ADAM BEDE

by George Eliot

Book One

Chapter I

The Workshop

With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakesto reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This iswhat I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at theend of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on theeighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799. 

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doorsand window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tentlikepile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent ofthe elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close tothe open window opposite; the slanting sunbeams shone through thetransparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up thefine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough, grey shepherd dog hadmade himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between hisfore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at thetallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre ofa wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytonebelonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing--

 Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth. . . 

Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentratedattention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle; but itpresently broke out again with renewed vigour--

 Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear. 

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chestbelonged to a large-boned, muscular man nearly six feet high, with aback so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself upto take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldierstanding at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an armthat was likely to win the prize for feats of strength; yet the longsupple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works ofskill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified hisname; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrastwith the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes thatshone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughlyhewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to anexpression of good-humoured honest intelligence. 

It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He isnearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hairand complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only torender more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both inform and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyesare grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than hisbrother's; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding andbenign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair isnot thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing youto discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates verydecidedly over the brow. 

The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; theyscarcely 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, placedit against the wall, and said, "There! I've finished my door to-day, anyhow. "

The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known asSandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharpglance of surprise, "What! Dost think thee'st finished the door?"

"Aye, sure, " said Seth, with answering surprise; "what's awanting to't?"

A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth lookround confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was aslight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, "Why, thee'st forgot the panels. "

The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, andcoloured over brow and crown. 

"Hoorray!" shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forwardand seizing the door. "We'll hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an'write on't 'Seth Bede, the Methody, his work. ' Here, Jim, lend's houldo' th' red pot. "

"Nonsense!" said Adam. "Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap bemaking such a slip yourself some day; you'll laugh o' th' other side o'your mouth then. "

"Catch me at it, Adam. It'll be a good while afore my head's full o' th'Methodies, " said Ben. 

"Nay, but it's often full o' drink, and that's worse. "

Ben, however, had now got the "red pot" in his hand, and was aboutto begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, animaginary S in the air. 

"Let it alone, will you?" Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. "Let it alone, orI'll shake the soul out o' your body. "

Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush fromhis powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the featof writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized hisother shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. Butnow Seth spoke. 

"Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right tolaugh 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 aquarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may's well tryto turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, andmake an end on't. "

"I binna frighted at Adam, " said Ben, "but I donna mind sayin' as I'lllet 't alone at your askin', Seth. "

"Come, that's wise of you, Ben, " said Adam, laughing and relaxing hisgrasp. 

They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worstin the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by asuccess in sarcasm. 

"Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth, " he began--"the pretty parson's face orher sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels?"

"Come and hear her, Ben, " said Seth, good-humouredly; "she's going topreach on the Green to-night; happen ye'd get something to think onyourself then, instead o' those wicked songs you're so fond on. Ye mightget religion, and that 'ud be the best day's earnings y' ever made. "

"All i' good time for that, Seth; I'll think about that when I'm a-goin'to settle i' life; bachelors doesn't want such heavy earnin's. HappenI 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 prettypreacher, 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'tgood company at th' Holly Bush. What'll she take for her text? Happen yecan tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i' time for't. Will'tbe--what come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, andmore than a prophetess--a uncommon pretty young woman. "

"Come, Ben, " said Adam, rather sternly, "you let the words o' the Biblealone; you're going too far now. "

"What! Are YE a-turnin' roun', Adam? I thought ye war dead again th'women preachin', a while agoo?"

"Nay, I'm not turnin' noway. I said nought about the women preachin'. I said, You let the Bible alone: you've got a jest-book, han't you, asyou're rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that. "

"Why, y' are gettin' as big a saint as Seth. Y' are goin' to th'preachin' to-night, I should think. Ye'll do finely t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright AdamBede a-turnin' Methody. "

"Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turnMethodist any more nor you are--though it's like enough you'll turnto something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi'people's doing as they like in religion. That's between themselves andGod, 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 youfrom making a fool o' yourself wi't. "

There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's, but Seth said, veryseriously. "Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody's religion'slike thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and theMethodists 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 'emfollow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it 'ud be better iftheir consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the church--there's a dealto be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being oversperitial; wemust have something beside Gospel i' this world. Look at the canals, an'th' aqueduc's, an' th' coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's mills there atCromford; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, Ireckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man must bedoing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and looking what's agoingon inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, andthe Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it says as Godput his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him doall the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is myway o' looking at it: there's the sperrit o' God in all things and alltimes--weekday as well as Sunday--and i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with ourheadpieces and our hands as well as with our souls; and if a man doesbits o' jobs out o' working hours--builds a oven for 's wife to save herfrom going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and makestwo potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doin' more good, and he's just asnear to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying anda-groaning. "

"Well done, Adam!" said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing toshift his planks while Adam was speaking; "that's the best sarmunt I'veheared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's been a-plaguin' onme to build her a oven this twelvemont. "

"There's reason in what thee say'st, Adam, " observed Seth, gravely. "Butthee know'st thyself as it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so muchfault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It'sthe preacher as empties th' alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he'lldo his work none the worse for that. "

"On'y he'll lave the panels out o' th' doors sometimes, eh, Seth?" saidWiry Ben. 

"Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again' me as 'll last you your life. But itisna religion as was i' fault there; it was Seth Bede, as was allays awool-gathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more's the pity. "

"Ne'er heed me, Seth, " said Wiry Ben, "y' are a down-right good-heartedchap, panels or no panels; an' ye donna set up your bristles at everybit 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 justnow. Some 's got one way o' looking at things and some 's got another. "

"Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkindness, " said Seth, "I know thatwell enough. Thee't like thy dog Gyp--thee bark'st at me sometimes, butthee allays lick'st my hand after. "

All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clockbegan to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jimhad loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left ascrew half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket;Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout theprevious conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the actof lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was puttingout his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his workas if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, helooked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, "Look there, now! I can'tabide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute theclock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work andwas afraid o' doing a stroke too much. "

Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in hispreparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, "Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six-an'-forty like me, istid o' six-an'-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought. "

"Nonsense, " said Adam, still wrathful; "what's age got to do with it, Iwonder? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's armsdrop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just asif he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it. "

"Bodderation, Adam!" exclaimed Wiry Ben; "lave a chap aloon, will 'ee?Ye war afinding faut wi' preachers a while agoo--y' are fond enough o'preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like playbetter nor work; that'll 'commodate ye--it laves ye th' more to do. "

With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Benshouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by MumTaft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as ifhe expected him to say something. 

"Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preaching?" Adam asked, lookingup. 

"Nay; I've got my hat and things at Will Maskery's. I shan't be homebefore going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she'swilling. 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 rathertimidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. 

"Nay, I'm going to th' school. "

Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head andwatching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twisthis apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in hismaster's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he woulddoubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for hisemotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appearmore phlegmatic than nature had made him. 

"What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?" said Adam, with the samegentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. 

Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, "Of course. " Poorfellow, he had not a great range of expression. 

The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner;and no official, walking in procession, could look more resolutelyunconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting athis master's heels. 

On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, andcarried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was alow house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasantand mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright andspeckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebbtide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linengown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowlswhich appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectationof cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, forshe did not recognize Adam till he said, "Here's the key, Dolly; lay itdown for me in the house, will you?"

"Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary's i' th' house, andMester Burge 'ull be back anon; he'd be glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm, I'll be's warrand. "

"No, Dolly, thank you; I'm off home. Good evening. "

Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of theworkyard, and along the highroad leading away from the village and downto the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adamhad passed him, and turned round to have another long look at thestalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worstedstockings. 

Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struckacross the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all daylong been running in his head:

 Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear; For God's all-seeing eye surveys Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways. 

Chapter II

The Preaching

About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitementin the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of itslittle street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, theinhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by somethingmore than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. TheDonnithorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a smallfarmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was apretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promiseof good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console himfor the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to theheraldic bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his handsin his pockets, balancing himself on his heels and toes and lookingtowards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain grave-looking men andwomen whom he had observed passing at intervals. 

Mr. Casson's person was by no means of that common type which can beallowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared toconsist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation toeach other as the earth and the moon: that is to say, the lower spheremight be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than theupper which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite andtributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr. Casson's head wasnot at all a melancholy-looking satellite nor was it a "spotty globe, "as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head andface could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression--which waschiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slightknot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worthmention--was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense ofpersonal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude andbearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive ina man who had been butler to "the family" for fifteen years, and who, inhis present high position, was necessarily very much in contact withhis inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of hiscuriosity by walking towards the Green was the problem that Mr. Cassonhad been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes; but whenhe had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, andthrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throwing hishead on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuousindifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts werediverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing tohave another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the doorof the Donnithorne Arms. 

"Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler, " said the travellerto the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the soundof the horse's hoofs. 

"Why, what's up in your pretty village, landlord?" he continued, gettingdown. "There seems to be quite a stir. "

"It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman'sa-going to preach on the Green, " answered Mr. Casson, in a treble andwheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. "Will you please to stepin, 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 justunder his nose?"

"Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here; he lives at Brox'on, over thehill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit forgentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great storeby't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed theDonnithorne 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 hardwork to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an'got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you thinkthe folks here says for 'hevn't you?'--the gentry, you know, says, 'hevn't you'--well, the people about here says 'hanna yey. ' It's whatthey call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've hearedSquire Donnithorne say many a time; it's the dileck, says he. "

"Aye, aye, " said the stranger, smiling. "I know it very well. But you'venot got many Methodists about here, surely--in this agricultural spot? Ishould have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist tobe found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists canseldom lay much hold on THEM. "

"Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There'sMester Burge as owns the timber-yard over there, he underteks a good bito' building an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There'splenty of emply i' this countryside, sir. An' there's a fine batch o'Methodisses at Treddles'on--that's the market town about three mileoff--you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a scoreof 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our peoplegets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope: that'sWill Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works atthe 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'sthem barns an' big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She's ownniece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for makinga fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared as there's no holdingthese Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their head: many of 'emgoes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman'squiet enough to look at, by what I can make out; I've not seen hermyself. "

"Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I'vebeen out of my way for the last twenty minutes to have a look at thatplace in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn'tthere, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler therea-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 landabout here, sir, Squire Donnithorne does. "

"Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it, " said the traveller, mounting his horse; "and one meets some fine strapping fellows abouttoo. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, abouthalf an hour ago, before I came up the hill--a carpenter, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching alonglike a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French. "

"Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound--Thias Bede's soneverybody knows him hereabout. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir--if you'll hexcuse me forsaying so--he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a matter o' sixtyston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir: CaptainDonnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's alittle 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 whenhe approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his righthand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers withthe knot of Methodists near the maple, and perhaps yet more, curiosityto see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to getto the end of his journey, and he paused. 

The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the roadbranched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by thechurch, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On theside of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line ofthatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate; but onthe opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the viewof gently swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distanthill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslopebelonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by itsbarren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked inthe arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother; and in two or three hours'ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersectedby lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under theshelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and longmeadow-grass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon somefine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, somehomestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees andthatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this lastthat Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount thegentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his stationnear the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the othertypical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon werethe huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortifythis region of corn and grass against the keen and hungry winds of thenorth; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but withsombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was onlyrevealed by memory, not detected by sight; wooed from day to day by thechanging hours, but responding with no change in themselves--left forever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams ofthe April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summersun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line ofhanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, butstill showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green ofthe ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches leftsmooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tallmansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smokeamong them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassypool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow wouldnot let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw insteada foreground which was just as lovely--the level sunlight lying liketransparent gold among the gently curving stems of the feathered grassand the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks liningthe bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound ofthe scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at theflower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. 

He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turneda little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge'spasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees ofthe Hall Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in theliving groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old "Feyther Taft" in his brown worsted night-cap, who was bentnearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little roundheads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was anew arrival; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willingto hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no meansexcited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join theMethodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with theexpectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not havedisclaimed the imputation of having come out to hear the "preacherwoman"--they had only come out to see "what war a-goin' on, like. " Themen were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm: awhisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of anundertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on hisinterlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant torun away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when theinterest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of theblacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen infront of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his blackbrawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionallysending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them amarked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced thepleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a newform. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr. Joshua Rann. Mr. Rann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leaveno one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting outof his chin and stomach and the twirling of his thumbs are more subtleindications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery thatthey are in the presence of the parish clerk. "Old Joshway, " as heis irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmeringindignation; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in aresounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, "Sehon, King of the Amorites; for His mercy endureth for ever; and Og the Kingof Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever"--a quotation which may seemto have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every otheranomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face ofthis scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound upwith his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturallysuggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sundayafternoon. 

The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge ofthe Green, where they could examine more closely the Quakerlike costumeand odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple therewas a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serveas a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs hadbeen placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with theireyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose tocontinue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagerswith a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to BessyCranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours asChad's Bess, who wondered "why the folks war amakin' faces a that'ns. "Chad's Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of herred cheeks--namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnetsin them, ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her owncousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished "them ear-rings" might come to good. 

Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among herfamiliars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsomeset of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavybaby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five inknee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck byway of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier. This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess'sBen, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walkinground the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wideopen, and beating his stick against the milk-can by way of musicalaccompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him bythe shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Benfirst kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refugebehind his father's legs. 

"Ye gallows young dog, " said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, "ifye donna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What dy'e mane bykickin' foulks?"

