will persuade the
Poysers to stay, Adam?’ said Arthur, reminded of the subject which bo=
th
of them had forgotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. ̵=
6;You
will stay yourself, and help Mr Irwine to carry out the repairs and
improvements on the estate?’
‘There's one thing, sir, that
perhaps you don't take account of,’ said Adam, with hesitating
gentleness, ‘and that was what made me hang back longer. You see, it's
the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it's for our own worldly
interest, and it looks as if we'd put up with anything for the sake o' that=
. I
know that's what they'll feel, and I can't help feeling a little of it myse=
lf.
When folks have got an honourable independent spirit, they don't like to do
anything that might make 'em seem base-minded.’
‘But no one who knows you wi=
ll
think that, Adam. That is not a reason strong enough against a course that =
is
really more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be known -=
it
shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. A=
dam,
don't try to make things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that.=
217;
‘No, sir, no,’ Adam sa=
id,
looking at Arthur with mournful affection. ‘God forbid I should make
things worse for you. I used to wish I could do it, in my passion - but that
was when I thought you didn't feel enough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best=
I
can. It's all I've got to think of now - to do my work well and make the wo=
rld
a bit better place for them as can enjoy it.’
‘Then we'll part now, Adam. =
You
will see Mr Irwine to-morrow, and consult with him about everything.’=
‘Are you going soon, sir?=
217;
said Adam.
‘As soon as possible - after
I've made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you
going about the old place.’
‘Good-bye, sir. God bless yo=
u.’
The hands were clasped once more, =
and
Adam left the Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred w=
as
gone.
As soon as the door was closed beh=
ind
him, Arthur went to the waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk
handkerchief.
THE first autumnal afternoon sunsh=
ine
of 1801 - more than eighteen months after that parting of Adam and Arthur in
the Hermitage - was on the yard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in o=
ne
of his most excited moments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows =
were
being driven into the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patie=
nt
beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of the
bull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid feminine
creatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have some relatio=
n to
their own movements - with the tremendous crack of the waggoner's whip, the
roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the waggon, as it left the
rick-yard empty of its golden load.
The milking of the cows was a sight
Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this hour on mild days she was usually standing at
the house door, with her knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only
heightened to a keener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once
kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive
punishment of having her hinder-legs strapped.
To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave =
but
a divided attention to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discus=
sion
with Dinah, who was stitching Mr Poyser's shirt-collars, and had borne
patiently to have her thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm
with a sudden insistence that she should look at ‘Baby,’ that i=
s,
at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty,
seated in her small chair at Dinah's side, was caressing and pressing to her
fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years' growth
than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafor=
e.
Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family
likeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is little outward
change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant house-place,
bright with polished oak and pewter.
‘I never saw the like to you,
Dinah,’ Mrs. Poyser was saying, ‘when you've once took anything
into your head: there's no more moving you than the rooted tree. You may say
what you like, but I don't believe that's religion; for what's the Sermon on
the Mount about, as you're so fond o' reading to the boys, but doing what o=
ther
folks 'ud have you do? But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you =
to
do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to 'em, or letting 'em slap yo=
u i'
the face, I daresay you'd be ready enough. It's only when one 'ud have you =
do
what's plain common sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinate th' ot=
her
way.’
‘Nay, dear Aunt,’ said
Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her work, ‘I'm sure your =
wish
'ud be a reason for me to do anything that I didn't feel it was wrong to do=
.’
‘Wrong! You drive me past
bearing. What is there wrong, I should like to know, i' staying along wi' y=
our
own friends, as are th' happier for having you with 'em an' are willing to
provide for you, even if your work didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o'
sparrow's victual y' eat and the bit o' rag you put on? An' who is it, I sh=
ould
like to know, as you're bound t' help and comfort i' the world more nor your
own flesh and blood - an' me th' only aunt you've got above-ground, an' am
brought to the brink o' the grave welly every winter as comes, an' there's =
the
child as sits beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an' the
grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull miss you so as
never was - a-lighting his pipe an' waiting on him, an' now I can trust you=
wi'
the butter, an' have had all the trouble o' teaching you, and there's all t=
he
sewing to be done, an' I must have a strange gell out o' Treddles'on to do =
it -
an' all because you must go back to that bare heap o' stones as the very cr=
ows
fly over an' won't stop at.’
‘Dear Aunt Rachel,’ sa=
id
Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face, ‘it's your kindness makes you
say I'm useful to you. You don't really want me now, for Nancy and Molly are
clever at their work, and you're in good health now, by the blessing of God,
and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance again, and you have neighbours and
friends not a few - some of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily.
Indeed, you will not miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and siste=
rs
in great need, who have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel =
that
I am called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn
again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word of =
life
to the sinful and desolate.’
‘You feel! Yes,’ said =
Mrs.
Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance at the cows, ‘that's alla=
ys
the reason I'm to sit down wi', when you've a mind to do anything contrairy.
What do you want to be preaching for more than you're preaching now? Don't =
you
go off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday a-preaching and praying? An' hav=
en't
you got Methodists enow at Treddles'on to go and look at, if church-folks's
faces are too handsome to please you? An' isn't there them i' this parish as
you've got under hand, and they're like enough to make friends wi' Old Harry
again as soon as your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranage - she'll be
flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be bound. She'l=
l no
more go on in her new ways without you than a dog 'ull stand on its hind-le=
gs
when there's nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna matter so much about
folks's souls i' this country, else you'd be for staying with your own aunt,
for she's none so good but what you might help her to be better.’
There was a certain something in M=
rs.
Poyser's voice just then, which she did not wish to be noticed, so she turn=
ed
round hastily to look at the clock, and said: ‘See there! It's tea-ti=
me;
an' if Martin's i' the rick-yard, he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken,
let mother put your bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and s=
ee
if Father's there, and tell him he mustn't go away again without coming t' =
have
a cup o' tea; and tell your brothers to come in too.’
Totty trotted off in her flapping
bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the bright oak table and reached down the
tea-cups.
‘You talk o' them gells Nancy
and Molly being clever i' their work,’ she began again; ‘it's f=
ine
talking. They're all the same, clever or stupid - one can't trust 'em out o'
one's sight a minute. They want somebody's eye on 'em constant if they're t=
o be
kept to their work. An' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the win=
ter
before last? Who's to look after 'em then, if you're gone? An' there's that
blessed child - something's sure t' happen to her - they'll let her tumble =
into
the fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard in't, or some mischief =
as
'ull lame her for life; an' it'll be all your fault, Dinah.’
‘Aunt,’ said Dinah, =
8216;I
promise to come back to you in the winter if you're ill. Don't think I will
ever stay away from you if you're in real want of me. But, indeed, it is
needful for my own soul that I should go away from this life of ease and lu=
xury
in which I have all things too richly to enjoy - at least that I should go =
away
for a short space. No one can know but myself what are my inward needs, and=
the
besetments I am most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call=
of
duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own desires; it =
is a
temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature should become =
like
a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light.’
‘It passes my cunning to know
what you mean by ease and luxury,’ said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the b=
read
and butter. ‘It's true there's good victual enough about you, as nobo=
dy
shall ever say I don't provide enough and to spare, but if there's ever a b=
it
o' odds an' ends as nobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it out...but l=
ook
there! There's Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he=
's
come so early.’
Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door f=
or
the pleasure of looking at her darling in a new position, with love in her =
eyes
but reproof on her tongue.
‘Oh for shame, Totty! Little
gells o' five year old should be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she'll b=
reak
your arm, such a big gell as that; set her down - for shame!’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Adam,=
‘I
can lift her with my hand - I've no need to take my arm to it.’
Totty, looking as serenely unconsc=
ious
of remark as a fat white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mot=
her
enforced her reproof with a shower of kisses.
‘You're surprised to see me =
at
this hour o' the day,’ said Adam.
‘Yes, but come in,’ sa=
id
Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; ‘there's no bad news, I hope?’=
‘No, nothing bad,’ Adam
answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his hand to her. She had laid =
down
her work and stood up, instinctively, as he approached her. A faint blush d=
ied
away from her pale cheek as she put her hand in his and looked up at him
timidly.
‘It's an errand to you broug=
ht
me, Dinah,’ said Adam, apparently unconscious that he was holding her
hand all the while; ‘mother's a bit ailing, and she's set her heart on
your coming to stay the night with her, if you'll be so kind. I told her I'd
call and ask you as I came from the village. She overworks herself, and I c=
an't
persuade her to have a little girl t' help her. I don't know what's to be d=
one.’
Adam released Dinah's hand as he
ceased speaking, and was expecting an answer, but before she had opened her
lips Mrs. Poyser said, ‘Look there now! I told you there was folks en=
ow
t' help i' this parish, wi'out going further off. There's Mrs. Bede getting=
as
old and cas'alty as can be, and she won't let anybody but you go a-nigh her
hardly. The folks at Snowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi'out=
you
nor she can.’
‘I'll put my bonnet on and s=
et
off directly, if you don't want anything done first, Aunt,’ said Dina=
h,
folding up her work.
‘Yes, I do want something do=
ne.
I want you t' have your tea, child; it's all ready - and you'll have a cup,
Adam, if y' arena in too big a hurry.’
‘Yes, I'll have a cup, pleas=
e;
and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm going straight home, for I've got a lot =
o'
timber valuations to write out.’
‘Why, Adam, lad, are you her=
e?’
said Mr Poyser, entering warm and coatless, with the two black-eyed boys be=
hind
him, still looking as much like him as two small elephants are like a large
one. ‘How is it we've got sight o' you so long before foddering-time?=
’
‘I came on an errand for Mot=
her,’
said Adam. ‘She's got a touch of her old complaint, and she wants Din=
ah
to go and stay with her a bit.’
‘Well, we'll spare her for y=
our
mother a little while,’ said Mr Poyser. ‘But we wonna spare her=
for
anybody else, on'y her husband.’
‘Husband!’ said Marty,=
who
was at the most prosaic and literal period of the boyish mind. ‘Why,
Dinah hasn't got a husband.’
‘Spare her?’ said Mrs.
Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and then seating herself to pour o=
ut
the tea. ‘But we must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neit=
her,
but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to your little sister's
doll? Making the child naughty, when she'd be good if you'd let her. You sh=
anna
have a morsel o' cake if you behave so.’
Tommy, with true brotherly sympath=
y,
was amusing himself by turning Dolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibit=
ing
her truncated body to the general scorn - an indignity which cut Totty to t=
he
heart.
‘What do you think Dinah's b=
een
a-telling me since dinner-time?’ Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her
husband.
‘Eh! I'm a poor un at guessi=
ng,’
said Mr Poyser.
‘Why, she means to go back to
Snowfield again, and work i' the mill, and starve herself, as she used to d=
o,
like a creatur as has got no friends.’
Mr Poyser did not readily find wor= ds to express his unpleasant astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Din= ah, who had now seated herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and was busying herself with the children's tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, it would have occurred to him that the= re was certainly a change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour; but, as it was, he merely observed that her face was flushed at that moment= . Mr Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came because her uncle was looking = at her so fixedly; but there is no knowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, ‘Why, I hoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up the notion o' going back to her old country.’<= o:p>
‘Thought! Yes,’ said M=
rs.
Poyser, ‘and so would anybody else ha' thought, as had got their right
end up'ards. But I suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist
'ull do. It's ill guessing what the bats are flying after.’
‘Why, what have we done to y=
ou.
Dinah, as you must go away from us?’ said Mr Poyser, still pausing ov=
er
his tea-cup. ‘It's like breaking your word, welly, for your aunt never
had no thought but you'd make this your home.’
‘Nay, Uncle,’ said Din=
ah,
trying to be quite calm. ‘When I first came, I said it was only for a
time, as long as I could be of any comfort to my aunt.’
‘Well, an' who said you'd ev=
er
left off being a comfort to me?’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘If you didna
mean to stay wi' me, you'd better never ha' come. Them as ha' never had a
cushion don't miss it.’
‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr
Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views. ‘Thee mustna say so; we sh=
ould
ha' been ill off wi'out her, Lady day was a twelvemont'. We mun be thankful=
for
that, whether she stays or no. But I canna think what she mun leave a good =
home
for, to go back int' a country where the land, most on't, isna worth ten
shillings an acre, rent and profits.’
‘Why, that's just the reason=
she
wants to go, as fur as she can give a reason,’ said Mrs. Poyser. R=
16;She
says this country's too comfortable, an' there's too much t' eat, an' folks
arena miserable enough. And she's going next week. I canna turn her, say wh=
at I
will. It's allays the way wi' them meek-faced people; you may's well pelt a=
bag
o' feathers as talk to 'em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate =
- is
it now, Adam?’
Adam saw that Dinah was more distu=
rbed
than he had ever seen her by any matter relating to herself, and, anxious to
relieve her, if possible, he said, looking at her affectionately, ‘Na=
y, I
can't find fault with anything Dinah does. I believe her thoughts are better
than our guesses, let 'em be what they may. I should ha' been thankful for =
her
to stay among us, but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn't cross her, or ma=
ke
it hard to her by objecting. We owe her something different to that.’=
As it often happens, the words
intended to relieve her were just too much for Dinah's susceptible feelings=
at
this moment. The tears came into the grey eyes too fast to be hidden and she
got up hurriedly, meaning it to be understood that she was going to put on =
her
bonnet.