"Here! Gie him here to me, Jim, " said Chad Cranage; "I'll tie hirs upan' shoe him as I do th' hosses. Well, Mester Casson, " he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, "how are yet' naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon whenthey'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 thepraicher '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 wastreated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her takingon herself to preach. "

"Aye, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too, " said Wiry Ben. "I'll stickup for the pretty women preachin'; I know they'd persuade me over a dealsooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore thenight's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede. "

"Why, Seth's looking rether too high, I should think, " said Mr. Casson. "This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a commoncarpenter. "

"Tchu!" said Ben, with a long treble intonation, "what's folks's kin gotto do wi't? Not a chip. Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forgetbygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver shewas--works at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' youngcarpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad matchfor her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war anevvy o' their own. "

"Idle talk! idle talk!" said Mr. Joshua Rann. "Adam an' Seth's two men;you wunna fit them two wi' the same last. "

"Maybe, " said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, "but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I'vebeen teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears meno more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout-hearted feller too, for whenwe 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'tas bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's; an'there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o'the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher woman! Myeye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer. "

Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed hishorse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly and in advance ofher companions towards the cart under the maple-tree. While she was nearSeth's tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height ofwoman, though in reality she did not exceed it--an effect which was dueto the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuffdress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach andmount the cart--surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy ofher appearance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in herdemeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measuredstep and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that herface would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, orelse charged with denunciatory bitterness. He knew but two types ofMethodist--the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply asif she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outwardappearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no tremulousness, whichsaid, "I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach"; nocasting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, noattitude of the arms that said, "But you must think of me as a saint. "She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightlycrossed 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 sheddinglove than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells thatthe mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed byexternal objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descendingsun, and leafy boughs screened her from its rays; but in this soberlight the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a calmvividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of auniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of palereddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, andcovered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontaland firmly pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long andabundant--nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of thosefaces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colouron their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that ofexpression; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, thatno accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before theirglance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throatin order to come to a new understanding with himself; Chad Cranagelifted up his leather skull-cap and scratched his head; and Wiry Benwondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her. 

"A sweet woman, " the stranger said to himself, "but surely nature nevermeant her for a preacher. "

Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatricalproperties and, with the considerate view of facilitating art andpsychology, "makes up, " her characters, so that there may be no mistakeabout them. But Dinah began to speak. 

"Dear friends, " she said in a clear but not loud voice "let us pray fora blessing. "

She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in thesame moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her: "Saviourof sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well todraw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; shehad not sought Thee; her mind was dark; her life was unholy. But Thoudidst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that herlife lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her thatblessing 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--iftheir minds are dark, their lives unholy--if they have come out notseeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal with them according to thefree mercy which Thou didst show to her Speak to them, Lord, open theirears to my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make themthirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give. 

"Lord, Thou art with Thy people still: they see Thee in thenight-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest withthem 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 Theehanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they knownot what they do'--see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory tojudge them at the last. Amen. "

Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group ofvillagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. 

"Dear friends, " she began, raising her voice a little, "you have all ofyou been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergymanread these words: 'The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hathanointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. ' Jesus Christ spoke thosewords--he said he came TO PREACH THE GOSPEL TO THE POOR. I don't knowwhether you ever thought about those words much, but I will tell youwhen I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort ofevening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me uptook me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. Iremember his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long whitehair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I hadever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, andthis old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybodyI had ever seen before that I thought he had perhaps come down fromthe sky to preach to us, and I said, 'Aunt, will he go back to the skyto-night, like the picture in the Bible?'

"That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what ourblessed Lord did--preaching the Gospel to the poor--and he entered intohis rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, butI was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thinghe told us in his sermon. He told us as 'Gospel' meant 'good news. ' TheGospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God. 

"Think of that now! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, asI, like a silly child, thought Mr. Wesley did; and what he came downfor was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dearfriends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages and havebeen reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse; and we haven't been to schoolmuch, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but whathappens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want tohear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind abouthearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in troubleand has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter totell 'em they've got a friend as will help 'em. To be sure, we can'thelp knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comesfrom God: don't you say almost every day, 'This and that will happen, please God, ' and 'We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God tosend us a little more sunshine'? We know very well we are altogetherin the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can'tkeep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us milk--everything we have comesfrom God. And he gave us our souls and put love between parents andchildren, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to knowabout God? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: weare lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when we try to thinkof him. 

"But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take muchnotice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the greatand the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us ourlittle handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know hecares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in thegarden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of uswhen we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick andhelpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blightcome, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain andtrouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, heseems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?

"Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and whatdoes other good news signify if we haven't that? For everything elsecomes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts wheneverything 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 mindof God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwelling on its lowliness and its acts of mercy. 

"So you see, dear friends, " she went on, "Jesus spent his time almostall in doing good to poor people; he preached out of doors to them, andhe made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains withthem. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of loveto all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. Sohe cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles tofeed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he wasvery kind to the little children and comforted those who had lost theirfriends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry fortheir sins. 

"Ah, wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him--if he were here inthis village? What a kind heart he must have! What a friend he would beto go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him. 

"Well, dear friends, who WAS this man? Was he only a good man--a verygood man, and no more--like our dear Mr. Wesley, who has been taken fromus?. . . He was the Son of God--'in the image of the Father, ' the Biblesays; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of allthings--the God we want to know about. So then, all the love thatJesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We canunderstand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours andspoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think whatGod was before--the God who made the world and the sky and the thunderand lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things hehad made; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we mightwell tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showedus what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand; he hasshowed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us. 

"But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost';and another time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners torepentance. '

"The LOST!. . . SINNERS!. . . Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me?"

Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his willby the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety ofmodulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconsciousskill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed likenovelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hearit sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth ofconviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for thetruth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested herhearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was nolonger anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often pausing after a question, or before anytransition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture; theeffect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of hervoice, and when she came to the question, "Will God take care of uswhen we die?" she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal thatthe tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceasedto doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix theattention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether shecould have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, whichmust surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, "Lost!--Sinners!" when there was a greatchange in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before theexclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughtsthat showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler;the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears half-gatherwithout falling; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalledpity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering overthe heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but therewas still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type ofthe Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration ofher own simple faith. 

But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner becameless calm, her utterance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bringhome to the people their guilt their wilful darkness, their state ofdisobedience to God--as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divineholiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had beenopened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearningdesire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied byaddressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then toanother, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there wasyet time; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God theirFather; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watchingfor their return. 

There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow-Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smoulderingvague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effectDinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one hadretired, except the children and "old Feyther Taft, " who being too deafto catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. WiryBen was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not cometo hear Dinah; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet hecouldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreadedevery moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him inparticular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding thebaby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed awaysome tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a betterfellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone-pits, andcleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday. 

In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwontedquietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for shewas lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfactionthere could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have sucha sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes likeher own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told uponher, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentletones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the moresevere appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had alwaysbeen considered a naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it wasnecessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. Shecouldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had oftenbeen tittering when she "curcheyed" to Mr. Irwine; and these religiousdeficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minormorals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class offeminine characters with whom you may venture to "eat an egg, an apple, or a nut. " All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had notbeen greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as ifthe constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justicefor some undefined offence. She had a terrified sense that God, whom shehad always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and thatJesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. ForDinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which iscommon among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to herhearers: she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might atany moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguishand penitence into their hearts. 

"See!" she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on apoint above the heads of the people. "See where our blessed Lord standsand weeps and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says:'How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickensunder her wings, and ye would not!'. . . And ye would not, " she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. "See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sinsthat made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He has gone through allthat great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowfuleven unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to theground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, theymocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Thenthey nailed him up. Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, andthey mock him still in this great agony; yet with those parched lips heprays for them, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. 'Then a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinnersfeel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last dropin the cup of bitterness. 'My God, my God!' he cries, 'why hast Thouforsaken me?'

"All this he bore for you! For you--and you never think of him; foryou--and you turn your backs on him; you don't care what he has gonethrough for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you: he has risenfrom the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God--'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. ' And he is upon this earthtoo; he is among us; he is there close to you now; I see his woundedbody and his look of love. "

Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanityhad touched her with pity. 

"Poor child! Poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don't listen tohim. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never thinkof the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will beshrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thinand tottering! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved;then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in yourevil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help younow, 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 greatred cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like alittle child's before a burst of crying. 

"Ah, poor blind child!" Dinah went on, "think if it should happen to youas it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. SHEthought of her lace caps and saved all her money to buy 'em; she thoughtnothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit--sheonly wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when sheput her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Facecrowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now"--here Dinahpointed 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 AREstinging you--they are poisoning your soul--they are dragging you downinto a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God. "

Bessy could bear it no longer: a great terror was upon her, andwrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should be "laid holdon" too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothingless than a miracle, walked hastily away and began to work at his anvilby way of reassuring himself. "Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' orno praichin': the divil canna lay hould o' me for that, " he muttered tohimself. 

But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for thepenitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and lovewith which the soul of the believer is filled--how the sense of God'slove turns poverty into riches and satisfies the soul so that no uneasydesire vexes it, no fear alarms it: how, at last, the very temptationto sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloudpasses between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. 

"Dear friends, " she said at last, "brothers and sisters, whom I loveas those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this greatblessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I ampoor, like you: I have to get my living with my hands; but no lord norlady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in theirsouls. Think what it is--not to hate anything but sin; to be full oflove to every creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that allthings will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is our Father'swill; to know that nothing--no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, orthe waters come and drown us--nothing could part us from God who lovesus, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure thatwhatever he wills is holy, just, and good. 

"Dear friends, come and take this blessedness; it is offered to you; itis the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not likethe riches of this world, so that the more one gets the less the restcan have. God is without end; his love is without end--"

 Its streams the whole creation reach, So plenteous is the store; Enough for all, enough for each, Enough for evermore. 

Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of theparting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. Thestranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as ifit had been the development of a drama--for there is this sort offascination in all sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to onethe inward drama of the speaker's emotions--now turned his horse asideand pursued his way, while Dinah said, "Let us sing a little, dearfriends"; and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of theMethodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending ofexultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn. 

Chapter III

After the Preaching

IN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah'sside along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and greencorn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah hadtaken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it inher hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool eveningtwilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly ashe walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say toher. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity--of absorptionin thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with herown personality--an expression that is most of all discouraging to alover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet elasticity thatasks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, "She'stoo good and holy for any man, let alone me, " and the words he hadbeen summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. Butanother thought gave him courage: "There's no man could love her betterand leave her freer to follow the Lord's work. " They had been silent formany minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage;Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pacewas becoming so much quicker that the sense of their being only a fewminutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Sethcourage to speak. 

"You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah?"

"Yes, " said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon mymind while I was meditating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in adecline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thinwhite cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And thismorning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words myeyes fell on were, 'And after we had seen the vision, immediately weendeavoured to go into Macedonia. ' If it wasn't for that clear showingof the Lord's will, I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns overmy 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 asa token that there may be mercy in store for her. "

"God grant it, " said Seth. "For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybody else; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if hewas to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deepmystery--the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the resthe's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven yearfor HER, like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman forth' asking. I often think of them words, 'And Jacob served seven yearsfor Rachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he hadto her. ' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'dgive me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know youthink 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 howshe may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold tospeak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind lastSaturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, andI've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's onlygood for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's moretexts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St. Paulsays as plain as can be in another place, 'I will that the youngerwomen marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to theadversary to speak reproachfully'; and then 'two are better than one';and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For weshould be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the sameMaster, and are striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be thehusband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing thework 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 toget your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both. "

When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly andalmost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before hehad poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks becameflushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and hisvoice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one ofthose very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed theoffice of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towardsSeth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes, "Seth Bede, I thankyou for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as morethan a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is notfree to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and ablessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed toevery man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk. ' God hascalled me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of myown, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with thosethat weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly ownedmy work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave thebrethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little ofthis world's good; where the trees are few, so that a child might countthem, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It hasbeen given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock thereand to call in many wanderers; and my soul is filled with these thingsfrom my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God'swork is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in thisworld. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw asyour love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providencefor me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers;and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix mymind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always camein--the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happyhours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and theWord was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible fordirection, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where mywork lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a helpand not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not God'swill--He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die withouthusband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants andfears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with thewants and sufferings of his poor people. "

Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, asthey were nearly at the yard-gate, he said, "Well, Dinah, I must seekfor 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 passingthe love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content withoutyour 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 leadingfor us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feelmore for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can'thelp saying of you what the hymn says--

 In darkest shades if she appear, My dawning is begun; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising sun. 

That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't bedispleased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this countryand go to live at Snowfield?"

"No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly toleave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clearbidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land ofGoshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and chooseour own lot; we must wait to be guided. "

"But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything Iwanted to tell you?"

"Yes, sure; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continuallyin my prayers. "

They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, "I won't go in, Dinah, so farewell. " He paused and hesitated after she had given himher hand, and then said, "There's no knowing but what you may see thingsdifferent 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, asI've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to layplans; 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, andthen passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringlyhome. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back alongthe fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I thinkhis blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before hehad made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadilyhomewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned whatit is to love--to love with that adoration which a young man gives to awoman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of thissort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep andworthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or music. Ourcaresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influenceof autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, orBeethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they aremere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; ouremotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, ourlove at its highest flood rushes beyond its object and loses itself inthe sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating lovehas been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began forus to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of aMethodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingeringafter-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on thehips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungsin carrying a divine message to the poor. 

That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to makeof Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of roughmen and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentaryculture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted theirimagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, andsuffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinitePresence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too possiblethat to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more thanlow-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon--elements which are regarded as an exhaustiveanalysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. 

That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah wereanything else than Methodists--not indeed of that modern type whichreads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, ininstantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions; theydrew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible athazard; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which isnot at all sanctioned by approved commentators; and it is impossiblefor me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction asliberal. Still--if I have read religious history aright--faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with asensibility to the three concords, and it is possible--thank Heaven!--tohave very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw baconwhich clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store that she may carryit to her neighbour's child to "stop the fits, " may be a piteouslyinefficacious remedy; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindnessthat prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. 

Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath oursympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrowsof heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fieryhorses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions. 

Poor Seth! He was never on horseback in his life except once, when hewas a little lad, and Mr. Jonathan Burge took him up behind, tellinghim to "hold on tight"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusingapostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walkshomewards under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be lessbent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. 

Chapter IV

Home and Its Sorrows

A GREEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost tooverflowing with the late rains, overhung by low stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede ispassing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket;evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of timberby 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; butshe is not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine; she has beenwatching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the lastfew minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son Adam. LisbethBede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born hascome 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 purelinen cap with a black band round it; her broad chest is covered with abuff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made ofblue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence there is a considerable length of linsey-woolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a stronglikeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dimnow--perhaps from too much crying--but her broadly marked eyebrows arestill black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly andunconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly uprightan attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from thespring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity oftemperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got hiswell-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence. 

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that greattragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides usby the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion;and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at everymovement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering thethoughts we despise; we see eyes--ah, so like our mother's!--avertedfrom us in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us withthe air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness longyears ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage--the mechanicalinstinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of themodelling hand--galls us and puts us to shame by his daily errors; thelong-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our ownwrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours andirrational 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 thelast child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth?Gone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon?"

"Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where'sfather?" said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into theroom on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. "Hasn't he done thecoffin for Tholer? There's the stuff standing just as I left it thismorning. "

"Done the coffin?" said Lisbeth, following him, and knittinguninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously. "Eh, mylad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver come back. Idoubt he's got to th' 'Waggin Overthrow' again. "

A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said nothing, but threw off his jacket and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again. 

"What art goin' to do, Adam?" said the mother, with a tone and lookof alarm. "Thee wouldstna go to work again, wi'out ha'in thy bit o'supper?"

Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. But his mother threwdown her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, andsaid, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance, "Nay, my lad, my lad, theemunna 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 ofthe planks that stood against the wall. "It's fine talking about havingsupper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seveno'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not anail struck yet. My throat's too full to swallow victuals. "

"Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready, " said Lisbeth. "Thee't workthyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do't. "

"What signifies how long it takes me? Isn't the coffin promised? Canthey bury the man without a coffin? I'd work my right hand off soonerthan deceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me mad to thinkon't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've stood enough of'em. "

Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she hadbeen wise she would have gone away quietly and said nothing for the nexthour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns is never to talkto an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping benchand began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make her voicevery piteous, she burst out into words. 

"Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy mother'sheart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me toth' churchyard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my graveif I donna see thee at th' last; an' how's they to let thee know as I'ma-dyin', if thee't gone a-workin' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gonearter 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--theemunna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore hetook 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 ownfeyther--an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at everythin' amostas thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a baby atthe 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 andreal work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently. 

"Now, Mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex mewithout that? What's th' use o' telling me things as I only think toomuch on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, forthe sake o' keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking whereit'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'tallays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st nothing too muchto do for Seth: thee snapp'st me up if iver I find faut wi' th' lad. Butthee't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi' anybody else. "

"That's better than speaking soft and letting things go the wrong way, I reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't sharp with him he'd sell every bit o'stuff i' th' yard and spend it on drink. I know there's a duty to bedone by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage him in runningheadlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it? The lad does noharm as I know of. But leave me alone, Mother, and let me get on withthe work. "

Lisbeth dared not say any more; but she got up and called Gyp, thinkingto console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the supper she hadspread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching hismaster with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual courseof things; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him, andmoved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him tosupper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on hishaunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticedGyp's mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tenderthan usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much asusual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love usthan to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb?

"Go, Gyp; go, lad!" Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; andGyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followedLisbeth into the house-place. 

But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to hismaster, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Womenwho are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; andif Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that whenhe compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainyday, he had not a vixen in his eye--a fury with long nails, acrid andselfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy butin the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to makeuncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothingon herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example--at once patient andcomplaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong dayover what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certainawe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said, "Leave me alone, " she was always silenced. 

So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and thesound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a draughtof water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbethventured to say as she took it in, "Thy supper stan's ready for thee, when thee lik'st. "

"Donna thee sit up, mother, " said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had workedoff his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to hismother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with whichat other times his speech was less deeply tinged. "I'll see to Fatherwhen he comes home; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall beeasier if thee't i' bed. "

"Nay, I'll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon. "

It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance ofthe days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Sethentered. 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 wellanoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin'--it's thy brother as doesiverything, 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 usuallypoured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by herawe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to hismother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said, "Addy, how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?"

"Aye, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done, " said Adam, looking upand casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. "Why, what'sthe matter with thee? Thee't in trouble. "

Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on hismild face. 

"Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Why, thee'st never been to the school, then?"

"School? No, that screw can wait, " said Adam, hammering away again. 

"Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed, " said Seth. 

"No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carryit to Brox'on when it's done. I'll call thee up at sunrise. Go and eatthy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't hear Mother's talk. "

Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to bepersuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavyheart, into the house-place. 

"Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come, " saidLisbeth. "I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks. "

"Nay, Mother, " said Seth, "I've had no supper yet. "

"Come, then, " said Lisbeth, "but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam'ull happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' tatersan' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, forall I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him. An' he's been a-threatenin'to go away again, " she went on, whimpering, "an' I'm fast sure he'll gosome dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'llniver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha'had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th'handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright likea poplar-tree, an' me to be parted from him an' niver see 'm no more. "

"Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain, " said Seth, in a soothingvoice. "Thee'st not half so good reason to think as Adam 'ull go awayas to think he'll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's inwrath--and he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimes--but his heart'ud never let him go. Think how he's stood by us all when it's been noneso 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' usesfor his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married andsettled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work, and forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by. "

"Donna talk to me about's marr'in', " said Lisbeth, crying afresh. "He'sset's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull niver save a penny, an' 'ulltoss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' MaryBurge, 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 warnaas he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor thegillyflower on the wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' notto know no better nor that!"

"But, Mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud haveus. 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'treproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he triesto o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be spoke toabout, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him. "

"Aye, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as theegets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double earnin's o' this sideYule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half the man thy brother is, forall they're a-makin' a preacher on thee. "

"It's partly truth thee speak'st there, Mother, " said Seth, mildly;"Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But theemustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings uswhat no money can buy--a power to keep from sin and be content withGod's will, whatever He may please to send. If thee wouldst pray to Godto help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasyabout things. "

"Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on THEE whatit is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away all thy earnin's, an' niver beunaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam had beenas aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Takeno thought for the morrow--take no thought--that's what thee't allayssayin'; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee. "

"Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother, " said Seth. "They don'tmean as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn't be overanxious andworreting ourselves about what'll happen to-morrow, but do our duty andleave the rest to God's will. "

"Aye, aye, that's the way wi' thee: thee allays makes a peck o' thy ownwords 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'ssuch a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an' ha' the pick o' thetexes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean somuch more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can understan' thetex as he's allays a-sayin', 'God helps them as helps theirsens. '"

"Nay, Mother, " said Seth, "that's no text o' the Bible. It comes out ofa book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It was wrote bya knowing man, but overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying's partlytrue; for the Bible tells us we must be workers together with God. "

"Well, how'm I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi'th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no morenor that bit o' oat-cake? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' newbacon. What's th' matter wi' thee?"

"Nothing to mind about, Mother; I'm not hungry. I'll just look in atAdam again, and see if he'll let me go on with the coffin. "

"Ha' a drop o' warm broth?" said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now gotthe better of her "nattering" habit. "I'll set two-three sticks a-lightin a minute. "

"Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee't very good, " said Seth, gratefully; andencouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on: "Let me pray abit with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of us--it'll comfort thee, happen, more than thee thinkst. "

"Well, I've nothin' to say again' it. "

Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in herconversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some comfortand safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow relieved herfrom the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her own behalf. 

So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the poorwandering father and for those who were sorrowing for him at home. Andwhen he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to setup his tent in a far country, but that his mother might be cheered andcomforted by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lisbeth'sready tears flowed again, and she wept aloud. 

When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said, "Wiltonly lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the while?"

"No, Seth, no. Make Mother go to bed, and go thyself. "

Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holdingsomething in her hands. It was the brown-and-yellow platter containingthe baked potatoes with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she hadcut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten breadand fresh meat were delicacies to working people. She set the dish downrather timidly on the bench by Adam's side and said, "Thee canst pick abit while thee't workin'. I'll bring thee another drop o' water. "

"Aye, Mother, do, " said Adam, kindly; "I'm getting very thirsty. "

In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the house butthe 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 attwelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinklingstars; every blade of grass was asleep. 

Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at themercy of our feelings and imagination; and it was so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as aspectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sadfuture, floating before him and giving place one to the other in swiftsuccession. 

He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the coffinto Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast: his fatherperhaps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance--would sit down, looking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang down his head, examining the floor-quarries; while Lisbethwould ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready, that he hadslinked off and left undone--for Lisbeth was always the first to utterthe word of reproach, although she cried at Adam's severity towards hisfather. 

"So it will go on, worsening and worsening, " thought Adam; "there's noslipping uphill again, and no standing still when once you 've begunto slip down. " And then the day came back to him when he was a littlefellow and used to run by his father's side, proud to be taken outto work, and prouder still to hear his father boasting to hisfellow-workmen how "the little chap had an uncommon notion o'carpentering. " What a fine active fellow his father was then! Whenpeople asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinctionas he answered, "I'm Thias Bede's lad. " He was quite sure everybodyknew Thias Bede--didn't he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Broxtonparsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was threeyears the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be ateacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of sadness, whenAdam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at thepublic-houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth herplaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night ofshame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the "WaggonOverthrown. " He had run away once when he was only eighteen, makinghis escape in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle overhis shoulder, and his "mensuration book" in his pocket, and sayingto himself very decidedly that he could bear the vexations of home nolonger--he would go and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at thecrossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he gotto Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endureeverything without him, became too importunate, and his resolutionfailed him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror hismother had gone through in those two days had haunted her ever since. 

"No!" Adam said to himself to-night, "that must never happen again. It'ud make a poor balance when my doings are cast up at the last, if mypoor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My back's broad enough andstrong enough; I should be no better than a coward to go away and leavethe troubles to be borne by them as aren't half so able. 'They that arestrong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not toplease themselves. ' There's a text wants no candle to show't; it shinesby its own light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i' thislife if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making thingseasy and pleasant to yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the troughand think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's heart andsoul in you, you can't be easy a-making your own bed an' leaving therest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I'll never slip my neck out o' theyoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sorecross 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 thehouse door, and Gyp, instead of barking, as might have been expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the doorand opened it. Nothing was there; all was still, as when he opened itan hour before; the leaves were motionless, and the light of the starsshowed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty ofvisible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw nothing excepta rat which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He went in again, wondering; the sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it itcalled up the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could nothelp a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had toldhim of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adamwas not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood ofthe peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant can nomore help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can helptrembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combinationwhich is at once humble in the region of mystery and keen in the regionof knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as much ashis hard common sense which gave him his disinclination to doctrinalreligion, and he often checked Seth's argumentative spiritualism bysaying, "Eh, it's a big mystery; thee know'st but little about it. " Andso it happened that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If anew building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a divinejudgment, he would have said, "May be; but the bearing o' the roof andwalls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come down"; yet he believedin dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he bated his breath alittle when he told the story of the stroke with the willow wand. Itell it as he told it, not attempting to reduce it to its naturalelements--in our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose ourhold of the sympathy that comprehends them. 

But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessityfor getting on with the coffin, and for the next ten minutes his hammerwas ringing so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to takeup 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 wasstill, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-ladengrass in front of the cottage. 

Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of lateyears he had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston, andthere was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping off hisdrunkenness at the "Waggon Overthrown. " Besides, to Adam, the conceptionof the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his fatherthat the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeplyinfixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought thatoccurred to him was one that made him slip off his shoes and treadlightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and hismother were breathing regularly. 

Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, "I won't openthe 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 quickerthan the eye and catches a sound from't now and then. Some people thinkthey get a sight on't too, but they're mostly folks whose eyes are notmuch use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think it's better tosee when your perpendicular's true than to see a ghost. "

Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylightquenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the time the redsunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid ofthe coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willowwand was merged in satisfaction that the work was done and the promiseredeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already movingoverhead, 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 aftersix. 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 littlewoodyard into the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a mileand a half to Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound verypleasantly along lanes and across fields, where the pale woodbines andthe dog-roses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were twitteringand trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangelymingled picture--the fresh youth of the summer morning, with itsEdenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two brothersin their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside thevillage of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done the coffin naileddown, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorterway homewards, which would take them across the fields and the brook infront of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had happened inthe night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himselfto say, "Seth, lad, if Father isn't come home by the time we've had ourbreakfast, I think it'll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles'onand look after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Nevermind about losing an hour at thy work; we can make that up. What dostsay?"

"I'm willing, " said Seth. "But see what clouds have gathered since weset out. I'm thinking we shall have more rain. It'll be a sore time forth' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook's fine andfull now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and we should have togo round by the road. "

They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasturethrough 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 vagueanxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made noanswer to Seth, but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began to barkuneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge. 

This was what the omen meant, then! And the grey-haired father, of whomhe had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certain tolive to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling withthat watery death! This was the first thought that flashed throughAdam's conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag outthe tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, andwhen they had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt andlooked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was needfor action--forgetting everything but that their father lay dead beforethem. Adam was the first to speak. 

"I'll run to Mother, " he said, in a loud whisper. "I'll be back to theein a minute. "

Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' breakfast, and their porridgewas already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink ofcleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on makingher hearth and breakfast-table look comfortable and inviting. 

"The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry, " she said, half-aloud, as she stirredthe porridge. "It's a good step to Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'erthe hill--wi' that heavy coffin too. Eh! It's heavier now, wi' poor BobTholer in't. Howiver, I've made a drap more porridge nor common thismornin'. The feyther 'ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he'll atemuch porridge. He swallers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o'por-ridge--that's his way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many atime, an' am likely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh, poor mon, he takes it quiet enough; there's no denyin' that. "

But now Lisbeth heard the heavy "thud" of a running footstep on theturf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, lookingso pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards himbefore he had time to speak. 

"Hush, Mother, " Adam said, rather hoarsely, "don't be frightened. Father's tumbled into the water. Belike we may bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot asthe fire. "

In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew therewas no other way of repressing his mother's impetuous wailing grief thanby occupying her with some active task which had hope in it. 

He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden inheart-stricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, likeSeth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whomThias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was aweand distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's soul; butAdam'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 tendernessthat we repent of, but our severity. 

Chapter V

The Rector

BEFORE twelve o'clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and thewater lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel walks in the gardenof Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossedby the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed borderflowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholymorning--because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin, andinstead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded. 