‘Mother, what's Dinah crying
for?’ said Totty. ‘She isn't a naughty dell.’
‘Thee'st gone a bit too fur,=
’
said Mr Poyser. ‘We've no right t' interfere with her doing as she li=
kes.
An' thee'dst be as angry as could be wi' me, if I said a word against anyth=
ing
she did.’
‘Because you'd very like be
finding fault wi'out reason,’ said Mrs. Poyser. ‘But there's re=
ason
i' what I say, else I shouldna say it. It's easy talking for them as can't =
love
her so well as her own aunt does. An' me got so used to her! I shall feel as
uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she's gone from me. An' to think of her
leaving a parish where she's so looked on. There's Mr Irwine makes as much =
of
her as if she was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggo=
t o'
preaching in her head - God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to call it so.=
8217;
‘Aye,’ said Mr Poyser,
looking jocose; ‘but thee dostna tell Adam what he said to thee about=
it
one day. The missis was saying, Adam, as the preaching was the only fault t=
o be
found wi' Dinah, and Mr Irwine says, 'But you mustn't find fault with her f=
or
that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget she's got no husband to preach to. I'll answer
for it, you give Poyser many a good sermon.' The parson had thee there,R=
17; Mr
Poyser added, laughing unctuously. ‘I told Bartle Massey on it, an' he
laughed too.’
‘Yes, it's a small joke sets=
men
laughing when they sit a-staring at one another with a pipe i' their mouths=
,’
said Mrs. Poyser. ‘Give Bartle Massey his way and he'd have all the
sharpness to himself. If the chaff-cutter had the making of us, we should a=
ll
be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin Dinah, and see
what she's doing, and give her a pretty kiss.’
This errand was devised for Totty =
as a
means of checking certain threatening symptoms about the corners of the mou=
th;
for Tommy, no longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his
forefingers and turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that she felt t=
o be
disagreeably personal.
‘You're rare and busy now - =
eh,
Adam?’ said Mr Poyser. ‘Burge's getting so bad wi' his asthmy, =
it's
well if he'll ever do much riding about again.’
‘Yes, we've got a pretty bit=
o'
building on hand now,’ said Adam, ‘what with the repairs on th'
estate, and the new houses at Treddles'on.’
‘I'll bet a penny that new h=
ouse
Burge is building on his own bit o' land is for him and Mary to go to,̵=
7;
said Mr Poyser. ‘He'll be for laying by business soon, I'll warrant, =
and
be wanting you to take to it all and pay him so much by th' 'ear. We shall =
see
you living on th' hill before another twelvemont's over.’
‘Well,’ said Adam, =
216;I
should like t' have the business in my own hands. It isn't as I mind much a=
bout
getting any more money. We've enough and to spare now, with only our two se=
lves
and mother; but I should like t' have my own way about things - I could try
plans then, as I can't do now.’
‘You get on pretty well wi' =
the
new steward, I reckon?’ said Mr Poyser.
‘Yes, yes; he's a sensible m=
an
enough; understands farming - he's carrying on the draining, and all that,
capital. You must go some day towards the Stonyshire side and see what
alterations they're making. But he's got no notion about buildings. You can=
so
seldom get hold of a man as can turn his brains to more nor one thing; it's
just as if they wore blinkers like th' horses and could see nothing o' one =
side
of 'em. Now, there's Mr Irwine has got notions o' building more nor most
architects; for as for th' architects, they set up to be fine fellows, but =
the
most of 'em don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrelling
with a door. My notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit o' taste ma=
kes
the best architect for common things; and I've ten times the pleasure i' se=
eing
after the work when I've made the plan myself.’
Mr Poyser listened with an admiring
interest to Adam's discourse on building, but perhaps it suggested to him t=
hat
the building of his corn-rick had been proceeding a little too long without=
the
control of the master's eye, for when Adam had done speaking, he got up and
said, ‘Well, lad, I'll bid you good-bye now, for I'm off to the rick-=
yard
again.’
Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah
entering, with her bonnet on and a little basket in her hand, preceded by
Totty.
‘You're ready, I see, Dinah,=
’
Adam said; ‘so we'll set off, for the sooner I'm at home the better.&=
#8217;
‘Mother,’ said Totty, =
with
her treble pipe, ‘Dinah was saying her prayers and crying ever so.=
217;
‘Hush, hush,’ said the
mother, ‘little gells mustn't chatter.’
Whereupon the father, shaking with
silent laughter, set Totty on the white deal table and desired her to kiss =
him.
Mr and Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, had no correct principles of education.
‘Come back to-morrow if Mrs.
Bede doesn't want you, Dinah,’ said Mrs. Poyser: ‘but you can s=
tay,
you know, if she's ill.’
So, when the good-byes had been sa=
id,
Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm together.
‘You can't be happy, then, to
make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?’ Adam said, with the quiet inter=
est
of a brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the matter. ‘It's a p=
ity,
seeing they're so fond of you.’
‘You know, Adam, my heart is=
as
their heart, so far as love for them and care for their welfare goes, but t=
hey
are in no present need. Their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am call=
ed
back to my old work, in which I found a blessing that I have missed of late=
in
the midst of too abundant worldly good. I know it is a vain thought to flee
from the work that God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater bless=
ing
to our own souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall find t=
he
fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where alone it is to =
be
found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I have a clear showing that=
my
work lies elsewhere - at least for a time. In the years to come, if my aunt=
's
health should fail, or she should otherwise need me, I shall return.’=
‘You know best, Dinah,’
said Adam. ‘I don't believe you'd go against the wishes of them that =
love
you, and are akin to you, without a good and sufficient reason in your own
conscience. I've no right to say anything about my being sorry: you know we=
ll
enough what cause I have to put you above every other friend I've got; and =
if
it had been ordered so that you could ha' been my sister, and lived with us=
all
our lives, I should ha' counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to=
us
now. But Seth tells me there's no hope o' that: your feelings are different,
and perhaps I'm taking too much upon me to speak about it.’
Dinah made no answer, and they wal=
ked
on in silence for some yards, till they came to the stone stile, where, as =
Adam
had passed through first and turned round to give her his hand while she
mounted the unusually high step, she could not prevent him from seeing her
face. It struck him with surprise, for the grey eyes, usually so mild and
grave, had the bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation,=
and
the slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, was
heightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only sister to
Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some moments, and t=
hen
he said, ‘I hope I've not hurt or displeased you by what I've said,
Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I've no wish different from what you =
see
to be best, and I'm satisfied for you to live thirty mile off, if you think=
it
right. I shall think of you just as much as I do now, for you're bound up w=
ith
what I can no more help remembering than I can help my heart beating.’=
;
Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Di=
nah
made no answer, but she presently said, ‘Have you heard any news from
that poor young man, since we last spoke of him?’
Dinah always called Arthur so; she=
had
never lost the image of him as she had seen him in the prison.
‘Yes,’ said Adam. R=
16;Mr
Irwine read me part of a letter from him yesterday. It's pretty certain, th=
ey
say, that there'll be a peace soon, though nobody believes it'll last long;=
but
he says he doesn't mean to come home. He's no heart for it yet, and it's be=
tter
for others that he should keep away. Mr Irwine thinks he's in the right not=
to
come. It's a sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he alw=
ays
does. There's one thing in the letter cut me a good deal: 'You can't think =
what
an old fellow I feel,' he says; 'I make no schemes now. I'm the best when I=
've
a good day's march or fighting before me.'‘
‘He's of a rash, warm-hearted
nature, like Esau, for whom I have always felt great pity,’ said Dina=
h. ‘That
meeting between the brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, and Jac=
ob
so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, h=
as
always touched me greatly. Truly, I have been tempted sometimes to say that
Jacob was of a mean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the
good in the midst of much that is unlovely.’
‘Ah,’ said Adam, ̵=
6;I
like to read about Moses best, in th' Old Testament. He carried a hard busi=
ness
well through, and died when other folks were going to reap the fruits. A man
must have courage to look at his life so, and think what'll come of it after
he's dead and gone. A good solid bit o' work lasts: if it's only laying a f=
loor
down, somebody's the better for it being done well, besides the man as does=
it.’
They were both glad to talk of
subjects that were not personal, and in this way they went on till they pas=
sed
the bridge across the Willow Brook, when Adam turned round and said, ‘=
;Ah,
here's Seth. I thought he'd be home soon. Does he know of you're going, Din=
ah?’
‘Yes, I told him last Sabbat=
h.’
Adam remembered now that Seth had =
come
home much depressed on Sunday evening, a circumstance which had been very
unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every we=
ek
seemed long to have outweighed the pain of knowing she would never marry hi=
m.
This evening he had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, until=
he
came quite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate eyeli=
ds
and eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam was eviden=
tly
quite outside the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he wore his
everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let Dinah see that he =
had
noticed her face, and only said, ‘I'm thankful you're come, Dinah, for
Mother's been hungering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk of
you the first thing in the morning.’
When they entered the cottage, Lis=
beth
was seated in her arm-chair, too tired with setting out the evening meal, a
task she always performed a long time beforehand, to go and meet them at the
door as usual, when she heard the approaching footsteps.
‘Coom, child, thee't coom at
last,’ she said, when Dinah went towards her. ‘What dost mane by
lavin' me a week an' ne'er coomin' a-nigh me?’
‘Dear friend,’ said Di=
nah,
taking her hand, ‘you're not well. If I'd known it sooner, I'd have c=
ome.’
‘An' how's thee t' know if t=
hee
dostna coom? Th' lads on'y know what I tell 'em. As long as ye can stir hand
and foot the men think ye're hearty. But I'm none so bad, on'y a bit of a c=
old
sets me achin'. An' th' lads tease me so t' ha' somebody wi' me t' do the w=
ork
- they make me ache worse wi' talkin'. If thee'dst come and stay wi' me, th=
ey'd
let me alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonn=
et
off, an' let me look at thee.’
Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth
held her fast, while she was taking off her bonnet, and looked at her face =
as
one looks into a newly gathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of
purity and gentleness.
‘What's the matter wi' thee?=
’
said Lisbeth, in astonishment; ‘thee'st been a-cryin'.’
‘It's only a grief that'll p=
ass
away,’ said Dinah, who did not wish just now to call forth Lisbeth's
remonstrances by disclosing her intention to leave Hayslope. ‘You sha=
ll
know about it shortly - we'll talk of it to-night. I shall stay with you
to-night.’
Lisbeth was pacified by this prosp=
ect.
And she had the whole evening to talk with Dinah alone; for there was a new
room in the cottage, you remember, built nearly two years ago, in the
expectation of a new inmate; and here Adam always sat when he had writing t=
o do
or plans to make. Seth sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother w=
ould
like to have Dinah all to herself.
There were two pretty pictures on =
the
two sides of the wall in the cottage. On one side there was the
broad-shouldered, large-featured, hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and b=
uff
kerchief, with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually on the lily fa=
ce
and the slight form in the black dress that were either moving lightly abou=
t in
helpful activity, or seated close by the old woman's arm-chair, holding her
withered hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language which
Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn-book. She would
scarcely listen to reading at all to-night. ‘Nay, nay, shut the book,=
’
she said. ‘We mun talk. I want t' know what thee was cryin' about. Ha=
st
got troubles o' thy own, like other folks?’
On the other side of the wall there
were the two brothers so like each other in the midst of their unlikeness: =
Adam
with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his =
216;figuring’;
Seth, with large rugged features, the close copy of his brother's, but with
thin, wavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguely
out of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly bought bo=
ok -
Wesley's abridgment of Madame Guyon's life, which was full of wonder and
interest for him. Seth had said to Adam, ‘Can I help thee with anythi=
ng
in here to-night? I don't want to make a noise in the shop.’
‘No, lad,’ Adam answer=
ed, ‘there's
nothing but what I must do myself. Thee'st got thy new book to read.’=
And often, when Seth was quite
unconscious, Adam, as he paused after drawing a line with his ruler, looked=
at
his brother with a kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew ‘th' lad l=
iked
to sit full o' thoughts he could give no account of; they'd never come t'
anything, but they made him happy,’ and in the last year or so, Adam =
had
been getting more and more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing
tenderness which came from the sorrow at work within him.
For Adam, though you see him quite
master of himself, working hard and delighting in his work after his inborn
inalienable nature, had not outlived his sorrow - had not felt it slip from=
him
as a temporary burden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God
forbid. It would be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we
won nothing but our old selves at the end of it - if we could return to the
same blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughts of
human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the s=
ame
feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth irrepressible
cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in=
us
as an indestructible force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passi=
ng
from pain into sympathy - the one poor word which includes all our best ins=
ight
and our best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sympathy had
completely taken place in Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of pain,
and this he felt would subsist as long as her pain was not a memory, but an
existing thing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of every n=
ew
morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, f=
or
all that, losing our sensibility to it. It becomes a habit of our lives, an=
d we
cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease as possible for us. Desire is
chastened into submission, and we are contented with our day when we have b=
een
able to bear our grief in silence and act as if we were not suffering. For =
it
is at such periods that the sense of our lives having visible and invisible
relations, beyond any of which either our present or prospective self is the
centre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert.