But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they wouldnever 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 hismother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to passsome cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into thatdining-room and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severestChurch reformer would have found it difficult to look sour. We willenter very softly and stand still in the open doorway, without awakingthe glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with hertwo puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black muzzlealoft, like a sleepy president. 

The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel windowat one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but thefurniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty, and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over thelarge dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantlyenough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloththere is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of thesame pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboardwith a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at oncethat the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely cutnostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has abroad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backwardand tied behind with a black ribbon--a bit of conservatism in costumewhich tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn roundby and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, hismother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is wellset off by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace abouther head and neck. She is as erect in her comely embonpoint as a statueof Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline nose, firm proudmouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and sarcastic in itsexpression that you instinctively substitute a pack of cards for thechess-men and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown handwith which she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, andturquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over thecrown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white foldsabout her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old lady in themorning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so: sheis clearly one of those children of royalty who have never doubted theirright divine and never met with any one so absurd as to question it. 

"There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!" says this magnificent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. "I should besorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings. "

"Ah, you witch-mother, you sorceress! How is a Christian man to win agame off you? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water beforewe began. You've not won that game by fair means, now, so don't pretendit. "

"Yes, yes, that's what the beaten have always said of great conquerors. But see, there's the sunshine falling on the board, to show you moreclearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I giveyou another chance?"

"No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it's clearingup. We must go and plash up the mud a little, mus'n't we, Juno?" Thiswas addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of thevoices and laid her nose in an insinuating way on her master's leg. "ButI must go upstairs first and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer'sfuneral just when I was going before. "

"It's of no use, child; she can't speak to you. Kate says she has one ofher worst headaches this morning. "

"Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same; she's never too illto care about that. "

If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse orhabit, you will not wonder when I tell you that this identical objectionhad been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many hundredtimes in the course of the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine's sister Annehad been an invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dressin the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters. 

But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair andstroking Juno's head, the servant came to the door and said, "Ifyou please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are atliberty. "

"Let him be shown in here, " said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting. "I always like to hear what Mr. Rann has got to say. His shoes will bedirty, 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 barkand ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger's legs; while thetwo puppies, regarding Mr. Rann's prominent calf and ribbed worstedstockings from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled overthem in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned round his chair andsaid, "Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you've comeover this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs; givethem a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!"

It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a suddenrush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance tohis mother that our loving memory of a friend's face often bears to theface itself: the lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, theexpression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his facemight have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for itsmixture of bonhomie and distinction. 

"Thank Your Reverence, " answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to lookunconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off thepuppies; "I'll stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see youan' Mrs. Irwine well, an' Miss Irwine--an' Miss Anne, I hope's as wellas usual. "

"Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She beatsus younger people hollow. But what's the matter?"

"Why, sir, I had to come to Brox'on to deliver some work, and I thoughtit 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 manand boy sixty year come St. Thomas, and collected th' Easter dues forMr. Blick before Your Reverence come into the parish, and been at theringin' o' every bell, and the diggin' o' every grave, and sung i' thechoir long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi' hiscounter-singin' and fine anthems, as puts everybody out but himself--onetakin' it up after another like sheep a-bleatin' i' th' fold. I knowwhat belongs to bein' a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin'i' respect to Your Reverence, an' church, an' king, if I was t' allowsuch goins-on wi'out speakin'. I was took by surprise, an' knowednothin' on it beforehand, an' I was so flustered, I was clean as if I'dlost my tools. I hanna slep' more nor four hour this night as is pastan' gone; an' then it was nothin' but nightmare, as tired me worse norwakin'. "

"Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua? Have the thieves been atthe church lead again?"

"Thieves! No, sir--an' yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an' a-thievin'the church, too. It's the Methodisses as is like to get th' upper handi' 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 mybetters. 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 atMester Poyser's was a-preachin' an' a-prayin' on the Green last night, as sure as I'm a-stannin' afore Your Reverence now. "

"Preaching on the Green!" said Mr. Irwine, looking surprised but quiteserene. "What, that pale pretty young woman I've seen at Poyser's? I sawshe was a Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn't know she was a preacher. "

"It's a true word as I say, sir, " rejoined Mr. Rann, compressing hismouth into a semicircular form and pausing long enough to indicate threenotes of exclamation. "She preached on the Green last night; an' she'slaid 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 comeround 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'llbe no livin' i' th' village. For them Methodisses make folks believeas if they take a mug o' drink extry, an' make theirselves a bitcomfortable, 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 Ilike a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat'ral when we'regoin' the rounds a-singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin'; orwhen I'm a-collectin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' aneighbourly chat at Mester Casson's now an' then, for I was broughtup i' the Church, thank God, an' ha' been a parish clerk thistwo-an'-thirty year: I should know what the church religion is. "

"Well, what's your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?"

"Well, Your Reverence, I'm not for takin' any measures again' the youngwoman. She's well enough if she'd let alone preachin'; an' I hear asshe's a-goin' away back to her own country soon. She's Mr. Poyser'sown niece, an' I donna wish to say what's anyways disrespectful o' th'family at th' Hall Farm, as I've measured for shoes, little an' big, welly iver sin' I've been a shoemaker. But there's that Will Maskery, sir as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an' I make no doubt itwas him as stirred up th' young woman to preach last night, an' he'll bea-bringin' other folks to preach from Treddles'on, if his comb isn'tcut a bit; an' I think as he should be let know as he isna t' have themakin' an' mendin' o' church carts an' implemen's, let alone stayin' i'that house an' yard as is Squire Donnithorne's. "

"Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come topreach on the Green before; why should you think they'll come again? TheMethodists don't come to preach in little villages like Hayslope, wherethere's only a handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. Theymight almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. Will Maskery isno 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 enoughto speak disrespectful about's neebors, for he said as I was a blindPharisee--a-usin' the Bible i' that way to find nick-names for folks asare his elders an' betters!--and what's worse, he's been heard to sayvery unbecomin' words about Your Reverence; for I could bring them as'ud swear as he called you a 'dumb dog, ' an' a 'idle shepherd. ' You'llforgi'e me for sayin' such things over again. "

"Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they'respoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse fellow than he is. Heused to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating hiswife, they told me; now he's thrifty and decent, and he and his wifelook comfortable together. If you can bring me any proof that heinterferes with his neighbours and creates any disturbance, I shallthink it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But itwouldn't become wise people like you and me to be making a fuss abouttrifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will Maskerylets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or a young woman talks in aserious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must 'live and letlive, ' Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doingyour duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as well as you've always doneit, and making those capital thick boots for your neighbours, and thingswon't go far wrong in Hayslope, depend upon it. "

"Your Reverence is very good to say so; an' I'm sensable as, you notlivin' i' the parish, there's more upo' my shoulders. "

"To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people's eyesby seeming to be frightened about it for a little thing, Joshua. I shalltrust to your good sense, now to take no notice at all of what WillMaskery says, either about you or me. You and your neighbours can go ontaking your pot of beer soberly, when you've done your day's work, likegood churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn't like to join you, but to goto a prayer-meeting at Treddleston instead, let him; that's no businessof yours, so long as he doesn't hinder you from doing what you like. Andas to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that, any more than the old church-steeple minds the rooks cawing aboutit. Will Maskery comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does hiswheelwright's business steadily in the weekdays, and as long as he doesthat 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 fetchhim a rap across the jowl--God forgi'e me--an' Mrs. Irwine, an' YourReverence too, for speakin' so afore you. An' he said as our Christmassingin' was no better nor the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot. "

"Well, he's got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have woodenheads, you know, it can't be helped. He won't bring the other people inHayslope round to his opinion, while you go on singing as well as youdo. "

"Yes, sir, but it turns a man's stomach t' hear the Scripture misused i'that way. I know as much o' the words o' the Bible as he does, an' couldsay the Psalms right through i' my sleep if you was to pinch me; but Iknow better nor to take 'em to say my own say wi'. I might as well takethe Sacriment-cup home and use it at meals. "

"That's a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua; but, as I saidbefore----"

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step and the clinkof a spur were heard on the stone floor of the entrance-hall, and JoshuaRann moved hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some one whopaused there, and said, in a ringing tenor voice, "Godson Arthur--may he come in?"

"Come in, come in, godson!" Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deephalf-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old woman, and thereentered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, with his right arm ina sling; whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of laughinginterjections, and hand-shakings, and "How are you's?" mingled withjoyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the caninemembers of the family, which tells that the visitor is on the best termswith the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur Donnithorne, knownin Hayslope, variously, as "the young squire, " "the heir, " and "thecaptain. " He was only a captain in the Loamshire Militia, but to theHayslope tenants he was more intensely a captain than all the younggentlemen of the same rank in his Majesty's regulars--he outshone themas the planet Jupiter outshines the Milky Way. If you want to knowmore particularly how he looked, call to your remembrance sometawny-whiskered, brown-locked, clear-complexioned young Englishmanwhom you have met with in a foreign town, and been proud of as afellow-countryman--well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking asif he could deliver well from 'the left shoulder and floor his man: Iwill not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination with thedifference of costume, and insist on the striped waistcoat, long-tailedcoat, and low top-boots. 

Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, "But don't letme interrupt Joshua's business--he has something to say. "

"Humbly begging Your Honour's pardon, " said Joshua, bowing low, "therewas one thing I had to say to His Reverence as other things had droveout o' my head. "

"Out with it, Joshua, quickly!" said Mr. Irwine. 

"Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede's dead--drownded thismorning, or more like overnight, i' the Willow Brook, again' the bridgeright i' front o' the house. "

"Ah!" exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good dealinterested in the information. 

"An' Seth Bede's been to me this morning to say he wished me to tellYour Reverence as his brother Adam begged of you particular t' allow hisfather's grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother's sether heart on it, on account of a dream as she had; an' they'd ha'come theirselves to ask you, but they've so much to see after with thecrowner, an' that; an' their mother's took on so, an' wants 'em to makesure o' the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An' if YourReverence sees well and good, I'll send my boy to tell 'em as soon as Iget home; an' that's why I make bold to trouble you wi' it, His Honourbeing present. "

"To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I'll ride round toAdam myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, to say they shallhave the grave, lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, goodmorning, Joshua; go into the kitchen and have some ale. "

"Poor old Thias!" said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone. "I'm afraidthe drink helped the brook to drown him. I should have been glad for theload to have been taken off my friend Adam's shoulders in a less painfulway. That fine fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for thelast five or six years. "

"He's a regular trump, is Adam, " said Captain Donnithorne. "When I wasa little fellow, and Adam was a strapping lad of fifteen, and taught mecarpentering, I used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would makeAdam my grand-vizier. And I believe now he would bear the exaltation aswell as any poor wise man in an Eastern story. If ever I live to be alarge-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged allowance ofpocket-money, I'll have Adam for my right hand. He shall manage my woodsfor me, for he seems to have a better notion of those things than anyman I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the money of themthat my grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to manage, who understands no more about timber than an old carp. I've mentionedthe subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason orother he has a dislike to Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, YourReverence, are you for a ride with me? It's splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam's together, if you like; but I want to call at theHall 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'snearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly. "

"I want to go to the Hall Farm too, " said Mr. Irwine, "to have anotherlook at the little Methodist who is staying there. Joshua tells me shewas preaching on the Green last night. "

"Oh, by Jove!" said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. "Why, she looks asquiet as a mouse. There's something rather striking about her, though. Ipositively felt quite bashful the first time I saw her--she was sittingstooping over her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rodeup and called out, without noticing that she was a stranger, 'Is MartinPoyser at home?' I declare, when she got up and looked at me and justsaid, 'He's in the house, I believe: I'll go and call him, ' I feltquite 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 amongour common people. "

"I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin, " said Mrs. Irwine. "Makeher come here on some pretext or other. "

"I don't know how I can manage that, Mother; it will hardly do for meto patronize a Methodist preacher, even if she would consent to bepatronized by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You shouldhave come in a little sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua's denunciation ofhis neighbour Will Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommunicate thewheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm--that is to say, to your grandfather--to be turned out of house and yard. If I chose tointerfere in this business, now, I might get up as pretty a story ofhatred and persecution as the Methodists need desire to publish inthe next number of their magazine. It wouldn't take me much trouble topersuade Chad Cranage and half a dozen other bull-headed fellows thatthey would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting WillMaskery out of the village with rope-ends and pitchforks; and then, whenI had furnished them with half a sovereign to get gloriously drunk aftertheir exertions, I should have put the climax to as pretty a farce asany of my brother clergy have set going in their parishes for the lastthirty years. "

"It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an 'idleshepherd' and a 'dumb dog, '" said Mrs. Irwine. "I should be inclined tocheck him a little there. You are too easy-tempered, Dauphin. "

"Why, Mother, you don't think it would be a good way of sustaining mydignity to set about vindicating myself from the aspersions of WillMaskery? Besides, I'm not so sure that they ARE aspersions. I AM a lazyfellow, and get terribly heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I'malways spending more than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so thatI get savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those poorlean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate mankind by settingout to preach in the morning twilight before they begin their day'swork, may well have a poor opinion of me. But come, let us have ourluncheon. Isn't Kate coming to lunch?"

"Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch upstairs, " said Carroll;"she can't leave Miss Anne. "

"Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I'll go up and see Miss Annepresently. You can use your right arm quite well now, Arthur, " Mr. Irwine continued, observing that Captain Donnithorne had taken his armout of the sling. 

"Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up constantly forsome time to come. I hope I shall be able to get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August. It's a desperately dull businessbeing shut up at the Chase in the summer months, when one can neitherhunt nor shoot, so as to make one's self pleasantly sleepy in theevening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. Mygrandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you theentertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. The world will not seethe grand epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall have a loftythrone for you, Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another inthe ballroom, that you may sit and look down upon us like an Olympiangoddess. "

"I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christeningtwenty years ago, " said Mrs. Irwine. "Ah, I think I shall see your poormother flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost likea shroud that very day; and it WAS her shroud only three months after;and your little cap and christening dress were buried with her too. Shehad set her heart on that, sweet soul! Thank God you take after yourmother's family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, yellow baby, Iwouldn't have stood godmother to you. I should have been sure you wouldturn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a Tradgett. "

"But you might have been a little too hasty there, Mother, " said Mr. Irwine, smiling. "Don't you remember how it was with Juno's last pups?One of them was the very image of its mother, but it had two or threeof its father's tricks notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheateven you, Mother. "

"Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You'll never persuade me that I can't tell what men are by theiroutsides. If I don't like a man's looks, depend upon it I shall neverlike 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 theymake 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 badsmell. "

"Talking of eyes, " said Captain Donnithorne, "that reminds me that I'vegot a book I meant to bring you, Godmamma. It came down in a parcel fromLondon 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 betwaddling stuff, but the first is in a different style--'The AncientMariner' is the title. I can hardly make head or tail of it as a story, but it's a strange, striking thing. I'll send it over to you; and thereare some other books that you may like to see, Irwine--pamphlets aboutAntinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can't thinkwhat the fellow means by sending such things to me. I've written to himto desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or pamphlet onanything that ends in ISM. "

"Well, I don't know that I'm very fond of isms myself; but I may as welllook at the pamphlets; they let one see what is going on. I've a littlematter to attend to, Arthur, " continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave theroom, "and then I shall be ready to set out with you. "

The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him up the oldstone staircase (part of the house was very old) and made him pausebefore a door at which he knocked gently. "Come in, " said a woman'svoice, and he entered a room so darkened by blinds and curtains thatMiss Kate, the thin middle-aged lady standing by the bedside, would nothave had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting whichlay on the little table near her. But at present she was doing whatrequired only the dimmest light--sponging the aching head that lay onthe pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poorsufferer; perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn andsallow. Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, "Don't speakto her; she can't bear to be spoken to to-day. " Anne's eyes were closed, and her brow contracted as if from intense pain. Mr. Irwine went to thebedside and took up one of the delicate hands and kissed it, a slightpressure from the small fingers told him that it was worth-while to havecome upstairs for the sake of doing that. He lingered a moment, lookingat her, and then turned away and left the room, treading very gently--hehad taken off his boots and put on slippers before he came upstairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to do even forhimself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off hisboots, will not think this last detail insignificant. 

And Mr. Irwine's sisters, as any person of family within ten miles ofBroxton could have testified, were such stupid, uninteresting women!It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwine should have had suchcommonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was worth driving tenmiles to see, any day; her beauty, her well-preserved faculties, and herold-fashioned dignity made her a graceful subject for conversation inturn with the King's health, the sweet new patterns in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey's lawsuit, which was fretting poorLady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the MissIrwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded themas deep in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as "thegentlefolks. " If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him hisflannel jacket, he would have answered, "the gentlefolks, lastwinter"; and widow Steene dwelt much on the virtues of the "stuff" thegentlefolks gave her for her cough. Under this name too, they were usedwith great effect as a means of taming refractory children, so that atthe sight of poor Miss Anne's sallow face, several small urchins had aterrified sense that she was cognizant of all their worst misdemeanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which they had intended tohit Farmer Britton's ducks. But for all who saw them through aless mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluousexistences--inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life withoutadequate effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could havebeen accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might havehad some romantic interest attached to her: but no such story had eitherbeen known or invented concerning her, and the general impression wasquite in accordance with the fact, that both the sisters were old maidsfor the prosaic reason that they had never received an eligible offer. 

Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificantpeople has very important consequences in the world. It can be shown toaffect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many eviltempers from the selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if thathandsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had nothad these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would have been shapedquite differently: he would very likely have taken a comely wife in hisyouth, and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, wouldhave had tall sons and blooming daughters--such possessions, in short, as men commonly think will repay them for all the labour they take underthe sun. As it was--having with all his three livings no more than sevenhundred a-year, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and hissickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken ofwithout any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birthand habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his own--heremained, you see, at the age of eight-and-forty, a bachelor, notmaking any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any onealluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which awife would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person inthe world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous;for his was one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that neverknow a narrow or a grudging thought; Epicurean, if you will, with noenthusiasm, no self-scourging sense of duty; but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an unwearying tendernessfor obscure and monotonous suffering. It was his large-heartedindulgence that made him ignore his mother's hardness towards herdaughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her dotingfondness towards himself; he held it no virtue to frown at irremediablefaults. 

See the difference between the impression a man makes on you when youwalk by his side in familiar talk, or look at him in his home, and thefigure he makes when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in theeyes of a critical neighbour who thinks of him as an embodied systemor opinion rather than as a man. Mr. Roe, the "travelling preacher"stationed at Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general statementconcerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom hedescribed as men given up to the lusts of the flesh and the pride oflife; hunting and shooting, and adorning their own houses; asking whatshall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we beclothed?--careless of dispensing the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best but a carnal and soul-benumbing morality, andtrafficking in the souls of men by receiving money for discharging thepastoral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on thefaces of the people more than once a-year. The ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that period, finds honourablemembers zealous for the Church, and untainted with any sympathy forthe "tribe of canting Methodists, " making statements scarcely lessmelancholy than that of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible for me to say thatMr. Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification assignedhim. He really had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: if Iwere closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess that he feltno serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would havethought it a mere loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakeningmanner to old "Feyther Taft, " or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhapshave said that the only healthy form religion could take in such mindswas that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing themselves as ahallowing influence over the family affections and neighbourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more important than its doctrine, andthat the religious benefits the peasant drew from the church where hisfathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buriedwere but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the Liturgy orthe sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these days an"earnest" man: he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and hadmuch more insight into men's characters than interest in their opinions;he was neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copiousin alms-giving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mentalpalate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotationfrom Sophocles or Theocritus that was quite absent from any text inIsaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, howcan you wonder at its retaining a relish for uncooked partridge inafter-life? And Mr. Irwine's recollections of young enthusiasm andambition were all associated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof fromthe Bible. 

On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partialitytowards the rector's memory, that he was not vindictive--and somephilanthropists have been so; that he was not intolerant--and there is arumour that some zealous theologians have not been altogether free fromthat blemish; that although he would probably have declined to give hisbody to be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing allhis goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimesbeen lacking to very illustrious virtue--he was tender to other men'sfailings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was one of those men, and they are not the commonest, of whom we can know the best only byfollowing them away from the marketplace, the platform, and the pulpit, entering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice with whichthey speak to the young and aged about their own hearthstone, andwitnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants of everydaycompanions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and notas a subject for panegyric. 

Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, andhave sometimes even been the living representatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort us a little under the oppositefact--that it is better sometimes NOT to follow great reformers ofabuses beyond the threshold of their homes. 

But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had met him thatJune afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his dogs running besidehim--portly, upright, manly, with a good-natured smile on his finelyturned lips as he talked to his dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have felt that, however ill he harmonized with sound theoriesof the clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with thatpeaceful landscape. 

See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then byrolling masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tinywhitewashed church. They will soon be in the parish of Hayslope; thegrey church-tower and village roofs lie before them to the left, andfarther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the HallFarm. 

Chapter VI

The Hall Farm

EVIDENTLY that gate is never opened, for the long grass and the greathemlocks grow close against it, and if it were opened, it is so rustythat the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely topull down the square stone-built pillars, to the detriment of the twostone lionesses which grin with a doubtful carnivorous affability abovea coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brickwall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting our eyes close to therusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and all butthe very corners of the grassy enclosure. 

It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powderylichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so asto bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with thelimestone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and thedoor-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 andgrate 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 asonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen his master andmistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair. 

But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of achancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double row ofwalnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and rot amongthe grass, if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echoingfrom great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned calves thathave been sheltering themselves in a gorse-built hovel against theleft-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; forimagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no fear of dogs, but mayclimb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your faceto one of the glass panes in the right-hand window: what do you see? Alarge 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. Andwhat through the left-hand window? Several clothes-horses, a pillion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open and stuffed full of colouredrags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll, which, sofar as mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finestGreek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near itthere is a little chair, and the butt end of a boy's leather long-lashedwhip. 

The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence ofa country squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to merespinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. Itwas once the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in somecoast town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where thegenteel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehousesbusy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and nolonger radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the farmyard. 

Plenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of the year, just before hay-harvest; and it is the drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs. Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is always a stronger senseof life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and now he is pouringdown his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lightingup every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, andturning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to thedrain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing theopportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a concert of noises; the great bull-dog, chained againstthe stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approachof a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a thunderingbark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the oppositecow-house; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with their chicks amongthe straw, set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joinsthem; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled asto the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the calvesare bleating from the home croft; and, under all, a fine ear discernsthe continuous hum of human voices. 

For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men are busythere mending the harness, under the superintendence of Mr. Goby, the "whittaw, " otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latestTreddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day thatAlick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whittaws, since themorning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind prettystrongly as to the dirt which the extra number of men's shoes broughtinto the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet recovered herequanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours sincedinner, and the house-floor is perfectly clean again; as clean aseverything else in that wonderful house-place, where the only chance ofcollecting 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 glitteringbrass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this timeof year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, orat least light enough to discern the outline of objects after youhave bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could anoak clock-case and an oak table have got to such a polish by the hand:genuine "elbow polish, " as Mrs. Poyser called it, for she thanked Godshe never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorreloften took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of lookingat the pleasing reflection of herself in those polished surfaces, forthe oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more forornament than for use; and she could see herself sometimes in the greatround pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves above the longdeal dinner-table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone likejasper. 

Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sunshone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfacespleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass--andon a still pleasanter object than these, for some of the rays fell onDinah'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 heraunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who wasironing a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, hadnot been making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to andfro whenever she wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of herblue-grey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was makingup the butter, and from the dairy to the back kitchen, where Nancy wastaking the pies out of the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a good-lookingwoman, not more than eight-and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandyhair, well-shapen, light-footed. The most conspicuous article in herattire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered herskirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her capand gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant thanfeminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The familylikeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrastbetween her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha andMary. Their eyes were just of the same colour, but a striking test ofthe difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour of Trip, theblack-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily exposedhimself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's glance. Her tonguewas not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel came withinearshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organtakes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off. 

The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it wasinconvenient to have the whittaws, and why, consequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual severity. To allappearance Molly had got through her after-dinner work in an exemplarymanner, had "cleaned herself" with great dispatch, and now came to ask, submissively, if she should sit down to her spinning till milking time. But this blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secretindulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth and held upto Molly's view with cutting eloquence. 

"Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, andlet you have your own way. I never knew your equals for gallowsness. Tothink of a gell o' your age wanting to go and sit with half-a-dozen men!I'd ha' been ashamed to let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired youat Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character--as I say, you mightbe grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place; and you knewno more o' what belongs to work when you come here than the mawkin i'the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. Who taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leavethe dirt in heaps i' the corners--anybody 'ud think you'd never beenbrought up among Christians. And as for spinning, why, you've wastedas 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 asthoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for thewhittaws, indeed! That's what you'd like to be doing, is it? That's theway with you--that's the road you'd all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've got some sweetheart as is as big a fool asyourself: 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 tocover you, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children area-snatching at. "

"I'm sure I donna want t' go wi' the whittaws, " said Molly, whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her future, "on'y weallays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's; an' so I justaxed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the whittaws again; I wish I maynever stir if I do. "

"Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr. Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi' whittawsfor what I know. There's no knowing what people WONNA like--such ways asI've heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to knowwhat cleaning was; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as tothat 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 thedairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come downstairsafter my illness, as the doctor said it was inflammation--it was a mercyI got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, andbeen 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 rundown, instead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sittingdown 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 littlesunny-haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chairat the end of the ironing table, was arduously clutching the handle ofa miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with anassiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far asanatomy would allow. 

"Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!" said Mrs. Poyser, whowas remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from herofficial objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. "Nevermind! Mother's done her ironing now. She's going to put the ironingthings away. "

"Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd. "

"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet, " said Mrs. Poyser, carryingaway her iron. "Run into the dairy and see cousin Hetty make thebutter. "

"I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-take, " rejoined Totty, who seemed to beprovided with several relays of requests; at the same time, taking theopportunity of her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowlof starch, and drag it down so as to empty the contents with tolerablecompleteness on to the ironing sheet. 

"Did ever anybody see the like?" screamed Mrs. Poyser, running towardsthe table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. "The child'sallays i' mischief if your back's turned a minute. What shall I do toyou, you naughty, naughty gell?"

Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, andwas already in retreat towards the dairy with a sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck which made her look likethe metamorphosis of a white suckling pig. 

The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the ironingapparatus put by, Mrs. Poyser took up her knitting which always layready at hand, and was the work she liked best, because she could carryit on automatically as she walked to and fro. But now she came and satdown opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative way, as sheknitted her grey worsted stocking. 