That was Adam's state of mind in t=
his
second autumn of his sorrow. His work, as you know, had always been part of=
his
religion, and from very early days he saw clearly that good carpentry was G=
od's
will - was that form of God's will that most immediately concerned him. But=
now
there was no margin of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, no
holiday-time in the working-day world, no moment in the distance when duty
would take off her iron glove and breast-plate and clasp him gently into re=
st.
He conceived no picture of the future but one made up of hard-working days =
such
as he lived through, with growing contentment and intensity of interest, ev=
ery
fresh week. Love, he thought, could never be anything to him but a living
memory - a limb lopped off, but not gone from consciousness. He did not know
that the power of loving was all the while gaining new force within him; th=
at
the new sensibilities bought by a deep experience were so many new fibres by
which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, that his nature should intert=
wine
with another. Yet he was aware that common affection and friendship were mo=
re
precious to him than they used to be - that he clung more to his mother and
Seth, and had an unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any
small addition to their happiness. The Poysers, too - hardly three or four =
days
passed but he felt the need of seeing them and interchanging words and look=
s of
friendliness with them. He would have felt this, probably, even if Dinah had
not been with them, but he had only said the simplest truth in telling Dinah
that he put her above all other friends in the world. Could anything be more
natural? For in the darkest moments of memory the thought of her always cam=
e as
the first ray of returning comfort. The early days of gloom at the Hall Farm
had been gradually turned into soft moonlight by her presence; and in the
cottage, too, for she had come at every spare moment to soothe and cheer po=
or
Lisbeth, who had been stricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousn=
ess
at the sight of her darling Adam's grief-worn face. He had become used to
watching her light quiet movements, her pretty loving ways to the children,
when he went to the Hall Farm; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent
music; to think everything she said and did was just right, and could not h=
ave
been better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with her for h=
er
overindulgence of the children, who had managed to convert Dinah the preach=
er,
before whom a circle of rough men had often trembled a little, into a
convenient household slave - though Dinah herself was rather ashamed of this
weakness, and had some inward conflict as to her departure from the precept=
s of
Solomon. Yes, there was one thing that might have been better; she might ha=
ve
loved Seth and consented to marry him. He felt a little vexed, for his
brother's sake, and he could not help thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Se=
th's
wife, would have made their home as happy as it could be for them all - how=
she
was the one being that would have soothed their mother's last days into
peacefulness and rest.
‘It's wonderful she doesn't =
love
th' lad,’ Adam had said sometimes to himself, ‘for anybody 'ud
think he was just cut out for her. But her heart's so taken up with other
things. She's one o' those women that feel no drawing towards having a husb=
and
and children o' their own. She thinks she should be filled up with her own =
life
then, and she's been used so to living in other folks's cares, she can't be=
ar
the thought of her heart being shut up from 'em. I see how it is, well enou=
gh.
She's cut out o' different stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She's
never easy but when she's helping somebody, and marriage 'ud interfere with=
her
ways - that's true. I've no right to be contriving and thinking it 'ud be
better if she'd have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is - or than God eith=
er,
for He made her what she is, and that's one o' the greatest blessings I've =
ever
had from His hands, and others besides me.’
This self-reproof had recurred
strongly to Adam's mind when he gathered from Dinah's face that he had woun=
ded
her by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he had
endeavoured to put into the strongest words his confidence in her decision =
as
right - his resignation even to her going away from them and ceasing to make
part of their life otherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that
separation were chosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough =
how
much he cared to see her continually - to talk to her with the silent
consciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she should
hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in his assurance th=
at
he was contented for her to go away; and yet there remained an uneasy feeli=
ng
in his mind that he had not said quite the right thing - that, somehow, Din=
ah
had not understood him.
Dinah must have risen a little bef=
ore
the sun the next morning, for she was downstairs about five o'clock. So was
Seth, for, through Lisbeth's obstinate refusal to have any woman-helper in =
the
house, he had learned to make himself, as Adam said, ‘very handy in t=
he
housework,’ that he might save his mother from too great weariness; on
which ground I hope you will not think him unmanly, any more than you can h=
ave
thought the gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his inv=
alid
sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his writing, was still asleep, and was=
not
likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah had visit=
ed
Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never slept in the cottage
since that night after Thias's death, when, you remember, Lisbeth praised h=
er
deft movements and even gave a modified approval to her porridge. But in th=
at
long interval Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness, and th=
is
morning, since Seth was there to help, she was bent on bringing everything =
to a
pitch of cleanliness and order that would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. T=
he
cottage was far from that standard at present, for Lisbeth's rheumatism had
forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. =
When
the kitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had b=
een
writing the night before, to see what sweeping and dusting were needed ther=
e.
She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the smell of the
sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays of the early sun, which made a
glory about her pale face and pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, =
and
swept, singing to herself in a very low tone - like a sweet summer murmur t=
hat
you have to listen for very closely - one of Charles Wesley's hymns: Eternal
Beam of Light Divine, Fountain of unexhausted love, In whom the Father's
glories shine, Through earth beneath and heaven above;
Jesus! the weary wanderer's rest, =
Give
me thy easy yoke to bear; With steadfast patience arm my breast, With spotl=
ess
love and holy fear.
Speak to my warring passions, R=
16;Peace!’
Say to my trembling heart, ‘Be still!’ Thy power my strength and
fortress is, For all things serve thy sovereign will.
She laid by the brush and took up =
the
duster; and if you had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser's household, you would know
how the duster behaved in Dinah's hand - how it went into every small corne=
r,
and on every ledge in and out of sight - how it went again and again round
every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under and over everything that =
lay
on the table, till it came to Adam's papers and rulers and the open desk ne=
ar
them. Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these and then hesitated, looking=
at
them with a longing but timid eye. It was painful to see how much dust there
was among them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth's step just
outside the open door, towards which her back was turned, and said, raising=
her
clear treble, ‘Seth, is your brother wrathful when his papers are
stirred?’
‘Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places,’ said a deep strong voice, not Seth's.<= o:p>
It was as if Dinah had put her han=
ds
unawares on a vibrating chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and f=
or
the instant felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and d=
ared
not look round, but stood still, distressed because she could not say good-=
morning
in a friendly way. Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to see t=
he
smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his
wrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to look at him.
‘What! You think I'm a cross=
fellow
at home, Dinah?’ he said, smilingly.
‘Nay,’ said Dinah, loo=
king
up with timid eyes, ‘not so. But you might be put about by finding th=
ings
meddled with; and even the man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful
sometimes.’
‘Come, then,’ said Ada=
m,
looking at her affectionately, ‘I'll help you move the things, and put
'em back again, and then they can't get wrong. You're getting to be your au=
nt's
own niece, I see, for particularness.’
They began their little task toget=
her,
but Dinah had not recovered herself sufficiently to think of any remark, and
Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him
somehow lately; she had not been so kind and open to him as she used to be.=
He
wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he was himself with doing t=
his
bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him - it was easy for her to
avoid looking at the tall man - and when at last there was no more dusting =
to
be done and no further excuse for him to linger near her, he could bear it =
no longer,
and said, in rather a pleading tone, ‘Dinah, you're not displeased wi=
th
me for anything, are you? I've not said or done anything to make you think =
ill
of me?’
The question surprised her, and
relieved her by giving a new course to her feeling. She looked up at him no=
w,
quite earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said, ‘Oh, no, Ada=
m!
how could you think so?’
‘I couldn't bear you not to =
feel
as much a friend to me as I do to you,’ said Adam. ‘And you don=
't
know the value I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I mea=
nt
yesterday, when I said I'd be content for you to go, if you thought right. I
meant, the thought of you was worth so much to me, I should feel I ought to=
be
thankful, and not grumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind
parting with you, Dinah?’
‘Yes, dear friend,’ sa=
id
Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, ‘I know you have a
brother's heart towards me, and we shall often be with one another in spiri=
t;
but at this season I am in heaviness through manifold temptations. You must=
not
mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is a trial -=
the
flesh is weak.’
Adam saw that it pained her to be
obliged to answer.
‘I hurt you by talking about=
it,
Dinah,’ he said. ‘I'll say no more. Let's see if Seth's ready w=
ith
breakfast now.’
That is a simple scene, reader. Bu=
t it
is almost certain that you, too, have been in love - perhaps, even, more th=
an
once, though you may not choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If =
so,
you will no more think the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous
touches, by which two human souls approach each other gradually, like two
little quivering rain-streams, before they mingle into one - you will no mo=
re
think these things trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of
coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable something in
the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on
the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part o=
f the
soul's language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of
unimposing words, such as ‘light,’ ‘sound,’ ‘=
stars,’
‘music’ - words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in
themselves, any more than ‘chips’ or ‘sawdust.’ It =
is
only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and
beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, an=
d if
you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and sawdust to
you: they will rather be like those little words, ‘light’ and &=
#8216;music,’
stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enriching your present =
with
your most precious past.
LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could
not be made to appear serious enough to detain Dinah another night from the
Hall Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at
evening the friends must part. ‘For a long while,’ Dinah had sa=
id,
for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve.
‘Then it'll be for all my li=
fe,
an' I shall ne'er see thee again,’ said Lisbeth. ‘Long while! I=
'n
got no long while t' live. An' I shall be took bad an' die, an' thee canst
ne'er come a-nigh me, an' I shall die a-longing for thee.’
That had been the key-note of her
wailing talk all day; for Adam was not in the house, and so she put no
restraint on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again a=
nd
again to the question, why she must go away; and refusing to accept reasons,
which seemed to her nothing but whim and ‘contrairiness’; and s=
till
more, by regretting that she ‘couldna' ha' one o' the lads’ and=
be
her daughter.
‘Thee couldstna put up wi' S=
eth,’
she said. ‘He isna cliver enough for thee, happen, but he'd ha' been =
very
good t' thee - he's as handy as can be at doin' things for me when I'm bad,=
an'
he's as fond o' the Bible an' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen,
thee'dst like a husband better as isna just the cut o' thysen: the runnin'
brook isna athirst for th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for thee - I know he wou=
ld -
an' he might come t' like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as
stubborn as th' iron bar - there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'=
d be
a fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' so cliv=
er
as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y a look o' the l=
ad's
eye when he means kind tow'rt me.’
Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth=
's
closest looks and questions by finding little tasks of housework that kept =
her
moving about, and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her
bonnet to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still m=
ore
to look round on her way across the fields and see the old woman still stan=
ding
at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck in=
the
dim aged eyes. ‘The God of love and peace be with them,’ Dinah
prayed, as she looked back from the last stile. ‘Make them glad accor=
ding
to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years wherein they ha=
ve
seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; let me have no will=
but
thine.’
Lisbeth turned into the house at l=
ast
and sat down in the workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there with
fitting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the village into a sma=
ll
work-box, which he meant to give to Dinah before she went away.
‘Thee't see her again o' Sun=
day
afore she goes,’ were her first words. ‘If thee wast good for
anything, thee'dst make her come in again o' Sunday night wi' thee, and see=
me
once more.’
‘Nay, Mother,’ said Se=
th. ‘Dinah
'ud be sure to come again if she saw right to come. I should have no need to
persuade her. She only thinks it 'ud be troubling thee for nought, just to =
come
in to say good-bye over again.’ ‘She'd ne'er go away, I know, if
Adam 'ud be fond on her an' marry her, but everything's so contrairy,’
said Lisbeth, with a burst of vexation.
Seth paused a moment and looked up,
with a slight blush, at his mother's face. ‘What! Has she said anythi=
ng
o' that sort to thee, Mother?’ he said, in a lower tone.
‘Said? Nay, she'll say nothi=
n'.
It's on'y the men as have to wait till folks say things afore they find 'em
out.’
‘Well, but what makes thee t=
hink
so, Mother? What's put it into thy head?’
‘It's no matter what's put it
into my head. My head's none so hollow as it must get in, an' nought to put=
it
there. I know she's fond on him, as I know th' wind's comin' in at the door,
an' that's anoof. An' he might be willin' to marry her if he know'd she's f=
ond
on him, but he'll ne'er think on't if somebody doesna put it into's head.=
8217;
His mother's suggestion about Dina=
h's
feeling towards Adam was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words
alarmed him, lest she should herself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was =
not
sure about Dinah's feeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's.
‘Nay, Mother, nay,’ he
said, earnestly, ‘thee mustna think o' speaking o' such things to Ada=
m.
Thee'st no right to say what Dinah's feelings are if she hasna told thee, a=
nd
it 'ud do nothing but mischief to say such things to Adam. He feels very
grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he's no thoughts towards her th=
at
'ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry h=
im
either. I don't think she'll marry at all.’
‘Eh,’ said Lisbeth,
impatiently. ‘Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldna ha' thee. She'll ne=
'er
marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t' ha' thy brother.’
Seth was hurt. ‘Mother,̵=
7;
he said, in a remonstrating tone, ‘don't think that of me. I should b=
e as
thankful t' have her for a sister as thee wouldst t' have her for a daughte=
r.
I've no more thoughts about myself in that thing, and I shall take it hard =
if
ever thee say'st it again.’
‘Well, well, then thee
shouldstna cross me wi' sayin' things arena as I say they are.’
‘But, Mother,’ said Se=
th, ‘thee'dst
be doing Dinah a wrong by telling Adam what thee think'st about her. It 'ud=
do
nothing but mischief, for it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the sam=
e to
her. And I'm pretty sure he feels nothing o' the sort.’
‘Eh, donna tell me what thee=
't
sure on; thee know'st nought about it. What's he allays goin' to the Poyser=
s'
for, if he didna want t' see her? He goes twice where he used t' go once.
Happen he knowsna as he wants t' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's bro=
th,
but he'd miss it pretty quick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o' marry=
ing
if it isna put into's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'd=
st
put him up to't an' not let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' h=
er
to make a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under the w=
hite
thorn.’
‘Nay, Mother,’ said Se=
th, ‘thee
mustna think me unkind, but I should be going against my conscience if I to=
ok
upon me to say what Dinah's feelings are. And besides that, I think I should
give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel
thee not to do't. Thee may'st be quite deceived about Dinah. Nay, I'm pretty
sure, by words she said to me last Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry.̵=
7;
‘Eh, thee't as contrairy as =
the
rest on 'em. If it war summat I didna want, it 'ud be done fast enough.R=
17;
Lisbeth rose from the bench at thi=
s,
and went out of the workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should
disturb Adam's mind about Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with
reflecting that, since Adam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about
speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to
approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam wou=
ld
not take much notice of what she said.
Seth was right in believing that L=
isbeth
would be held in restraint by timidity, and during the next three days, the
intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare=
and
short to cause her any strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she
brooded over her regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very n=
ear
that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out =
of
their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when Seth w=
ent
away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came.
Sunday morning was the happiest ti=
me
in all the week to Lisbeth, for as there was no service at Hayslope church =
till
the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but reading, an
occupation in which she could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had
always a better dinner than usual to prepare for her sons - very frequently=
for
Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away the entire day - and the smel=
l of
the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock tickin=
g in
a peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his best clot=
hes,
doing nothing very important, so that she could go and stroke her hand acro=
ss
his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, while Gyp, rat=
her jealous,
poked his muzzle up between them - all these things made poor Lisbeth's ear=
thly
paradise.
The book Adam most often read on a
Sunday morning was his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open
before him on the round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in
spite of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to have him with her, a=
nd
it was the only day in the week when he could indulge her in that way. You
would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a wee=
kday,
and so he came to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography,=
and
poetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and the other
ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you would have se=
en
many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi-articulation - it
was when he came to a speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as
Samuel's dying speech to the people; then his eyebrows would be raised, and=
the
corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathy - something,
perhaps old Isaac's meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other tim=
es,
over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his face, and he
would every now and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up =
his
hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the
Apocrypha, of which he was very fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words
would bring a delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of
occasionally differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles
quite well, as became a good churchman.
Lisbeth, in the pauses of attendin=
g to
her dinner, always sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest=
no
longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to call his attenti=
on
to her. This morning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and
Lisbeth had been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair,
which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the large p=
age
with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was encouraged to
continue this caress, because when she first went up to him, he had thrown
himself back in his chair to look at her affectionately and say, ‘Why,
Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look=
at
him. He can't abide to think I love thee the best.’ Lisbeth said noth=
ing,
because she wanted to say so many things. And now there was a new leaf to be
turned over, and it was a picture - that of the angel seated on the great s=
tone
that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong
association in Lisbeth's memory, for she had been reminded of it when she f=
irst
saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book side=
ways
that they might look at the angel, than she said, ‘That's her - that's
Dinah.’
Adam smiled, and, looking more
intently at the angel's face, said, ‘It is a bit like her; but Dinah's
prettier, I think.’
‘Well, then, if thee think'st
her so pretty, why arn't fond on her?’
Adam looked up in surprise. ‘=
;Why,
Mother, dost think I don't set store by Dinah?’
‘Nay,’ said Lisbeth,
frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had broken the ice, and=
the
waters must flow, whatever mischief they might do. ‘What's th' use o'
settin' store by things as are thirty mile off? If thee wast fond enough on
her, thee wouldstna let her go away.’
‘But I've no right t' hinder
her, if she thinks well,’ said Adam, looking at his book as if he wan=
ted
to go on reading. He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lis=
beth
sat down again in the chair opposite to him, as she said:
‘But she wouldna think well =
if
thee wastna so contrairy.’ Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague
phrase yet.
‘Contrairy, mother?’ A=
dam
said, looking up again in some anxiety. ‘What have I done? What dost
mean?’
‘Why, thee't never look at
nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thy figurin, an' thy work,’ said
Lisbeth, half-crying. ‘An' dost think thee canst go on so all thy lif=
e,
as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber? An' what wut do when thy mother's
gone, an' nobody to take care on thee as thee gett'st a bit o' victual
comfortable i' the mornin'?’
‘What hast got i' thy mind,
Mother?’ said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. ‘I canna see what
thee't driving at. Is there anything I could do for thee as I don't do?R=
17;
‘Aye, an' that there is. Thee
might'st do as I should ha' somebody wi' me to comfort me a bit, an' wait o=
n me
when I'm bad, an' be good to me.’
‘Well, Mother, whose fault i=
s it
there isna some tidy body i' th' house t' help thee? It isna by my wish as =
thee
hast a stroke o' work to do. We can afford it - I've told thee often enough=
. It
'ud be a deal better for us.’
‘Eh, what's the use o' talki=
ng
o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o' th' wenches out o' th' village, or
somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'er set eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner mak=
e a
shift an' get into my own coffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me =
in.’
Adam was silent, and tried to go on
reading. That was the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a
Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after
scarcely a minute's quietness she began again.
‘Thee mightst know well enou=
gh
who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isna many folks I send for t' come an' =
see
me. I reckon. An' thee'st had the fetchin' on her times enow.’
‘Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother,=
I
know,’ said Adam. ‘But it's no use setting thy mind on what can=
't
be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn't likely she can co=
me
away from her aunt's house, where they hold her like a daughter, and where
she's more bound than she is to us. If it had been so that she could ha'
married Seth, that 'ud ha' been a great blessing to us, but we can't have
things just as we like in this life. Thee must try and make up thy mind to =
do
without her.’
‘Nay, but I canna ma' up my
mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an' nought shall ma' me believe as =
God
didna make her an' send her there o' purpose for thee. What's it sinnify ab=
out
her bein' a Methody! It 'ud happen wear out on her wi' marryin'.’
Adam threw himself back in his cha=
ir
and looked at his mother. He understood now what she had been aiming at from
the beginning of the conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a =
wish
as she had ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new=
an
idea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from his mothe=
r's
mind as quickly as possible.
‘Mother,’ he said,
gravely, ‘thee't talking wild. Don't let me hear thee say such things
again. It's no good talking o' what can never be. Dinah's not for marrying;
she's fixed her heart on a different sort o' life.’
‘Very like,’ said Lisb=
eth,
impatiently, ‘very like she's none for marr'ing, when them as she'd be
willin' t' marry wonna ax her. I shouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther=
if
he'd ne'er axed me; an' she's as fond o' thee as e'er I war o' Thias, poor
fellow.’
The blood rushed to Adam's face, a=
nd
for a few moments he was not quite conscious where he was. His mother and t=
he kitchen
had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up towards
his. It seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke=
up
very speedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it would =
have
been very foolish in him to believe his mother's words - she could have no
ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief very strongly - p=
erhaps
that he might call forth the proofs, if there were any to be offered.
‘What dost say such things f=
or,
Mother, when thee'st got no foundation for 'em? Thee know'st nothing as giv=
es
thee a right to say that.’
‘Then I knowna nought as gi'=
es
me a right to say as the year's turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I=
get
up i' th' morning. She isna fond o' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want=
to
marry HIM? But I can see as she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt
Seth. She makes no more o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but
she's all of a tremble when thee't a-sittin' down by her at breakfast an' a=
-looking
at her. Thee think'st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee
wast born.’
‘But thee canstna be sure as=
the
trembling means love?’ said Adam anxiously.
‘Eh, what else should it man=
e?
It isna hate, I reckon. An' what should she do but love thee? Thee't made t=
o be
loved - for where's there a straighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify =
her
bein' a Methody? It's on'y the marigold i' th' parridge.’
Adam had thrust his hands in his
pockets, and was looking down at the book on the table, without seeing any =
of
the letters. He was trembling like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promis=
e of
gold but sees in the same moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He c=
ould
not trust his mother's insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And ye=
t - and
yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things,
very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptible bree=
ze,
which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother's words.
Lisbeth noticed that he was moved.=
She
went on, ‘An' thee't find out as thee't poorly aff when she's gone.
Thee't fonder on her nor thee know'st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as
Gyp's follow thee.’
Adam could sit still no longer. He
rose, took down his hat, and went out into the fields.
The sunshine was on them: that ear=
ly
autumn sunshine which we should know was not summer's, even if there were n=
ot
the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, wh=
ich
has more than autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine,
which still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow=
of
the bushy hedgerows.
Adam needed the calm influence; he=
was
amazed at the way in which this new thought of Dinah's love had taken
possession of him, with an overmastering power that made all other feelings
give way before the impetuous desire to know that the thought was true.
Strange, that till that moment the possibility of their ever being lovers h=
ad
never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towa=
rds
that possibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishes t=
han
the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylight gleams a=
nd
the breath of heaven enters.
The autumnal Sunday sunshine sooth=
ed
him, but not by preparing him with resignation to the disappointment if his
mother - if he himself - proved to be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him =
by
gentle encouragement of his hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine =
that
they seemed to make one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike.
And Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he
was not forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving h=
er.
Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the
But Seth? Would the lad be hurt?
Hardly; for he had seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish
jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of his mother's fondness for Ada=
m.
But had he seen anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to =
know
this, for he thought he could trust Seth's observation better than his
mother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with this
intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to his mother=
, ‘Did
Seth say anything to thee about when he was coming home? Will he be back to
dinner?’
‘Aye, lad, he'll be back for=
a
wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He's gone somewhere else a-preachin' a=
nd
a-prayin'.’
‘Hast any notion which way h=
e's
gone?’ said Adam.
‘Nay, but he aften goes to t=
h'
Common. Thee know'st more o's goings nor I do.’
Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, b=
ut
he must content himself with walking about the near fields and getting sigh=
t of
him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, f=
or
Seth would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which was twe=
lve
o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and he sauntered
along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with eager intense=
eyes,
which looked as if they saw something very vividly; but it was not the broo=
k or
the willows, not the fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was
interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at the strength a=
nd
sweetness of this new love - almost like the wonder a man feels at the added
power he finds in himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. H=
ow
is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so=
few
about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the
best which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their
deeper-rooted affections? The boy's flutelike voice has its own spring char=
m;
but the man should yield a richer deeper music.
At last, there was Seth, visible at
the farthest stile, and Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and
thought something unusual must have happened, but when Adam came up, his fa=
ce
said plainly enough that it was nothing alarming.
‘Where hast been?’ said
Adam, when they were side by side.
‘I've been to the Common,=
217;
said Seth. ‘Dinah's been speaking the Word to a little company of hea=
rers
at Brimstone's, as they call him. They're folks as never go to church hardl=
y - them
on the Common - but they'll go and hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking wi=
th
power this forenoon from the words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but
sinners to repentance.' And there was a little thing happened as was pretty=
to
see. The women mostly bring their children with 'em, but to-day there was o=
ne
stout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never saw th=
ere
before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying,=
and
while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinah began to speak, th'
young un stood stock still all at once, and began to look at her with's mou=
th
open, and presently he ran away from's mother and went to Dinah, and pulled=
at
her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him =
up
and held th' lad on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he was as good=
as
could be till he went to sleep - and the mother cried to see him.’
‘It's a pity she shouldna be=
a
mother herself,’ said Adam, ‘so fond as the children are of her.
Dost think she's quite fixed against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing 'ud
turn her?’
There was something peculiar in his
brother's tone, which made Seth steal a glance at his face before he answer=
ed.
‘It 'ud be wrong of me to say
nothing 'ud turn her,’ he answered. ‘But if thee mean'st it abo=
ut
myself, I've given up all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me=
her
brother, and that's enough.’
‘But dost think she might ev=
er
get fond enough of anybody else to be willing to marry 'em?’ said Adam
rather shyly.
‘Well,’ said Seth, aft=
er
some hesitation, ‘it's crossed my mind sometimes o' late as she might;
but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for the creature draw her out o' the path as =
she
believed God had marked out for her. If she thought the leading was not from
Him, she's not one to be brought under the power of it. And she's allays se=
emed
clear about that - as her work was to minister t' others, and make no home =
for
herself i' this world.’
‘But suppose,’ said Ad=
am,
earnestly, ‘suppose there was a man as 'ud let her do just the same a=
nd
not interfere with her - she might do a good deal o' what she does now, jus=
t as
well when she was married as when she was single. Other women of her sort h=
ave
married - that's to say, not just like her, but women as preached and atten=
ded
on the sick and needy. There's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of.’