"You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. Icould almost fancy it was thirty years back, and I was a little gellat home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd donethe house up; only it was a little cottage, Father's was, and not a bigrambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you clean it inanother--but for all that, I could fancy you was your Aunt Judith, onlyher hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broaderi' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she hadsuch queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, yourmother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after thevery pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith totake care on, and bring up with a spoon when SHE was in the graveyard atStoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound weightany day to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the samefrom the first o' my remembering her; it made no difference in her, asI could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she talked a bitdifferent and wore a different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her lifespent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent. "

"She was a blessed woman, " said Dinah; "God had given her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by grace. And she was veryfond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I often heard her talk of you in the samesort of way. When she had that bad illness, and I was only elevenyears old, she used to say, 'You'll have a friend on earth in your AuntRachel, if I'm taken from you, for she has a kind heart, ' and I'm sureI've found it so. "

"I don't know how, child; anybody 'ud be cunning to do anything for you, I think; you're like the birds o' th' air, and live nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a mother's sister, if you'd comeand live i' this country where there's some shelter and victual forman and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hills, like poultrya-scratching on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to somedecent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leaveoff that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your Aunt Judithever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gatheringMethodist and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know youruncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's allays beengood-natur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome tothe house; and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd dofor Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the houseas I could well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting andtable-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o'sheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun--she was a raregirl 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 linenwove 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 hersenses, i'stead o' wearing yourself out with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved againstsickness; and all the things you've got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all becauseyou've got notions i' your head about religion more nor what's i' theCatechism 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, rathersharply; "else why shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible--theparsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it--do the sameas you do? But, for the matter o' that, if everybody was to do likeyou, the world must come to a standstill; for if everybody tried todo without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and wasallays talking as we must despise the things o' the world as you say, Ishould like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the corn, and thebest new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody 'ud be wanting breadmade o' tail ends and everybody 'ud be running after everybody elseto preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying byagainst a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the rightreligion. "

"Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people are called toforsake their work and their families. It's quite right the land shouldbe ploughed and sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the thingsof this life cared for, and right that people should rejoice in theirfamilies, and provide for them, so that this is done in the fear of theLord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while they arecaring for the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lot iscast, but He gives us different sorts of work, according as He fits usfor it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in tryingto do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help running ifyou heard little Totty crying at the other end of the house; the voicewould go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble orin danger, and you couldn't rest without running to help her and comforther. "

"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 methe same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brookand tell it to stan' still. "

The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyserto stand there quite pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all thewhile. But she had not been standing there more than five minutes beforeshe came in again, and said to Dinah, in rather a flurried, awe-strickentone, "If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine a-coming intothe yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preachingon the Green, Dinah; it's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've saidenough a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle'sfamily. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr. Poyser's ownniece--folks must put up wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their ownnoses--it's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' minebeing cause o' my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me broughthim no fortin but my savin's----"

"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel, " said Dinah gently, "you've no cause for suchfears. I've strong assurance that no evil will happen to you and myuncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach withoutdirection. "

"Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction, " said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. "When there's a biggermaggot than usual in your head you call it 'direction'; and then nothingcan stir you--you look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'onchurch, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether it's fair weather or foul. Ihanna common patience with you. "

By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and had gotdown from their horses: it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs. Poyseradvanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low and trembling betweenanger with Dinah and anxiety to conduct herself with perfect proprietyon the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt awhispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt whenthey stood on tiptoe to watch the gods passing by in tall human shape. 

"Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?" said Mr. Irwine, with his stately cordiality. "Our feet are quite dry; we shallnot soil your beautiful floor. "

"Oh, sir, don't mention it, " said Mrs. Poyser. "Will you and the captainplease to walk into the parlour?"

"No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, " said the captain, looking eagerlyround the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could notfind. "I delight in your kitchen. I think it is the most charming roomI know. I should like every farmer's wife to come and look at it for apattern. "

"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat, " said Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the captain's evidentgood-humour, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her. 

"Poyser is not at home, is he?" said Captain Donnithorne, seatinghimself where he could see along the short passage to the opendairy-door. 

"No, sir, he isn't; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr. West, the factor, about the wool. But there's Father i' the barn, sir, if he'd be of anyuse. "

"No, thank you; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a message aboutthem with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband; Iwant to have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he'slikely to be at liberty?"

"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'onmarket-day--that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's anywhere on thefarm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got rid o' the Scantlands, we should have no outlying fields; and I should be glad of it, for ifever anything happens, he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Thingsallays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance; and it's an unnat'ralthing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest inanother. "

"Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especiallyas he wants dairyland and you've got plenty. I think yours is theprettiest farm on the estate, though; and do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if Iwere going to marry and settle, I should be tempted to turn you out, anddo up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself. "

"Oh, sir, " said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn't like it atall. As for farming, it's putting money into your pocket wi' yourright hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it'sraising victual for other folks and just getting a mouthful for yourselfand your children as you go along. Not as you'd be like a poor man aswants to get his bread--you could afford to lose as much money as youliked i' farming--but it's poor fun losing money, I should think, thoughI understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more thananything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son hadlost thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they saidmy lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know moreabout that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think asyou'd like it; and this house--the draughts in it are enough to cut youthrough, and it's my opinion the floors upstairs are very rotten, andthe rats i' the cellar are beyond anything. "

"Why, that's a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doingyou a service to turn you out of such a place. But there's no chanceof that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm astout gentleman of forty; and my grandfather would never consent to partwith such good tenants as you. "

"Well, sir, if he thinks so well o' Mr. Poyser for a tenant I wish youcould put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Fivecloses, for my husband's been asking and asking till he's tired, and tothink o' what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowedhim, be the times bad or good. And as I've said to my husband often andoften, I'm sure if the captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn'tbe so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o' them as have got thepower i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'ull bearsometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, andhardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for thinking as the cheesemay swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow greenagain i' the sheaf--and after all, at th' end o' the year, it's likeas if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for yourpains. "

Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed alongwithout any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry. The confidenceshe felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force thatovercame all resistance. 

"I'm afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speakabout the gates, Mrs. Poyser, " said the captain, "though I assure youthere's no man on the estate I would sooner say a word for than yourhusband. I know his farm is in better order than any other withinten miles of us; and as for the kitchen, " he added, smiling, "I don'tbelieve there's one in the kingdom to beat it. By the by, I've neverseen your dairy: I must see your dairy, Mrs. Poyser. "

"Indeed, sir, it's not fit for you to go in, for Hetty's in the middleo' making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I'm quiteashamed. " This Mrs. Poyser said blushing, and believing that the captainwas really interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion ofher to the appearance of her dairy. 

"Oh, I've no doubt it's in capital order. Take me in, " said the captain, himself leading the way, while Mrs. Poyser followed. 

Chapter VII

The Dairy

THE dairy was certainly worth looking at: it was a scene to sicken forwith a sort of calenture in hot and dusty streets--such coolness, suchpurity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of firm butter, ofwooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water; such soft colouring ofred earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, greylimestone and rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks andhinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details when theysurround a distractingly pretty girl of seventeen, standing on littlepattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out ofthe scale. 

Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donnithorne entered thedairy and spoke to her; but it was not at all a distressed blush, forit was inwreathed with smiles and dimples, and with sparkles from underlong, curled, dark eyelashes; and while her aunt was discoursing to himabout the limited amount of milk that was to be spared for butter andcheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large quantitybut inferior quality of milk yielded by the shorthorn, which hadbeen bought on experiment, together with other matters which must beinteresting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hettytossed 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 ofthemselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; butthere is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not onlyof men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beautylike that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle ripplingnoises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle andto engage in conscious mischief--a beauty with which you can never beangry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend thestate of mind into which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sortof beauty. Her aunt, Mrs. Poyser, who professed to despise all personalattractions and intended to be the severest of mentors, continuallygazed at Hetty's charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; andafter administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxietyto do well by her husband's niece--who had no mother of her own to scoldher, poor thing!--she would often confess to her husband, when they weresafe out of hearing, that she firmly believed, "the naughtier the littlehuzzy behaved, the prettier she looked. "

It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty's cheek was like arose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her largedark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that hercurly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while she was atwork, stole back in dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about herwhite shell-like ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovelywas the contour of her pink-and-white neckerchief, tucked into her lowplum-coloured stuff bodice, or how the linen butter-making apron, withits bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, since itfell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thick-soledbuckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly havehad when empty of her foot and ankle--of little use, unless you haveseen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, forotherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, shewould not in the least resemble that distracting kittenlike maiden. Imight mention all the divine charms of a bright spring day, but if youhad never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyesafter the mounting lark, or in wandering through the still lanes whenthe fresh-opened blossoms fill them with a sacred silent beauty likethat of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descriptivecatalogue? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright springday. Hetty's was a spring-tide beauty; it was the beauty of youngfrisking things, round-limbed, gambolling, circumventing you by afalse air of innocence--the innocence of a young star-browed calf, forexample, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads youa severe steeplechase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand inthe middle of a bog. 

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a prettygirl is thrown in making up butter--tossing movements that give acharming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round whiteneck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice adaptations and finishings which cannot at all be effectedwithout a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And thenthe butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm--it is so pure, so sweet-scented; it is turned off the mould with such a beautifulfirm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light! Moreover, Hetty wasparticularly clever at making up the butter; it was the one performanceof hers that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism; so shehandled it with all the grace that belongs to mastery. 

"I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the thirtieth of July, Mrs. Poyser, " said Captain Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admiredthe dairy and given several improvised opinions on Swede turnips andshorthorns. "You know what is to happen then, and I shall expect youto be one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. Will youpromise me your hand for two dances, Miss Hetty? If I don't get yourpromise now, I know I shall hardly have a chance, for all the smartyoung farmers will take care to secure you. "

Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs. Poyserinterposed, scandalized at the mere suggestion that the young squirecould be excluded by any meaner partners. 

"Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. And I'msure, whenever you're pleased to dance with her, she'll be proud andthankful, if she stood still all the rest o' th' evening. "

"Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows whocan dance. But you will promise me two dances, won't you?" the captaincontinued, determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him. 

Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half-shy, half-coquettish glance at him as she said, "Yes, thank you, sir. "

"And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs. Poyser; yourlittle Totty, as well as the boys. I want all the youngest children onthe estate to be there--all those who will be fine young men and womenwhen I'm a bald old fellow. "

"Oh dear, sir, that 'ull be a long time first, " said Mrs. Poyser, quiteovercome at the young squire's speaking so lightly of himself, andthinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount thisremarkable specimen of high-born humour. The captain was thought tobe "very full of his jokes, " and was a great favourite throughout theestate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was quite surethings would be different when the reins got into his hands--therewas to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of lime, andreturns of ten per cent. 

"But where is Totty to-day?" he said. "I want to see her. "

"Where IS the little un, Hetty?" said Mrs. Poyser. "She came in here notlong ago. "

"I don't know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think. "

The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen, in search of her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should have happened to render herperson and attire unfit for presentation. 

"And do you carry the butter to market when you've made it?" said theCaptain to Hetty, meanwhile. 

"Oh no, sir; not when it's so heavy. I'm not strong enough to carry it. Alick takes it on horseback. "

"No, I'm sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evenings, don't you?Why don't you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it's so green andpleasant? I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church. "

"Aunt doesn't like me to go a-walking only when I'm going somewhere, "said Hetty. "But I go through the Chase sometimes. "

"And don't you ever go to see Mrs. Best, the housekeeper? I think I sawyou once in the housekeeper's room. "

"It isn't Mrs. Best, it's Mrs. Pomfret, the lady's maid, as I go to see. She's teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending. I'm going to teawith her to-morrow afternoon. "

The reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can only beknown by looking into the back kitchen, where Totty had been discoveredrubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same momentallowing some liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared holding her mother's hand--the end of her roundnose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap andwater. 

"Here she is!" said the captain, lifting her up and setting her on thelow stone shelf. "Here's Totty! By the by, what's her other name? Shewasn't christened Totty. "

"Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte's her christenedname. It's a name i' Mr. Poyser's family: his grandmother was namedCharlotte. But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it's got toTotty. To be sure it's more like a name for a dog than a Christianchild. "

"Totty's a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. Has she got apocket on?" said the captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets. 

Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and showed atiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. 

"It dot notin' in it, " she said, as she looked down at it veryearnestly. 

"No! What a pity! Such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I've got somethings in mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. Yes! I declare I'vegot five little round silver things, and hear what a pretty noise theymake in Totty's pink pocket. " Here he shook the pocket with the fivesixpences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose ingreat glee; but, divining that there was nothing more to be got bystaying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket inthe hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, "Oh for shame, you naughty gell! Not to thank the captain for what he's given you I'msure, sir, it's very kind of you; but she's spoiled shameful; her fatherwon't have her said nay in anything, and there's no managing her. It'sbeing the youngest, and th' only gell. "

"Oh, she's a funny little fatty; I wouldn't have her different. But Imust 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 thedairy. But he was mistaken in imagining himself waited for. The rectorhad been so much interested in his conversation with Dinah that he wouldnot have chosen to close it earlier; and you shall hear now what theyhad been saying to each other. 

Chapter VIII

A Vocation

DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold ofthe sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr. Irwinelooking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken toher, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyesmet his, was, "What a well-favoured countenance! Oh that the good seedmight fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish. " The agreeableimpression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with abenignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she hadbeen the most dignified lady of his acquaintance. 

"You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think?" were his firstwords, as he seated himself opposite to her. 

"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was verykind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill, and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while. "

"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there. It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there; butthat's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed bythe employment that mill must have brought. "

"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get alivelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for thetradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, forthereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as yousay, sir--very different from this country. "

"You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached tothe place as your home?"

"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. Butshe was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that Iknow of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and wouldhave me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land, wherein they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leaveSnowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, likethe small grass on the hill-top. "

"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; youare a Methodist--a Wesleyan, I think?"

"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have causeto be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliestchildhood. "

"And have you been long in the habit of preaching? For I understand youpreached at Hayslope last night. "

"I first took to the work four years since, when I was twenty-one. "

"Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?"

"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work, and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners and thestrengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heardabout, was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, beforeshe was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approvedof her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are manyothers now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of theministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in theSociety of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come tonought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as theymake channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here, but flow notthere. '"

"But don't you find some danger among your people--I don't mean to saythat it is so with you, far from it--but don't you find sometimes thatboth men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and arequite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfitand bring holy things into contempt?"

"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evil-doers among uswho have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceivetheir own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction toput a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept amongus, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as theythat must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'AmI my brother's keeper?'"

"But tell me--if I may ask, and I am really interested in knowingit--how you first came to think of preaching?"