A new light had broken in on Seth.=
He
turned round, and laying his hand on Adam's shoulder, said, ‘Why, wou=
ldst
like her to marry THEE, Brother?’
Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's
inquiring eyes and said, ‘Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o' =
me
than o' thee?’
‘Nay,’ said Seth warml=
y, ‘how
canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so little that I shouldna feel thy =
joy?’
There was silence a few moments as
they walked on, and then Seth said, ‘I'd no notion as thee'dst ever t=
hink
of her for a wife.’
‘But is it o' any use to thi=
nk
of her?’ said Adam. ‘What dost say? Mother's made me as I hardly
know where I am, with what she's been saying to me this forenoon. She says
she's sure Dinah feels for me more than common, and 'ud be willing t' have =
me.
But I'm afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if thee'st seen
anything.’
‘It's a nice point to speak
about,’ said Seth, ‘and I'm afraid o' being wrong; besides, we'=
ve
no right t' intermeddle with people's feelings when they wouldn't tell 'em
themselves.’
Seth paused.
‘But thee mightst ask her,=
8217;
he said presently. ‘She took no offence at me for asking, and thee'st
more right than I had, only thee't not in the Society. But Dinah doesn't ho=
ld
wi' them as are for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. She doesn't
mind about making folks enter the Society, so as they're fit t' enter the
kingdom o' God. Some o' the brethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her=
for
that.’
‘Where will she be the rest =
o'
the day?’ said Adam.
‘She said she shouldn't leave
the farm again to-day,’ said Seth, ‘because it's her last Sabba=
th
there, and she's going t' read out o' the big Bible wi' the children.’=
;
Adam thought - but did not say -
‘Then I'll go this afternoon; for if I go to church, my thoughts 'ull=
be
with her all the while. They must sing th' anthem without me to-day.’=
IT was about three o'clock when Ad=
am
entered the farmyard and roused Alick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing.
Alick said everybody was gone to church ‘but th' young missis’ =
- so
he called Dinah - but this did not disappoint Adam, although the ‘eve=
rybody’
was so liberal as to include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of necessity =
were
not unfrequently incompatible with church-going.
There was perfect stillness about =
the
house. The doors were all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quiet=
er
than usual. Adam heard the water gently dripping from the pump - that was t=
he
only sound - and he knocked at the house door rather softly, as was suitabl=
e in
that stillness.
The door opened, and Dinah stood
before him, colouring deeply with the great surprise of seeing Adam at this
hour, when she knew it was his regular practice to be at church. Yesterday =
he
would have said to her without any difficulty, ‘I came to see you, Di=
nah:
I knew the rest were not at home.’ But to-day something prevented him
from saying that, and he put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them
spoke, and yet both wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat
down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was at the corner of the t=
able
near the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it was not op=
en.
She had been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of clear fir=
e in
the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr Poyser's three-cornered
chair.
‘Your mother is not ill agai=
n, I
hope, Adam?’ Dinah said, recovering herself. ‘Seth said she was
well this morning.’
‘No, she's very hearty to-da=
y,’
said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah's feeling at the sight of him, but s=
hy.
‘There's nobody at home, you
see,’ Dinah said; ‘but you'll wait. You've been hindered from g=
oing
to church to-day, doubtless.’
‘Yes,’ Adam said, and =
then
paused, before he added, ‘I was thinking about you: that was the reas=
on.’
This confession was very awkward a=
nd
sudden, Adam felt, for he thought Dinah must understand all he meant. But t=
he
frankness of the words caused her immediately to interpret them into a rene=
wal
of his brotherly regrets that she was going away, and she answered calmly, =
‘Do
not be careful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all things and abound at
Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am not seeking my own will in goin=
g.’
‘But if things were differen=
t,
Dinah,’ said Adam, hesitatingly. ‘If you knew things that perha=
ps
you don't know now....’
Dinah looked at him inquiringly, b=
ut
instead of going on, he reached a chair and brought it near the corner of t=
he
table where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid - and the next mo=
ment
her thoughts flew to the past: was it something about those distant unhappy
ones that she didn't know?
Adam looked at her. It was so swee=
t to
look at her eyes, which had now a self-forgetful questioning in them - for a
moment he forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to
tell her what he meant.
‘Dinah,’ he said sudde=
nly,
taking both her hands between his, ‘I love you with my whole heart and
soul. I love you next to God who made me.’
Dinah's lips became pale, like her
cheeks, and she trembled violently under the shock of painful joy. Her hands
were cold as death between Adam's. She could not draw them away, because he
held them fast.
‘Don't tell me you can't love
me, Dinah. Don't tell me we must part and pass our lives away from one anot=
her.’
The tears were trembling in Dinah's
eyes, and they fell before she could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low
voice.
‘Yes, dear Adam, we must sub=
mit
to another Will. We must part.’
‘Not if you love me, Dinah -=
not
if you love me,’ Adam said passionately. ‘Tell me - tell me if =
you
can love me better than a brother?’
Dinah was too entirely reliant on =
the
Supreme guidance to attempt to achieve any end by a deceptive concealment. =
She
was recovering now from the first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam =
with
simple sincere eyes as she said, ‘Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strong=
ly
towards you; and of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the contrary,=
I
could find my happiness in being near you and ministering to you continuall=
y. I
fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear I should
forget the Divine presence, and seek no love but yours.’
Adam did not speak immediately. Th=
ey
sat looking at each other in delicious silence - for the first sense of mut=
ual
love excludes other feelings; it will have the soul all to itself.
‘Then, Dinah,’ Adam sa=
id
at last, ‘how can there be anything contrary to what's right in our
belonging to one another and spending our lives together? Who put this great
love into our hearts? Can anything be holier than that? For we can help one
another in everything as is good. I'd never think o' putting myself between=
you
and God, and saying you oughtn't to do this and you oughtn't to do that. Yo=
u'd
follow your conscience as much as you do now.’
‘Yes, Adam,’ Dinah sai=
d, ‘I
know marriage is a holy state for those who are truly called to it, and hav=
e no
other drawing; but from my childhood upwards I have been led towards another
path; all my peace and my joy have come from having no life of my own, no
wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in God and those of his creatu=
res
whose sorrows and joys he has given me to know. Those have been very blessed
years to me, and I feel that if I was to listen to any voice that would dra=
w me
aside from that path, I should be turning my back on the light that has sho=
ne
upon me, and darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not bless e=
ach
other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and if I yearned, when it was=
too
late, after that better part which had once been given me and I had put away
from me.’
‘But if a new feeling has co=
me
into your mind, Dinah, and if you love me so as to be willing to be nearer =
to
me than to other people, isn't that a sign that it's right for you to change
your life? Doesn't the love make it right when nothing else would?’
‘Adam, my mind is full of
questionings about that; for now, since you tell me of your strong love tow=
ards
me, what was clear to me has become dark again. I felt before that my heart=
was
too strongly drawn towards you, and that your heart was not as mine; and the
thought of you had taken hold of me, so that my soul had lost its freedom, =
and
was becoming enslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and
careful about what should befall myself. For in all other affection I had b=
een
content with any small return, or with none; but my heart was beginning to
hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt that I must wrestle
against that as a great temptation, and the command was clear that I must go
away.’
‘But now, dear, dear Dinah, =
now
you know I love you better than you love me...it's all different now. You w=
on't
think o' going. You'll stay, and be my dear wife, and I shall thank God for
giving me my life as I never thanked him before.’
‘Adam, it's hard to me to tu=
rn a
deaf ear...you know it's hard; but a great fear is upon me. It seems to me =
as
if you were stretching out your arms to me, and beckoning me to come and ta=
ke
my ease and live for my own delight, and Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was
standing looking towards me, and pointing to the sinful, and suffering, and
afflicted. I have seen that again and again when I have been sitting in
stillness and darkness, and a great terror has come upon me lest I should
become hard, and a lover of self, and no more bear willingly the Redeemer's
cross.’
Dinah had closed her eyes, and a f=
aint
shudder went through her. ‘Adam,’ she went on, ‘you would=
n't
desire that we should seek a good through any unfaithfulness to the light t=
hat
is in us; you wouldn't believe that could be a good. We are of one mind in =
that.’
‘Yes, Dinah,’ said Adam
sadly, ‘I'll never be the man t' urge you against your conscience. Bu=
t I
can't give up the hope that you may come to see different. I don't believe =
your
loving me could shut up your heart - it's only adding to what you've been
before, not taking away from it. For it seems to me it's the same with love=
and
happiness as with sorrow - the more we know of it the better we can feel wh=
at
other people's lives are or might be, and so we shall only be more tender to
'em, and wishful to help 'em. The more knowledge a man has, the better he'll
do's work; and feeling's a sort o' knowledge.’
Dinah was silent; her eyes were fi=
xed
in contemplation of something visible only to herself. Adam went on present=
ly
with his pleading, ‘And you can do almost as much as you do now. I wo=
n't
ask you to go to church with me of a Sunday. You shall go where you like am=
ong
the people, and teach 'em; for though I like church best, I don't put my so=
ul
above yours, as if my words was better for you to follow than your own
conscience. And you can help the sick just as much, and you'll have more me=
ans
o' making 'em a bit comfortable; and you'll be among all your own friends as
love you, and can help 'em and be a blessing to 'em till their dying day.
Surely, Dinah, you'd be as near to God as if you was living lonely and away
from me.’
Dinah made no answer for some time.
Adam was still holding her hands and looking at her with almost trembling
anxiety, when she turned her grave loving eyes on his and said, in rather a=
sad
voice, ‘Adam there is truth in what you say, and there's many of the
brethren and sisters who have greater strength than I have, and find their
hearts enlarged by the cares of husband and kindred. But I have not faith t=
hat
it would be so with me, for since my affections have been set above measure=
on
you, I have had less peace and joy in God. I have felt as it were a divisio=
n in
my heart. And think how it is with me, Adam. That life I have led is like a
land I have trodden in blessedness since my childhood; and if I long for a
moment to follow the voice which calls me to another land that I know not, I
cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearn for that early blessedne=
ss
which I had forsaken; and where doubt enters there is not perfect love. I m=
ust
wait for clearer guidance. I must go from you, and we must submit ourselves
entirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes required to lay our natural
lawful affections on the altar.’
Adam dared not plead again, for
Dinah's was not the voice of caprice or insincerity. But it was very hard f=
or
him; his eyes got dim as he looked at her.
‘But you may come to feel
satisfied...to feel that you may come to me again, and we may never part,
Dinah?’
‘We must submit ourselves, A=
dam.
With time, our duty will be made clear. It may be when I have entered on my
former life, I shall find all these new thoughts and wishes vanish, and bec=
ome
as things that were not. Then I shall know that my calling is not towards
marriage. But we must wait.’
‘Dinah,’ said Adam
mournfully, ‘you can't love me so well as I love you, else you'd have=
no
doubts. But it's natural you shouldn't, for I'm not so good as you. I can't
doubt it's right for me to love the best thing God's ever given me to know.=
’
‘Nay, Adam. It seems to me t=
hat
my love for you is not weak, for my heart waits on your words and looks, al=
most
as a little child waits on the help and tenderness of the strong on whom it
depends. If the thought of you took slight hold of me, I should not fear th=
at
it would be an idol in the temple. But you will strengthen me - you will not
hinder me in seeking to obey to the uttermost.’
‘Let us go out into the
sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I'll speak no word to disturb you.̵=
7;
They went out and walked towards t=
he
fields, where they would meet the family coming from church. Adam said, =
216;Take
my arm, Dinah,’ and she took it. That was the only change in their ma=
nner
to each other since they were last walking together. But no sadness in the
prospect of her going away - in the uncertainty of the issue - could rob the
sweetness from Adam's sense that Dinah loved him. He thought he would stay =
at
the Hall Farm all that evening. He would be near her as long as he could.
‘Hey-day! There's Adam along=
wi'
Dinah,’ said Mr Poyser, as he opened the far gate into the Home Close=
. ‘I
couldna think how he happened away from church. Why,’ added good Mart=
in,
after a moment's pause, ‘what dost think has just jumped into my head=
?’
‘Summat as hadna far to jump,
for it's just under our nose. You mean as Adam's fond o' Dinah.’
‘Aye! hast ever had any noti=
on
of it before?’
‘To be sure I have,’ s=
aid
Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if possible, to be taken by surprise. =
216;I'm
not one o' those as can see the cat i' the dairy an' wonder what she's come
after.’
‘Thee never saidst a word to=
me
about it.’
‘Well, I aren't like a
bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle when the wind blows on me. I can keep=
my
own counsel when there's no good i' speaking.’
‘But Dinah 'll ha' none o' h=
im.
Dost think she will?’
‘Nay,’ said Mrs. Poyse=
r,
not sufficiently on her guard against a possible surprise, ‘she'll ne=
ver
marry anybody, if he isn't a Methodist and a cripple.’
‘It 'ud ha' been a pretty th=
ing
though for 'em t' marry,’ said Martin, turning his head on one side, =
as
if in pleased contemplation of his new idea. ‘Thee'dst ha' liked it t=
oo,
wouldstna?’
‘Ah! I should. I should ha' =
been
sure of her then, as she wouldn't go away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty
mile off, and me not got a creatur to look to, only neighbours, as are no k=
in
to me, an' most of 'em women as I'd be ashamed to show my face, if my dairy
things war like their'n. There may well be streaky butter i' the market. An=
' I
should be glad to see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, with a
house of her own over her head; and we'd stock her well wi' linen and feath=
ers,
for I love her next to my own children. An' she makes one feel safer when s=
he's
i' the house, for she's like the driven snow: anybody might sin for two as =
had
her at their elbow.’
‘Dinah,’ said Tommy,
running forward to meet her, ‘mother says you'll never marry anybody =
but
a Methodist cripple. What a silly you must be!’ a comment which Tommy
followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, and dancing along by her side =
with
incommodious fondness.
‘Why, Adam, we missed you i'=
the
singing to-day,’ said Mr Poyser. ‘How was it?’
‘I wanted to see Dinah - she=
's
going away so soon,’ said Adam.
‘Ah, lad! Can you persuade h=
er
to stop somehow? Find her a good husband somewhere i' the parish. If you'll=
do
that, we'll forgive you for missing church. But, anyway, she isna going bef=
ore
the harvest supper o' Wednesday, and you must come then. There's Bartle Mas=
sey
comin', an' happen Craig. You'll be sure an' come, now, at seven? The missis
wunna have it a bit later.’
‘Aye,’ said Adam, R=
16;I'll
come if I can. But I can't often say what I'll do beforehand, for the work
often holds me longer than I expect. You'll stay till the end o' the week,
Dinah?’
‘Yes, yes!’ said Mr
Poyser. ‘We'll have no nay.’
‘She's no call to be in a hu=
rry,’
observed Mrs. Poyser. ‘Scarceness o' victual 'ull keep: there's no ne=
ed
to be hasty wi' the cooking. An' scarceness is what there's the biggest sto=
ck
of i' that country.’
Dinah smiled, but gave no promise =
to
stay, and they talked of other things through the rest of the walk, lingeri=
ng
in the sunshine to look at the great flock of geese grazing, at the new
corn-ricks, and at the surprising abundance of fruit on the old pear-tree;
Nancy and Molly having already hastened home, side by side, each holding,
carefully wrapped in her pocket-handkerchief, a prayer-book, in which she c=
ould
read little beyond the large letters and the Amens.
Surely all other leisure is hurry
compared with a sunny walk through the fields from ‘afternoon church&=
#8217;
- as such walks used to be in those old leisurely times, when the boat, gli=
ding
sleepily along the canal, was the newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday boo=
ks
had most of them old brown-leather covers, and opened with remarkable preci=
sion
always in one place. Leisure is gone - gone where the spinning-wheels are g=
one,
and the pack-horses, and the slow waggons, and the pedlars, who brought
bargains to the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you,
perhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure for m=
ankind.
Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for eager thought to rush in.
Even idleness is eager now - eager for amusement; prone to excursion-trains,
art museums, periodical literature, and exciting novels; prone even to
scientific theorizing and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old Leisure was
quite a different personage. He only read one newspaper, innocent of leader=
s,
and was free from that periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. He
was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion; of qui=
et
perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his inability to know the
causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chiefly in the
country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by=
the
fruit-tree wall and scenting the apricots when they were warmed by the morn=
ing
sunshine, or of sheltering himself under the orchard boughs at noon, when t=
he
summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of weekday services, and thought
none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed him to sleep from the tex=
t to
the blessing; liking the afternoon service best, because the prayers were t=
he
shortest, and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience,
broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or port-w=
ine,
not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty aspirations. Life w=
as
not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered the guineas in his pocket, a=
nd
ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of the irresponsible, for had he not k=
ept
up his character by going to church on the Sunday afternoons?
Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe
upon him, and judge him by our modern standard. He never went to Exeter Hal=
l,
or heard a popular preacher, or read Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartu=
s.
As Adam was going homeward, on
Wednesday evening, in the six o'clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the =
last
load of barley winding its way towards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and
heard the chant of ‘Harvest Home!’ rising and sinking like a wa=
ve.
Fainter and fainter, and more musical through the growing distance, the fal=
ling
dying sound still reached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low weste=
ring
sun shone right on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the
unconscious sheep into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the
cottage too, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber or
amethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple, and
that the distant chant was a sacred song.
‘It's wonderful,’ he
thought, ‘how that sound goes to one's heart almost like a funeral be=
ll,
for all it tells one o' the joyfullest time o' the year, and the time when =
men
are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it's a bit hard to us to think
anything's over and gone in our lives; and there's a parting at the root of=
all
our joys. It's like what I feel about Dinah. I should never ha' come to know
that her love 'ud be the greatest o' blessings to me, if what I counted a
blessing hadn't been wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a gre=
ater
need, so as I could crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort.=
217;
He expected to see Dinah again this
evening, and get leave to accompany her as far as Oakbourne; and then he wo=
uld
ask her to fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, and learn whether t=
he
last best hope that had been born to him must be resigned like the rest. The
work he had to do at home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it sev=
en
before he was on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was questionable
whether, with his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time =
even
for the roast beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser's su=
pper
would be punctual.
Great was the clatter of knives and
pewter plates and tin cans when Adam entered the house, but there was no hu=
m of
voices to this accompaniment: the eating of excellent roast beef, provided =
free
of expense, was too serious a business to those good farm-labourers to be
performed with a divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to
each other - which they had not. And Mr Poyser, at the head of the table, w=
as
too busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr Craig's ready
talk.
‘Here, Adam,’ said Mrs.
Poyser, who was standing and looking on to see that Molly and Nancy did the=
ir
duty as waiters, ‘here's a place kept for you between Mr Massey and t=
he
boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't come to see the pudding when it was who=
le.’
Adam looked anxiously round for a =
fourth
woman's figure, but Dinah was not there. He was almost afraid of asking abo=
ut
her; besides, his attention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the
hope that Dinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities=
on
the eve of her departure.
It was a goodly sight - that table,
with Martin Poyser's round good-humoured face and large person at the head =
of
it helping his servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the emp=
ty
plates came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really
forgot to finish his own beef to-night - it was so pleasant to him to look =
on
in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed their supper; for
were they not men who, on all the days of the year except Christmas Day and=
Sundays,
ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank
their beer out of wooden bottles - with relish certainly, but with their mo=
uths
towards the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human
bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must
find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and
screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted T=
om
Tholer, otherwise known as ‘Tom Saft,’ receiving his second
plateful of beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was =
set
down before him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if they
had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continue smoulder=
ing
in a grin - it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn ‘haw, haw!&=
#8217;
followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork dar=
ted
down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent unctuo=
us
laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she too had been observant of
Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured
amusement.
‘Tom Saft’ was a great
favourite on the farm, where he played the part of the old jester, and made=
up
for his practical deficiencies by his success in repartee. His hits, I imag=
ine,
were those of the flail, which falls quite at random, but nevertheless smas=
hes
an insect now and then. They were much quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaki=
ng
times, but I refrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove =
to
be like that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day - rather of a
temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations of
things.
Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had so=
me
pride in his servants and labourers, thinking with satisfaction that they w=
ere
the best worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, f=
or
example (Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, =
and
was not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter), the old man with the clo=
se
leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was there =
any
man in Loamshire who knew better the ‘natur’ of all farming wor=
k?
He was one of those invaluable labourers who can not only turn their hand to
everything, but excel in everything they turn their hand to. It is true
Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time, and he walked with a
perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most reverent of men. And so he w=
as;
but I am obliged to admit that the object of his reverence was his own skil=
l,
towards which he performed some rather affecting acts of worship. He always
thatched the ricks - for if anything were his forte more than another, it w=
as
thatching - and when the last touch had been put to the last beehive rick,
Kester, whose home lay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to=
the
rick-yard in his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at=
a
due distance, to contemplate his own thatching walking about to get each ri=
ck
from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his eyes upturned=
to
the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits of the beehive ri=
cks,
which indeed were gold of the best sort, you might have imagined him to be
engaged in some pagan act of adoration. Kester was an old bachelor and repu=
ted
to have stockings full of coin, concerning which his master cracked a joke =
with
him every pay-night: not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had
been tried many times before and had worn well. ‘Th' young measter's a
merry mon,’ Kester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by
frightening away the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could n=
ever
cease to account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamed of
commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands of such =
men
- hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so faithfully,
thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits, and receiving t=
he
smallest share as their own wages.
Then, at the end of the table,
opposite his master, there was Alick, the shepherd and head-man, with the r=
uddy
face and broad shoulders, not on the best terms with old Kester; indeed, th=
eir
intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl, for though they probably
differed little concerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of ewes,
there was a profound difference of opinion between them as to their own
respective merits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm,
they are not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not by =
any
means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl in it, and=
his
broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog expression - ‘Don't=
you
meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you.’ But he was honest even =
to
the splitting of an oat-grain rather than he would take beyond his acknowle=
dged
share, and as ‘close-fisted’ with his master's property as if it
had been his own - throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to the
chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination painfully with a
sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, =
had
his grudge against Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each
other, and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoe=
s;
but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind, it
would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits of
unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of
that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparently observed in mo=
st
districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight=
on
a field-labourer's face, and there was seldom any gradation between bovine
gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourer so honest as our friend Alick. =
At
this very table, among Mr Poyser's men, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a v=
ery
powerful thresher, but detected more than once in carrying away his master's
corn in his pockets - an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could
hardly be ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him,
and continued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common time=
out
of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I daresay,
society was not much the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the
treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, and the House of
Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast beef to-n=
ight
with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas and beans=
as
seed for his garden since the last harvest supper, and felt warranted in
thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, for ever upon him, was an injury to h=
is
innocence.
But NOW the roast beef was finished
and the cloth was drawn, leaving a fair large deal table for the bright
drinking-cans, and the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlestick=
s,
pleasant to behold. NOW, the great ceremony of the evening was to begin - t=
he
harvest-song, in which every man must join. He might be in tune, if he like=
d to
be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged=
to
be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum.
As to the origin of this song - wh=
ether
it came in its actual state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was
gradually perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant.
There is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me =
to
the former hypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that this
unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a
condition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. Some w=
ill
perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain an indication of a lost
line, which later rhapsodists, failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied=
by
the feeble device of iteration. Others, however, may rather maintain that t=
his
very iteration is an original felicity, to which none but the most prosaic
minds can be insensible.
The ceremony connected with the so=
ng
was a drinking ceremony. (That is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you kno=
w,
we cannot reform our forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, su=
ng
decidedly forte, no can was filled.
Here's a health unto our master, T= he founder of the feast; Here's a health unto our master And to our mistress!<= o:p>
And may his doings prosper, Whate'=
er
he takes in hand, For we are all his servants, And are at his command.
But now, immediately before the th=
ird
quatrain or chorus, sung fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which
gave the effect of cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he
was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased.
Then drink, boys, drink! And see y=
e do
not spill, For if ye do, ye shall drink two, For 'tis our master's will.
When Alick had gone successfully
through this test of steady-handed manliness, it was the turn of old Kester=
, at
his right hand - and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint un=
der
the stimulus of the chorus. Tom Saft - the rogue - took care to spill a lit=
tle
by accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to
prevent the exaction of the penalty.
To any listener outside the door it
would have been the reverse of obvious why the ‘Drink, boys, drink!=
8217;
should have such an immediate and often-repeated encore; but once entered, =
he
would have seen that all faces were at present sober, and most of them seri=
ous
- it was the regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-laboure=
rs
to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over th=
eir
wine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out=
to
see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the ceremony, and had =
not
finished his contemplation until a silence of five minutes declared that =
8216;Drink,
boys, drink!’ was not likely to begin again for the next twelvemonth.
Much to the regret of the boys and Totty: on them the stillness fell rather
flat, after that glorious thumping of the table, towards which Totty, seate=
d on
her father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist.
When Bartle re-entered, however, t=
here
appeared to be a general desire for solo music after the choral. Nancy decl=
ared
that Tim the waggoner knew a song and was ‘allays singing like a lark=
i'
the stable,’ whereupon Mr Poyser said encouragingly, ‘Come, Tim,
lad, let's hear it.’ Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and s=
aid
he couldn't sing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed
all round the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could s=
ay, ‘Come,
Tim,’ except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessa=
ry
speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began to give emphasis=
to
his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, said, ‘Let=
me
alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye wonna like.’ A
good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was not to be urged
further.
‘Well, then, David, ye're the
lad to sing,’ said Ben, willing to show that he was not discomfited by
this check. ‘Sing 'My loove's a roos wi'out a thorn.'‘
The amatory David was a young man =
of
an unconscious abstracted expression, which was due probably to a squint of
superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not
indifferent to Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sle=
eve
over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for
some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to he=
ar
David's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellar at
present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.
Meanwhile the conversation at the =
head
of the table had taken a political turn. Mr Craig was not above talking
politics occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight th=
an
on specific information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that
really it was superfluous to know them.
‘I'm no reader o' the paper
myself,’ he observed to-night, as he filled his pipe, ‘though I
might read it fast enough if I liked, for there's Miss Lyddy has 'em and 's
done with 'em i' no time. But there's Mills, now, sits i' the chimney-corner
and reads the paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when he's got to=
th'
end on't he's more addle-headed than he was at the beginning. He's full o' =
this
peace now, as they talk on; he's been reading and reading, and thinks he's =
got
to the bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no more =
into
this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell you what =
it
is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'm not again' it =
- mark
my words - I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion as there's them at the he=
ad
o' this country as are worse enemies to us nor Bony and all the mounseers h=
e's
got at 's back; for as for the mounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'e=
m at
once as if they war frogs.'‘
‘Aye, aye,’ said Martin
Poyser, listening with an air of much intelligence and edification, ‘=
they
ne'er ate a bit o' beef i' their lives. Mostly sallet, I reckon.’
‘And says I to Mills,’
continued Mr Craig, ‘'Will you try to make me believe as furriners li=
ke
them can do us half th' harm them ministers do with their bad government? If
King George 'ud turn 'em all away and govern by himself, he'd see everything
righted. He might take on Billy Pitt again if he liked; but I don't see mys=
elf
what we want wi' anybody besides King and Parliament. It's that nest o'
ministers does the mischief, I tell you.'‘
‘Ah, it's fine talking,̵=
7;
observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated near her husband, with Totty on her
lap - ‘it's fine talking. It's hard work to tell which is Old Harry w=
hen
everybody's got boots on.’
‘As for this peace,’ s=
aid Mr
Poyser, turning his head on one side in a dubitative manner and giving a
precautionary puff to his pipe between each sentence, ‘I don't know. =
Th'
war's a fine thing for the country, an' how'll you keep up prices wi'out it?
An' them French are a wicked sort o' folks, by what I can make out. What can
you do better nor fight 'em?’
‘Ye're partly right there,
Poyser,’ said Mr Craig, ‘but I'm not again' the peace - to make=
a
holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like, an' I'm in no fear o' Bony,
for all they talk so much o' his cliverness. That's what I says to Mills th=
is
morning. Lor' bless you, he sees no more through Bony!...why, I put him up =
to
more in three minutes than he gets from's paper all the year round. Says I,=
'Am
I a gardener as knows his business, or arn't I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To=
be sure
y' are, Craig,' says he - he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a butler,=
but
weak i' the head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; would it =
be
any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but a quagmire to =
work
on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's just what it is wi' Bony. I'll =
not
deny but he may be a bit cliver - he's no Frenchman born, as I understand -=
but
what's he got at's back but mounseers?'‘
Mr Craig paused a moment with an
emphatic stare after this triumphant specimen of Socratic argument, and then
added, thumping the table rather fiercely, ‘Why, it's a sure thing - =
and
there's them 'ull bear witness to't - as i' one regiment where there was one
man a-missing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as
the shell fits the walnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounse=
ers!’
‘Ah! Think o' that, now!R=
17;
said Mr Poyser, impressed at once with the political bearings of the fact a=
nd
with its striking interest as an anecdote in natural history.
‘Come, Craig,’ said Ad=
am, ‘that's
a little too strong. You don't believe that. It's all nonsense about the Fr=
ench
being such poor sticks. Mr Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he s=
ays
they've plenty o' fine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge, and
contrivances, and manufactures, there's a many things as we're a fine sight
behind 'em in. It's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson =
and
the rest of 'em 'ud have no merit i' beating 'em, if they were such offal as
folks pretend.’
Mr Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr
Craig, puzzled by this opposition of authorities. Mr Irwine's testimony was=
not
to be disputed; but, on the other hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his
view was less startling. Martin had never ‘heard tell’ of the
French being good for much. Mr Craig had found no answer but such as was
implied in taking a long draught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the
proportions of his own leg, which he turned a little outward for that purpo=
se,
when Bartle Massey returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking h=
is
first pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his
forefinger into the canister, ‘Why, Adam, how happened you not to be =
at
church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limping witho=
ut
you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old age?’
‘No, Mr Massey,’ said
Adam. ‘Mr and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I was. I was in no bad
company.’
‘She's gone, Adam - gone to
Snowfield,’ said Mr Poyser, reminded of Dinah for the first time this
evening. ‘I thought you'd ha' persuaded her better. Nought 'ud hold h=
er,
but she must go yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got over it. I
thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th' harvest supper.’
Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah s=
everal
times since Adam had come in, but she had had ‘no heart’ to men=
tion
the bad news.
‘What!’ said Bartle, w=
ith
an air of disgust. ‘Was there a woman concerned? Then I give you up,
Adam.’
‘But it's a woman you'n spoke
well on, Bartle,’ said Mr Poyser. ‘Come now, you canna draw bac=
k;
you said once as women wouldna ha' been a bad invention if they'd all been =
like
Dinah.’
‘I meant her voice, man - I
meant her voice, that was all,’ said Bartle. ‘I can bear to hear
her speak without wanting to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I
daresay she's like the rest o' the women - thinks two and two 'll come to m=
ake
five, if she cries and bothers enough about it.’
‘Aye, aye!’ said Mrs.
Poyser; ‘one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk, as the men war 'cute
enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi' only smelling at it. They c=
an
see through a barn-door, they can. Perhaps that's the reason THEY can see so
little o' this side on't.’
Martin Poyser shook with delighted
laughter and winked at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for =
it
now.
‘Ah!’ said Bartle
sneeringly, ‘the women are quick enough - they're quick enough. They =
know
the rights of a story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thou=
ghts
are before he knows 'em himself.’
‘Like enough,’ said Mr=
s.
Poyser, ‘for the men are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun 'em, =
an'
they can only catch 'em by the tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man=
's
getting's tongue ready an' when he outs wi' his speech at last, there's lit=
tle
broth to be made on't. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'.
Howiver, I'm not denyin' the women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to ma=
tch
the men.’
‘Match!’ said Bartle. =
‘Aye,
as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a man says a word, his wife 'll match it
with a contradiction; if he's a mind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it wi=
th
cold bacon; if he laughs, she'll match him with whimpering. She's such a ma=
tch
as the horse-fly is to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him wi=
th -
the right venom to sting him with.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Poyse=
r, ‘I
know what the men like - a poor soft, as 'ud simper at 'em like the picture=
o'
the sun, whether they did right or wrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an'
pretend she didna know which end she stood uppermost, till her husband told
her. That's what a man wants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o' one
fool as 'ull tell him he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that - =
they
think so much o' themselves a'ready. An' that's how it is there's old
bachelors.’
‘Come, Craig,’ said Mr
Poyser jocosely, ‘you mun get married pretty quick, else you'll be set
down for an old bachelor; an' you see what the women 'ull think on you.R=
17;
‘Well,’ said Mr Craig,
willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a high value on his own compl=
iments,
‘I like a cleverish woman - a woman o' sperrit - a managing woman.=
217;
‘You're out there, Craig,=
217;
said Bartle, dryly; ‘you're out there. You judge o' your garden-stuff=
on
a better plan than that. You pick the things for what they can excel in - f=
or
what they can excel in. You don't value your peas for their roots, or your
carrots for their flowers. Now, that's the way you should choose women. The=
ir
cleverness 'll never come to much - never come to much - but they make
excellent simpletons, ripe and strong-flavoured.’
‘What dost say to that?̵=
7;
said Mr Poyser, throwing himself back and looking merrily at his wife.
‘Say!’ answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her eye. ‘Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as run on strikin', not to tell you the = time o' the day, but because there's summat wrong i' their own inside...’<= o:p>
Mrs. Poyser would probably have
brought her rejoinder to a further climax, if every one's attention had not=
at
this moment been called to the other end of the table, where the lyricism,
which had at first only manifested itself by David's sotto voce performance=
of ‘My
love's a rose without a thorn,’ had gradually assumed a rather deafen=
ing
and complex character. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was
impelled to supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of ‘=
;Three
Merry Mowers,’ but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed
himself capable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whe=
ther
the rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, with an
entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quavering treble -=
as
if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him to go off.
The company at Alick's end of the
table took this form of vocal entertainment very much as a matter of course,
being free from musical prejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and
put his fingers in his ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever sinc=
e he
had heard Dinah was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night.=
‘I'll go with you, lad,̵=
7;
said Bartle; ‘I'll go with you before my ears are split.’
‘I'll go round by the Common=
and
see you home, if you like, Mr Massey,’ said Adam.
‘Aye, aye!’ said Bartl=
e; ‘then
we can have a bit o' talk together. I never get hold of you now.’
‘Eh! It's a pity but you'd s=
it
it out,’ said Martin Poyser. ‘They'll all go soon, for th' miss=
is
niver lets 'em stay past ten.’
But Adam was resolute, so the
good-nights were said, and the two friends turned out on their starlight wa=
lk
together.
‘There's that poor fool, Vix=
en,
whimpering for me at home,’ said Bartle. ‘I can never bring her
here with me for fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poyser's eye, and the =
poor
bitch might go limping for ever after.’
‘I've never any need to drive
Gyp back,’ said Adam, laughing. ‘He always turns back of his own
head when he finds out I'm coming here.’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Bartl=
e. ‘A
terrible woman! - made of needles, made of needles. But I stick to Martin -=
I
shall always stick to Martin. And he likes the needles, God help him! He's a
cushion made on purpose for 'em.’
‘But she's a downright
good-natur'd woman, for all that,’ said Adam, ‘and as true as t=
he
daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the dogs when they offer to come in th' hou=
se,
but if they depended on her, she'd take care and have 'em well fed. If her
tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I've seen that in times o' trouble. She's
one o' those women as are better than their word.’
‘Well, well,’ said Bar=
tle,
‘I don't say th' apple isn't sound at the core; but it sets my teeth =
on
edge - it sets my teeth on edge.’
‘I wish I'd asked her to wri=
te
to me, though,’ he thought. ‘And yet even that might disturb he=
r a
bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quiet in her old way for a while. And I=
've
no right to be impatient and interrupting her with my wishes. She's told me
what her mind is, and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another. =
I'll
wait patiently.’
That was Adam's wise resolution, a=
nd
it throve excellently for the first two or three weeks on the nourishment it
got from the remembrance of Dinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There=
is
a wonderful amount of sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards
the middle of October the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and show=
ed
dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinah must
surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let a woman say =
what
she will after she has once told a man that she loves him, he is a little t=
oo
flushed and exalted with that first draught she offers him to care much abo=
ut
the taste of the second. He treads the earth with a very elastic step as he
walks away from her, and makes light of all difficulties. But that sort of =
glow
dies out: memory gets sadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to
revive us. Adam was no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear
that perhaps Dinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any
new feeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely have wri=
tten
to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she held it right to
discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patience waned with it, and=
he
thought he must write himself. He must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful
doubt longer than was needful. He sat up late one night to write her a lett=
er,
but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. It would be worse to
have a discouraging answer by letter than from her own lips, for her presen=
ce reconciled
him to her will.
You perceive how it was: Adam was
hungering for the sight of Dinah, and when that sort of hunger reaches a
certain stage, a lover is likely to still it though he may have to put his
future in pawn.
But what harm could he do by going=
to
Snowfield? Dinah could not be displeased with him for it. She had not forbi=
dden
him to go. She must surely expect that he would go before long. By the seco=
nd
Sunday in October this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he=
was
already on his way to Snowfield, on horseback this time, for his hours were
precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for the journey=
.
What keen memories went along the =
road
with him! He had often been to Oakbourne and back since that first journey =
to
Snowfield, but beyond Oakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the
meagre trees, seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past
which he knew so well by heart. But no story is the same to us after a laps=
e of
time - or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters - and =
Adam
this morning brought with him new thoughts through that grey country, thoug=
hts
which gave an altered significance to its story of the past.
That is a base and selfish, even a
blasphemous, spirit which rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that =
has
blighted or crushed another, because it has been made a source of unforeseen
good to ourselves. Adam could never cease to mourn over that mystery of hum=
an
sorrow which had been brought so close to him; he could never thank God for
another's misery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam's
behalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself. He w=
ould
have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, ‘Evil's evil, and
sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrapping it up in other
words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I should think all sq=
uare
when things turn out well for me.’
But it is not ignoble to feel that=
the
fuller life which a sad experience has brought us is worth our own personal
share of pain. Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it
would be possible for a man with cataract to regret the painful process by
which his dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged for
clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling within us is =
like
the growth of faculty, bringing with it a sense of added strength. We can no
more wish to return to a narrower sympathy than a painter or a musician can
wish to return to his cruder manner, or a philosopher to his less complete
formula.
Something like this sense of enlar=
ged
being was in Adam's mind this Sunday morning, as he rode along in vivid
recollection of the past. His feeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his
life with her, had been the distant unseen point towards which that hard
journey from Snowfield eighteen months ago had been leading him. Tender and
deep as his love for Hetty had been - so deep that the roots of it would ne=
ver
be torn away - his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for =
it
was the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from his
acquaintance with deep sorrow. ‘It's like as if it was a new strength=
to
me,’ he said to himself, ‘to love her and know as she loves me.=
I
shall look t' her to help me to see things right. For she's better than I a=
m - there's
less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as gives you a sort o'
liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you've more trust in anot=
her
than y' have in yourself. I've always been thinking I knew better than them=
as
belonged to me, and that's a poor sort o' life, when you can't look to them
nearest to you t' help you with a bit better thought than what you've got
inside you a'ready.’
It was more than two o'clock in the
afternoon when Adam came in sight of the grey town on the hill-side and loo=
ked
searchingly towards the green valley below, for the first glimpse of the old
thatched roof near the ugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the so=
ft
October sunshine than it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one
grand charm it possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless region=
s - that
it filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky - had a milde=
r,
more soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudless day. Adam's do=
ubts
and fears melted under this influence as the delicate weblike clouds had
gradually melted away into the clear blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah=
's
gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone, of all he longed to know.
He did not expect Dinah to be at h=
ome
at this hour, but he got down from his horse and tied it at the little gate,
that he might ask where she was gone to-day. He had set his mind on followi=
ng
her and bringing her home. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about thr=
ee
miles off, over the hill, the old woman told him - had set off directly aft=
er
morning chapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at =
the
town would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horse again=
and
rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking a hasty dinner there=
in
the company of the too chatty landlord, from whose friendly questions and
reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as possible and set out towards
Sloman's End. With all his haste it was nearly four o'clock before he could=
set
off, and he thought that as Dinah had gone so early, she would perhaps alre=
ady
be near returning. The little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by
sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came ne=
ar
he could hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. ‘Perhaps that's the
last hymn before they come away,’ Adam thought. ‘I'll walk back=
a
bit and turn again to meet her, farther off the village.’ He walked b=
ack
till he got nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a lo=
ose
stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the little black
figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose this spot, almo=
st
at the top of the hill, because it was away from all eyes - no house, no
cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near - no presence but the still lights a=
nd
shadows and the great embracing sky.
She was much longer coming than he
expected. He waited an hour at least watching for her and thinking of her,
while the afternoon shadows lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he
saw the little black figure coming from between the grey houses and gradual=
ly
approaching the foot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought, but Dinah was really
walking at her usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to
wind along the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would not =
meet
her too soon; he had set his heart on meeting her in this assured lonelines=
s.
And now he began to fear lest he should startle her too much. ‘Yet,=
8217;
he thought, ‘she's not one to be overstartled; she's always so calm a=
nd
quiet, as if she was prepared for anything.’
What was she thinking of as she wo=
und
up the hill? Perhaps she had found complete repose without him, and had cea=
sed
to feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: ho=
pe
pauses with fluttering wings.
But now at last she was very near,=
and
Adam rose from the stone wall. It happened that just as he walked forward,
Dinah had paused and turned round to look back at the village - who does not
pause and look back in mounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with the fine
instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be best for her to hear his voice
before she saw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, ‘=
;Dinah!’
She started without looking round, as if she connected the sound with no pl=
ace.
‘Dinah!’ Adam said again. He knew quite well what was in her mi=
nd.
She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual monitions
that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of the voice.
But this second time she looked ro=
und.
What a look of yearning love it was that the mild grey eyes turned on the
strong dark-eyed man! She did not start again at the sight of him; she said
nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm could clasp her round.
And they walked on so in silence,
while the warm tears fell. Adam was content, and said nothing. It was Dinah=
who
spoke first.
‘Adam,’ she said, R=
16;it
is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yours that it is but a divided li=
fe I
live without you. And this moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our
hearts are filled with the same love. I have a fulness of strength to bear =
and
do our heavenly Father's Will that I had lost before.’
Adam paused and looked into her
sincere eyes.
‘Then we'll never part any m=
ore,
Dinah, till death parts us.’
And they kissed each other with a =
deep
joy.
What greater thing is there for two
human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to strengthen each
other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to ea=
ch
other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories=
at
the moment of the last parting?
IN little more than a month after =
that
meeting on the hill - on a rimy morning in departing November - Adam and Di=
nah
were married.
It was an event much thought of in=
the
village. All Mr Burge's men had a holiday, and all Mr Poyser's, and most of
those who had a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I th=
ink
there was hardly an inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in this hist=
ory
and still resident in the parish on this November morning who was not eithe=
r in
church to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church door to greet them=
as
they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at the churchya=
rd
gates in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) to shake hands with t=
he
bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the absence of Miss Lydia
Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr Mills, and Mr Craig had felt it incumben=
t on
them to represent ‘the family’ at the Chase on the occasion. The
churchyard walk was quite lined with familiar faces, many of them faces that
had first looked at Dinah when she preached on the Green. And no wonder they
showed this eager interest on her marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah =
and
the history which had brought her and Adam Bede together had been known at
Hayslope within the memory of man.
Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap =
and
frock, was crying, though she did not exactly know why; for, as her cousin =
Wiry
Ben, who stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away, a=
nd
if Bessy was in low spirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Din=
ah's
example and marry an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy,
just within the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping round =
the
corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious ceremony; Totty's face
wearing an unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come b=
ack
looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no married people were young.=
I envy them all the sight they had
when the marriage was fairly ended and Adam led Dinah out of church. She wa=
s not
in black this morning, for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a r=
isk
of incurring bad luck, and had herself made a present of the wedding dress,
made all of grey, though in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah
could not give way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from und=
er a
grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips trembling a
little under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as he pressed her arm to =
his
side, walked with his old erectness and his head thrown rather backward as =
if
to face all the world better. But it was not because he was particularly pr=
oud
this morning, as is the wont of bridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind
that had little reference to men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadn=
ess
in his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.
There were three other couples,
following the bride and bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery=
as
a bright fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; t=
hen
came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bart=
le
Massey, with Lisbeth - Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her
pride in her son and her delight in possessing the one daughter she had des=
ired
to devise a single pretext for complaint.
Bartle Massey had consented to att=
end
the wedding at Adam's earnest request, under protest against marriage in
general and the marriage of a sensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr
Poyser had a joke against him after the wedding dinner, to the effect that =
in
the vestry he had given the bride one more kiss than was necessary.
Behind this last couple came Mr
Irwine, glad at heart over this good morning's work of joining Adam and Din=
ah.
For he had seen Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow; and what better
harvest from that painful seed-time could there be than this? The love that=
had
brought hope and comfort in the hour of despair, the love that had found its
way to the dark prison cell and to poor Hetty's darker soul - this strong
gentle love was to be Adam's companion and helper till death.
There was much shaking of hands
mingled with ‘God bless you's’ and other good wishes to the four
couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr Poyser answering for the rest with unwo=
nted
vivacity of tongue, for he had all the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his
command. And the women, he observed, could never do anything but put finger=
in
eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the
neighbours shook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to cry in the face of the
very first person who told her she was getting young again.
Mr Joshua Rann, having a slight to=
uch
of rheumatism, did not join in the ringing of the bells this morning, and,
looking on with some contempt at these informal greetings which required no
official co-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical bass, =
216;Oh
what a joyful thing it is,’ by way of preluding a little to the effec=
t he
intended to produce in the wedding psalm next Sunday.
‘That's a bit of good news to
cheer Arthur,’ said Mr Irwine to his mother, as they drove off. ̵=
6;I
shall write to him the first thing when we get home.’
IT is near the end of June, in 180=
7.
The workshops have been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-=
yard,
which used to be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling =
on
the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much =
as
it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June evening nine years
ago.
There is a figure we know well, ju=
st
come out of the house, and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for
something in the distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless c=
ap
and her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she turns away from the=
sunlight
and looks towards the door.
We can see the sweet pale face qui=
te
well now: it is scarcely at all altered - only a little fuller, to correspo=
nd
to her more matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in t=
he
plain black dress.
‘I see him, Seth,’ Din=
ah
said, as she looked into the house. ‘Let us go and meet him. Come,
Lisbeth, come with Mother.’
The last call was answered immedia=
tely
by a small fair creature with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more t=
han
four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's.
‘Come, Uncle Seth,’ sa=
id
Dinah.
‘Aye, aye, we're coming,R=
17;
Seth answered from within, and presently appeared stooping under the doorwa=
y,
being taller than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, =
who
had caused some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder.
‘Better take him on thy arm,
Seth,’ said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. =
216;He's
troublesome to thee so.’
‘Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride=
on
my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit.’ A kindness which young Ad=
dy
acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's
chest. But to walk by Dinah's side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and
Adam's children, was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness.
‘Where didst see him?’
asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. ‘I can't catch
sight of him anywhere.’
‘Between the hedges by the
roadside,’ said Dinah. ‘I saw his hat and his shoulder. There h=
e is
again.’
‘Trust thee for catching sig=
ht
of him if he's anywhere to be seen,’ said Seth, smiling. ‘Thee't
like poor mother used to be. She was always on the look out for Adam, and c=
ould
see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.’
‘He's been longer than he
expected,’ said Dinah, taking Arthur's watch from a small side pocket=
and
looking at it; ‘it's nigh upon seven now.’
‘Aye, they'd have a deal to =
say
to one another,’ said Seth, ‘and the meeting 'ud touch 'em both
pretty closish. Why, it's getting on towards eight years since they parted.=
’
‘Yes,’ said Dinah, =
216;Adam
was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the change he should see in
the poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years
which have changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was=
coming
back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow.’
‘See, Addy,’ said Seth,
lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, ‘there's Father
coming - at the far stile.’
Dinah hastened her steps, and litt=
le
Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam
patted her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the mark=
s of
agitation on his face as she approached him, and he put her arm within his =
in
silence.
‘Well, youngster, must I take
you?’ he said, trying to smile, when Addy stretched out his arms - re=
ady,
with the usual baseness of infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now
there was some rarer patronage at hand.
‘It's cut me a good deal, Di=
nah,’
Adam said at last, when they were walking on.
‘Didst find him greatly alte=
red?’
said Dinah.
‘Why, he's altered and yet n=
ot
altered. I should ha' known him anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he
looks sadly. However, the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own
country air. He's all sound in th' inside; it's only the fever shattered him
so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did when he wa=
s a
lad. It's wonderful how he's always had just the same sort o' look when he
smiles.’
‘I've never seen him smile, =
poor
young man,’ said Dinah.
‘But thee wilt see him smile,
to-morrow,’ said Adam. ‘He asked after thee the first thing whe=
n he
began to come round, and we could talk to one another. 'I hope she isn't
altered,' he said, 'I remember her face so well.' I told him 'no,'‘ A=
dam
continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned towards his, ‘=
only
a bit plumper, as thee'dst a right to be after seven year. 'I may come and =
see
her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he said; 'I long to tell her how I've thought of =
her
all these years.'‘
‘Didst tell him I'd always u=
sed
the watch?’ said Dinah.
‘Aye; and we talked a deal a=
bout
thee, for he says he never saw a woman a bit like thee. 'I shall turn Metho=
dist
some day,' he said, 'when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' A=
nd I
said, 'Nay, sir, you can't do that, for Conference has forbid the women
preaching, and she's given it up, all but talking to the people a bit in th=
eir
houses.'‘
‘Ah,’ said Seth, who c=
ould
not repress a comment on this point, ‘and a sore pity it was o'
Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I did, we'd ha' left the Wesleyans and
joined a body that 'ud put no bonds on Christian liberty.’
‘Nay, lad, nay,’ said
Adam, ‘she was right and thee wast wrong. There's no rules so wise but
what it's a pity for somebody or other. Most o' the women do more harm nor =
good
with their preaching - they've not got Dinah's gift nor her sperrit - and s=
he's
seen that, and she thought it right to set th' example o' submitting, for s=
he's
not held from other sorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o'
what she did.’
Seth was silent. This was a standi=
ng
subject of difference rarely alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at o=
nce,
said, ‘Didst remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the word=
s my
uncle and aunt entrusted to thee?’
‘Yes, and he's going to the =
Hall
Farm with Mr Irwine the day after to-morrow. Mr Irwine came in while we were
talking about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but t=
hee
to-morrow. He said - and he's in the right of it - as it'll be bad for him =
t'
have his feelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. 'We mu=
st
get you strong and hearty,' he said, 'that's the first thing to be done Art=
hur,
and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you under your old
tutor's thumb till then.' Mr Irwine's fine and joyful at having him home ag=
ain.’
Adam was silent a little while, and
then said, ‘It was very cutting when we first saw one another. He'd n=
ever
heard about poor Hetty till Mr Irwine met him in London, for the letters mi=
ssed
him on his journey. The first thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one
another's hands was, 'I could never do anything for her, Adam - she lived l=
ong
enough for all the suffering - and I'd thought so of the time when I might =
do
something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once, R=
16;There's
a sort of wrong that can never be made up for.’'‘
‘Why, there's Mr and Mrs. Po=
yser
coming in at the yard gate,’ said Seth.
‘So there is,’ said Di=
nah.
‘Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come in, Adam, and rest; it h=
as
been a hard day for thee.’
The End