"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all--I'd been used from the timeI was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, andsometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was muchdrawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, forwhen I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit still andkeep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with thethought of God overflowing my soul--as the pebbles lie bathed in theWillow Brook. For thoughts are so great--aren't they, sir? They seem tolie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget whereI am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I couldgive no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending ofthem in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimesit seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and wordswere given to me that came out as the tears come, because our heartsare full and we can't help it. And those were always times of greatblessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me beforea congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the littlechildren, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quitesuddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the workthat was laid upon me. "

"But tell me the circumstances--just how it was, the very day you beganto preach. "

"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an agedman, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps--that's avillage where the people get their living by working in the lead-mines, and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheepwithout a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snowfield, sowe set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had awonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, wherethere's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky looksmaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feelthe everlasting arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brotherMarlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, forhe overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on histrade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people wereexpecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he wasthere before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life wereassembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others mightbe drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, andhe was forced to lie down in the first of the cottages we came to. So Iwent to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and Iwould read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages andsaw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of themen, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of theSabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up tothe sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if Iwas shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went towhere the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped onthe low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke thewords that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me outof all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since beenjoined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, andI've preached ever since. "

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered inher usual simple way, but with that sincere articulate, thrilling trebleby which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather upher sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeplyinterested. He said to himself, "He must be a miserable prig who wouldact the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees forgrowing in their own shape. "

"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth--thatyou are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed?" he saidaloud. 

"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people evertake notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence feltthrough us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heedwhat sort of bush it was--he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I'vepreached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages aboutSnowfield--men that looked very hard and wild--but they never said anuncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for meto pass through the midst of them. "

"THAT I can believe--that I can well believe, " said Mr. Irwine, emphatically. "And what did you think of your hearers last night, now?Did you find them quiet and attentive?"

"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, exceptin a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearnedgreatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given upto folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with herafterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed thatin these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the greenpastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending thecattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as canbe from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holywoman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest ofsouls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in aprison-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 sodark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill atease. "

"Why, yes, our farm-labourers are not easily roused. They take lifealmost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligentworkmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist. "

"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is agracious young man--sincere and without offence; and Adam is like thepatriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness heshows to his brother and his parents. "

"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them?Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam. "

"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and lookingbefore her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy. "She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help. "

As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among themilk-pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwinenow rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, andsaid, "Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon; but this will not bethe last visit you will pay your aunt--so we shall meet again, I hope. "

His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs. Poyser's anxieties at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said, "I've never askedafter Mrs. Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir; I hope they're as well asusual. "

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her badheadaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese yousent us--my mother especially. "

"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but Iremembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultrythis long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, blackand white, as Miss Kate might like to have some of amongst hers. "

"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-bye, " said therector, 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 theshepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband Ishall come and have a long talk with him soon. "

Mrs. Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they haddisappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of thepigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten thebreaking of his chain. Mrs. Poyser delighted in this noisy exit; it wasa fresh assurance to her that the farm-yard was well guarded, and thatno loiterers could enter unobserved; and it was not until the gate hadclosed behind the captain that she turned into the kitchen again, whereDinah 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 remarkingon it until she had disburdened herself of her surprise at Mr. Irwine'sbehaviour. 

"Why, Mr. Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah?Didn't he scold you for preaching?"

"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quitedrawn out to speak to him; I hardly know how, for I had always thoughtof him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as themorning sunshine. "

"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" saidMrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her knitting. "I should think hiscountenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got amother like a picter. You may go the country round and not find suchanother woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man asthat i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking ata full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; itmakes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creatursas you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o'bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what'sright, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon-swordand sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you aboutthat fool's trick o' preaching on the Green?"

"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasureabout it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told mesomething that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bedewas drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that theaged mother will be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of useto her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out. "

"Dear heart, dear heart! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child, "said Mrs. Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps tothe frank and genial C. "The kettle's boiling--we'll have it ready ina minute; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'mquite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one asis allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Methodist; but, for thematter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes thedifference. 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 thelook and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way norin--God forgi' me for saying so--for he's done little this ten year butmake trouble for them as belonged to him; and I think it 'ud be wellfor you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresayshe's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o'tea, and so I tell you. "

During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reachingdown the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towardsthe pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made herappearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out ofthe dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping herhands at the back of her head. 

"Molly, " she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch ofdock-leaves: the butter's ready to pack up now. "

"D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt. 

"No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish tone. 

"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're toofeather-headed to mind if everybody was dead, so as you could stayupstairs a-dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybodybesides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as thinka deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin mightbe drownded for what you'd care--you'd be perking at the glass the nextminute. "

"Adam Bede--drowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and lookingrather bewildered, but suspecting that her aunt was as usualexaggerating with a didactic purpose. 

"No, my dear, no, " said Dinah kindly, for Mrs. Poyser had passed on tothe pantry without deigning more precise information. "Not Adam. Adam'sfather, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the WillowBrook. Mr. Irwine has just told me about it. "

"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeplyaffected; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took themsilently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions. 

Chapter IX

Hetty's World

WHILE she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrantbutter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green I am afraid Hettywas thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had castat her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances froma handsome young gentleman with white hands, a gold chain, occasionalregimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable--those were thewarm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its littlefoolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statuegave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any other influence divine or human than certainshort-lived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to accommodateourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly fashionedinstruments called human souls have only a very limited range of music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others withtremulous 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 toHayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her;and that he would have made much more decided advances if her unclePoyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was sofoul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage himby any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr. Craig, the gardener atthe Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately madeunmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She knew still better, that Adam Bede--tall, upright, clever, brave AdamBede--who carried such authority with all the people round about, andwhom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that"Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those asthought themselves his betters"--she knew that this Adam, who was oftenrather 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 fromher. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't helpperceiving that Adam was "something like" a man; always knew what to sayabout things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mendedthe churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the value of thechestnut-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 handthat you could read off, and could do figures in his head--a degreeof accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of thatcountryside. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, whenshe once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had onlybroken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And asfor Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk;moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the wayto forty. 

Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, andwould be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when therewas no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectableartisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the public house, theymight be seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer havinga latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, whichsustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. MartinPoyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he liked a friendlychat over his own home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay downthe law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the bestof his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something froma clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last threeyears--ever since he had superintended the building of the newbarn--Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Farm, especially ofa winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, masterand mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that gloriouskitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for thelast two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing heruncle say, "Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be amaster-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge isin the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, ifit's true what they say; the woman as marries him 'ull have a good take, be't Lady day or Michaelmas, " a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followedup with her cordial assent. "Ah, " she would say, "it's all very finehaving a ready-made rich man, but mayhappen he'll be a ready-made fool;and it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a holein 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 theditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains; forwhere's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackledto a geck as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herselffine to sit back'ards on a donkey. "

These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent ofMrs. Poyser's mind with regard to Adam; and though she and her husbandmight have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughterof their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match withAdam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servantelsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as adomestic help to her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had notbeen equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of servantsand children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of hissuperiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself tothink of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he hadshown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettishtyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would havebeen grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. "Mary Burge, indeed! Such a sallow-faced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow-flower and her hair was as straight as ahank of cotton. " And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks fromthe Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passionas a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net bylittle airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at hisneglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair!There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks nevergrew a shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrillwhen she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or advancingtowards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the meadow; she feltnothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowingthat he loved her and would not care to look at Mary Burge. He could nomore stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of younglove than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in thesubtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was--a poor man with oldparents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, togive her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. AndHetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a carpeted parlour, andalways wear white stockings; to have some large beautiful ear-rings, such as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top ofher gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, likeMiss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to beobliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adamhad been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him wellenough to marry him. 

But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty--vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the groundand go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight oreffort, and showing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as ifshe were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in abeatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hettyhad become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal oftrouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself atchurch so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing;that he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, andalways would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speakto him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present theidea that the young squire could ever be her lover than a baker's prettydaughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperialbut admiring smile, conceives that she shall be made empress. But thebaker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young emperor, andperhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking what a heavenly lotit must be to have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had got a faceand a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, softglances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happylanguor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half sofine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseechingtenderness, but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's littlesilly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through thatatmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted oflittle else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur haddirected towards her--of little else than recalling the sensations withwhich she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, andbecame conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then becameconscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemedto touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with anodour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolishthoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty yearsago, and Hetty was quite uneducated--a simple farmer's girl, to whoma gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Untilto-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the nexttime Captain Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday whenshe should see him at church; but now she thought, perhaps he would tryto meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow--and if he shouldspeak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by! That had neverhappened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow--whereabout in theChase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her newrose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would sayto her to make her return his glance--a glance which she would be livingthrough in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day. 

In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam'stroubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterfliessipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier ofdreams--by invisible looks and impalpable arms. 

While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filledwith these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr. Irwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certainindistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind whilehe was listening to Mr. Irwine's account of Dinah--indistinct, yetstrong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenlysaid, "What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have youbecome an amateur of damp quarries and skimming dishes?"

Arthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention wouldbe of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, "No, I went tolook at the pretty butter-maker Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe; andif I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girlsone sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns. That common, round, red face one sees sometimes in the men--all cheekand no features, like Martin Poyser's--comes out in the women of thefamuly as the most charming phiz imaginable. "

"Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artisticlight, but I must not have you feeding her vanity and filling her littlenoddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to finegentlemen, 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 littlepuss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserableas 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 thepoor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, andI've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modestgirl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one daywhen I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam helooked uneasy and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-makingdoesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a betterposition. He has independence of spirit enough for two men--rather anexcess of pride, if anything. "

"That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge'sshoes and make a fine thing of that building business, I'll answer forhim. I should like to see him well settled in this parish; he would beready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could planno 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 theleft of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrelthen. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a temptingdog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy tome and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic andinclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on mywisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had becomecheap, I bestow it upon you. "

"Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day though I don'tknow that I have any present use for it. Bless me! How the brook hasoverflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of thehill. "

That is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be mergedany minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped fromSocrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from thenecessity of further conversation till they pulled up in the lane behindAdam's cottage. 

Chapter X

Dinah Visits Lisbeth

AT five o'clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand:it was the key of the chamber where her husband lay dead. Throughout theday, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had beenin incessant movement, performing the initial duties to her dead withthe awe and exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had broughtout her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long yearskept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday--that timeso 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 shewas the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing tothe strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removingfrom it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window, whichhad hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summersunrise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fairwhite sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the barerafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglectedand unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain; for themoments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do thesmallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in allher thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never deadto us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they canbe wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that theirplace is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of theirpresence. And the aged peasant woman most of all believes that her deadare conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of forherself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation that sheshould know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed byher husband and her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work ofher life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently beforeher--under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought shelay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above and smeltthe white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she wentto be churched after Adam was born. 

But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamberof death--had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons inlifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from thevillage, not being fond of female neighbours generally; and herfavourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr. Burge's, who had come tocondole 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 nowheld the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chairthat stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where inordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen hadhad none of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread ofmuddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. Butwhat at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habitsof order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it wasright that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, nowthe old man had come to his end in that sad way; the kitchen ought notto look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitationsand exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleepon a bench in the workshop; and Seth was in the back kitchen making afire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade hismother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowedherself. 

There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herselfinto the chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt andconfusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally; it wasall of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind--that confusion whichbelongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soulis like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vastcity, and wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it isthe growing or the dying day--not knowing why and whence came thisillimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate inthe midst of it. 

At another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, "Where isAdam?" but the sudden death of her husband had restored him inthese hours to that first place in her affections which he had heldsix-and-twenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget thesorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the younghusband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her eyes continuedto wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of thescattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might setout 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, andmake the house look more comfortable. "

"Comfortable! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable? Let a-be, leta-be. There's no comfort for me no more, " she went on, the tears comingwhen she began to speak, "now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed forand mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allaysso pleased wi' iverything I done for him, an' used to be so handy an' dothe jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made methe posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could be, an' carried thelad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sister, aswar dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to bedrownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an'come home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put myplates an' things on, an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause heknow'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to know, but tobe a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me tolive to see that! An' us as war young folks once, an' thought we shoulddo rarely when we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be! I wonna ha'no tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th'bridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin'? I may's welldie, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me. "

Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards andforwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards hismother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it wasuseless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past;so he contented himself with tending the back kitchen fire and foldingup his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry sincemorning--afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest heshould 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 arterAdam, for I canna think where he's gotten; an' I want him to go upstairswi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is likethe meltin' snow. "

Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his motherrose 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' athim. I hanna seen the lad this two hour--I'd welly forgot as he'd e'ergrowed up from a babby when's feyther carried him. "

Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, whichrested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table inthe middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a fewminutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his firstattitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed since yesterday, looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about hisforehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows uponwatching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had anexpression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he saton his haunches, resting his nose on his master's stretched-out leg, anddividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down andglancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog washungry and restless, but would not leave his master, and was waitingimpatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this feelingon Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advancedtowards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awakenhim was immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to findvent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened hiseyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike hisdream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, ina fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and hismother with her fretful grief was present to him through it all. Thechief difference between the reality and the vision was that inhis dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodilypresence--strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with whichshe had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made hismother angry by coming into the house; and he met her with her smartclothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, totell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to followsoon; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling to seeher standing near him. 

"Eh, my lad, my lad!" Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulsereturning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating itsloss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, "thee'stgot nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden tothee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger thee no more; an' thy mothermay's well go arter him--the sooner the better--for I'm no good tonobody now. One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's good fornought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thyvictual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber, a-sittin' i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; hedreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty. ) But ifthy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room foranother, for he could no more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' thescissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung awaytogether, 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 speakotherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day, but he could not helpbeing irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth toknow how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a woundeddog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like allcomplaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed, and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain morebitterly. 

"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where theelikedst an' marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say theenay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to findfaut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens welloff 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 wasteall, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll saynought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor anold haft when the blade's gone. "

Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench andwalked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him. 

"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin'now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays sopleased 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 keywas turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. ButAdam did not come down again; he was too weary and worn-out to encountermore 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 herapron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself asbefore. Seth thought, "She will be quieter by and by, now we have beenupstairs"; and he went into the back kitchen again, to tend his littlefire, 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 shesuddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voicesaid to her, "Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be acomfort to you. "

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron fromher face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister's spiritcome back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled anddared not look. 

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief forthe sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off herbonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth'schair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendlypresence. 

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dimdark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face--a pure, pale face, withloving 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 handon Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a muchsmaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinahhad never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces oflabour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked earnestly at the handfor a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, "Why, ye're a workin' woman!"

"Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am athome. "

"Ah!" said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; "ye comed in so light, likethe shadow on the wall, an' spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be asperrit. Ye've got a'most the face o' one as is a-sittin' on the gravei' Adam's new Bible. "

"I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poyser--she's my aunt, andshe has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm cometo see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sonsAdam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergymantold me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went outtowards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place ofa daughter in this grief, if you will let me. "

"Ah! I know who y' are now; y' are a Methody, like Seth; he's touldme on you, " said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of painreturning, now her wonder was gone. "Ye'll make it out as trouble's agood thing, like HE allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to mea-that'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'll ne'er make mebelieve as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if hemust 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 warangered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a suphe'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 morenor 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 tosay that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to youto make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with yourfriends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down andrejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share thosegood things; but I should like better to share in your trouble and yourlabour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won'tsend me away? You're not angry with me for coming?"

"Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come. An' Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get somefor me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them aswants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', forit's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet fields to see an oldwoman 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 allayswanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'ull bemarryin'--I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye makethe tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day--it'sall 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 acceptedLisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the oldwoman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a dayof hard work and fasting. 

Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not helpthinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which griefincessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproachedhimself--it was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's saddeath. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah WOULD triumph--it waslike the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And thefeeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother'snotice, while she was drinking her tea. 

"Thee may'st well talk o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for theethriv'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. Forthee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud liestill a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal ascan ne'er be bruised--though, for the matter o' that, thy poor feytherwar just such another. But ye've got the same look too" (here Lisbethturned to Dinah). "I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'ma-findin' faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an'somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are fond o'trouble, they're like to thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an'take it away from them as donna like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty;for when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; andnow he's gone, I'd be glad for the worst o'er again. "

"Yes, " said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, forher reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute andready sympathy; "yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longedfor the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silencethat came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cupof tea and eat a little more. "

"What!" said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less queruloustone, "had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry aboutyour 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 astenderly as if I'd been her own child. "

"Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby, an' her a lone woman--it's ill bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresayye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life. But what did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live inthis country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt too?"

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attracted, told her the storyof her early life--how she had been brought up to work hard, andwhat sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard lifethere--all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. Theold woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject tothe soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she waspersuaded 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 indisposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at herside. Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinahwould like to be left alone with his mother. 

Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, andsaid at last, "Ye've got a notion o' cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'inye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothesan' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this countryside. I reckon folksis different at Snowfield from what they are here. "

"They have a different sort of life, many of 'em, " said Dinah; "theywork at different things--some in the mill, and many in the mines, inthe villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere, and there are the children of this world and the children of light thereas well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists there than in thiscountry. "

"Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's WillMaskery'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 ifye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i'th' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at Mester Poyser's. "

"No, " said Dinah, "they don't expect me, and I should like to stay, ifyou'll let me. "

"Well, there's room; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er theback kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me. I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me tospeak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts mei' mind o' the swallows as was under the thack last 'ear when they fustbegun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my old man warfond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this'ear. Happen THEY'RE dead too. "

"There, " said Dinah, "now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dearMother--for I'm your daughter to-night, you know--I should like you towash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did, when God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alivehe fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nordrink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child. But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed andanointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank; and whenthey asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving nowthe child was dead, he said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fastedand wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast?Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not returnto me. '"

"Eh, that's a true word, " said Lisbeth. "Yea, my old man wonna come backto me, but I shall go to him--the sooner the better. Well, ye may do asye like wi' me: there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' theback kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam'snew Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, Ilike them words--'I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me. '"

Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greaterquietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah hadbeen trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absencefrom exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience amongthe sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled throughpoverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of themode in which they could best be touched and softened into willingnessto receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressedit, "she was never left to herself; but it was always given her when tokeep silence and when to speak. " And do we not all agree to call rapidthought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration? After our subtlestanalysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, thatour highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us. 

And so there was earnest prayer--there was faith, love, and hope pouringforth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor, aged, fretfulLisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through anycourse of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love, and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowinglife. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, underthe subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must bepatient and still. 

Chapter XI

In the Cottage

IT was but half-past four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lyingawake listening to the birds and watching the growing light through thelittle window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself veryquietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else wasastir in the house, and had gone downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog'spattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but Dinahwas not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had stayed up working the night before. Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the openingdoor. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at lastby Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodilyweariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and sowhen he went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours oftossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morningsleep than was usual with him. 

But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitualimpatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day andsubdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay inthe valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start towork again when he had had his breakfast. 

"There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work, " he saidto himself; "the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as ifone'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 astrue when a man's miserable as when he's happy; and the best o' workingis, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot. "

As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completelyhimself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever and his thickblack hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into theworkshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending thathe and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Burge's and have thecoffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might notsee and hear the sad task going forward at home. 

He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a lightrapid foot on the stairs--certainly not his mother's. He had been in bedand asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wonderedwhose step this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved himstrangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was the last person likely tobe in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have theclear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank hehad taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpretedfor him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with atimid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followedby the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as thelightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path; andAdam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguishsmiles looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaninga little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought--it could not beHetty; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head wasto go and see WHO it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer tobelief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank and went tothe kitchen door. 

"How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing fromher sweeping and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. "I trust you feelrested and strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the day. "

It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adamhad seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he wasnot very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's, andhe had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was inlove with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towardsher for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain blackgown, and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force thatbelongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For thefirst moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with theconcentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object in whichhe has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in herlife, felt a painful self-consciousness; there was something in the darkpenetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness andtimidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as shewondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness. 

"I was quite taken by surprise; it was very good of you to come and seemy mother in her trouble, " he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for hisquick mind told him at once how she came to be there. "I hope my motherwas thankful to have you, " he added, wondering rather anxiously what hadbeen Dinah's reception. 

"Yes, " said Dinah, resuming her work, "she seemed greatly comfortedafter a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night, by times. She was fast asleep when I left her. "

"Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?" said Adam, his thoughtsreverting to some one there; he wondered whether SHE had felt anythingabout it. 

"It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grievedfor your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come; and so is myuncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter allyesterday. 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 waslonging to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble; she wastoo rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrivedto say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a wayof cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitaryhide-and-seek; it is pleased with assurances that it all the whiledisbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind wasdirectly full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, whenHetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had ever donebefore. 

"But you won't be there yourself any longer?" he said to Dinah. 

"No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out toTreddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must goback to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt andher children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would likeme; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night. "

"Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people atthe beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em; but she's a strange way ofnot liking young women. Though, to be sure, " Adam went on, smiling, "hernot liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you. "

Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionlesssilence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in hismaster's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's movementsabout the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last wordswas apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the strangerwas to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside hersweeping-brush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against herhand in a friendly way. 

"You see Gyp bids you welcome, " said Adam, "and he's very slow towelcome strangers. "

"Poor dog!" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, "I've a strangefeeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was atrouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for thedogs always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have morein them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say halfwhat we feel, with all our words. "

Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; hewanted 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 toconsult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning. 

By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen asclean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweet-briar from the patch of garden by the side of thecottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about, serving theothers with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she hadgot ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just whathis mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silentsince she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust herideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to findall the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensationsseemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tastingthe porridge, she broke silence:

"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse, " she said to Dinah; "I can ate itwi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' noharm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' knowthat? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'nmade it for 'em; it's well if they get onybody as 'll make parridge atall. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' bodyin a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house wellenough for a ma'shift. "

"Makeshift, mother?" said Adam. "Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I don't know how it could look better. "

"Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whetherthe floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thyparridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it. Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then. "

"Dinah, " said Seth, "do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We're all served now. "

"Aye, come an' sit ye down--do, " said Lisbeth, "an' ate a morsel; ye'dneed, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come, then, " she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat downby 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 staylonger, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be withmy aunt to-morrow. "

"Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from thatStonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the righton't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been abad country for a carpenter. "

"Ah, " said Adam, "I remember father telling me when I was a little ladthat he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. ButI'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says--and he knows the South--asthe northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed andstronger-bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says in some o' thosecounties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothingof a distance without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abidethat. I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bitof 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 besidesyourself. "

"I like th' hills best, " said Seth, "when the clouds are over your headand you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, asI've often done o' late, on the stormy days. It seems to me as if thatwas heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life'sdark and cloudy. "

"Oh, I love the Stonyshire side, " said Dinah; "I shouldn't like to setmy face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and cattle, andthe ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hillswhere the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spendtheir days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on ableak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feelthe love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stonehouses, where there's nothing else to give comfort. "

"Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks wellylike the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I'ngethered '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 lessmouths for the scant cake. But, " she went on, looking at Adam, "donnathee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther andmother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin'on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard ofa Sunday. "

"Donna fear, mother, " said Adam. "If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha' been gone before now. "

He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking. 

"What art goin' to do?" asked Lisbeth. "Set about thy feyther's coffin?"

"No, mother, " said Adam; "we're going to take the wood to the villageand have it made there. "

"Nay, my lad, nay, " Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; "theewotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen? Who'd make itso well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is thehead o' the village an' all Treddles'on too, for cleverness. "

"Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home;but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on. "

"An' why shouldna I like 't? It's the right thing to be done. An' what'sliking got to do wi't? It's choice o' mislikings is all I'n got i' thisworld. 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 totouch the coffin but thee. "

Adam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully. 

"No, Mother, " he said, "I'll not consent but Seth shall have a handin it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the village thisforenoon, because Mr. Burge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay athome 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'tas thee shalt ma' thy feyther's coffin. Thee't so stiff an' masterful, thee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi'thy feyther when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he'sgone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's coffin. "

"Say no more, Adam, say no more, " said Seth, gently, though his voicetold that he spoke with some effort; "Mother's in the right. I'll go towork, and do thee stay at home. "

He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; whileLisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away thebreakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place anylonger. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity ofquietly joining the brothers in the workshop. 

They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam wasstanding with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed withthe hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Theirbacks were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she camein so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heardher 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'sface, saying with calm kindness, "I won't say farewell. I shall see youagain when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, itwill be quite soon enough. "

"Thank you, Dinah; I should like to walk home with you once more. It'llperhaps be the last time. "

There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand andsaid, "You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for yourtenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother. "

She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she hadentered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but shehad not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, "I don't wonderat thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily. "

Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed hissecret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered, "Aye, Addy, I do love her--too much, I doubt. But shedoesna love me, lad, only as one child o' God loves another. She'llnever love any man as a husband--that's my belief. "

"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made outo' stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women; I can see that clearenough. But if she's better than they are in other things, I canna thinkshe'll fall short of 'em in loving. "

No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his workon the coffin. 

"God help the lad, and me too, " he thought, as he lifted the board. "We're like enough to find life a tough job--hard work inside and out. It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with histeeth and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and coldat only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's amystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sproutingo' the seed, for that matter. "

Chapter XII

In the Wood

THAT same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about inhis dressing-room seeing his well-looking British person reflected inthe old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green pieceof tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to havebeen minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over hisshoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution. 

"I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so, " he said aloud. "I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning; so be ready byhalf-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 hehurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar's Opera, "When the heart of a man is oppressed with care. " Not an heroic strain;nevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards thestables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation wasnecessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quitegratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yetforfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his ownvirtues. No young man could confess his faults more candidly; candourwas one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man's candour be seenin all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he hadan agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generouskind--impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anythingmean, dastardly, or cruel. "No! I'm a devil of a fellow for gettingmyself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall onmy own shoulders. " Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice inhobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict theirworst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudlyexpressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the schemeof things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besideshimself. He was nothing if not good-natured; and all his pictures ofthe future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of aprosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be themodel of an English gentleman--mansion in first-rate order, all eleganceand high taste--jolly housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshire--purse opento all public objects--in short, everything as different as possiblefrom what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one ofthe first good actions he would perform in that future should be toincrease Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he mightkeep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for therector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affectionpartly filial, partly fraternal--fraternal enough to make him likeIrwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enoughto make him shrink strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation. 

You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a good fellow"--all hiscollege friends thought him such. He couldn't bear to see any oneuncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods forany harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia herself hadthe benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore towards the wholesex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmlessand purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was aquestion 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 thecase of a handsome generous young fellow, who will have property enoughto support numerous peccadilloes--who, if he should unfortunatelybreak a man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension himhandsomely; 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 directedby his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analyticin such cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of aconfidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets abouta young man of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuitionwhich is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once thathe is "nice. " The chances are that he will go through life withoutscandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse toinsure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes maketerribly evident some flaw in their construction that would never havebeen discoverable in smooth water; and many a "good fellow, " through adisastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal. 

But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguriesconcerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capableof a prudent resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear:Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray with perfectcomfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never get beyond thatborder-land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assaultsfrom the other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier ofVice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. 

It was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly;everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is apleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel onone's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent ofthe stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be amongthe soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it someirritation to Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables;everything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfatherpersisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort oflever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire asuccession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whomhad lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch onArthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embittering; onecan put up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable madea scene of vexation and disgust is a point beyond what human fleshand blood can be expected to endure long together without danger ofmisanthropy. 

Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that metArthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned forhim the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He couldnever speak quite patiently to the old blockhead. 

"You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-pasteleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Doyou hear?"

"Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n, " said old John very deliberately, followingthe young master into the stable. John considered a young master as thenatural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poorcontrivance for carrying on the world. 

Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possibleto see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper beforebreakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, andturned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tinyspaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curledup on her back. 

"Well, Meg, my pretty girl, " said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll havea glorious canter this morning. "

"Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be, " said John. 

"Not be? Why not?"

"Why, she's got lamed. "

"Lamed, confound you! What do you mean?"

"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'emflung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near foreleg. "

The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued. You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingledwith soothing "who-ho's" while the leg was examined; that John stoodby with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carvedcrab-tree walking-stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassedthe iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went. 

He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was notanother mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg andRattler. It was vexatious; just when he wanted to get out of the wayfor a week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such acombination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a brokenarm when every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himselfat Windsor--shut up with his grandfather, who had the same sort ofaffection for him as for his parchment deeds! And to be disgusted atevery turn with the management of the house and the estate! In suchcircumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off theirritation by some excess or other. "Salkeld would have drunk a bottleof port every day, " he muttered to himself, "but I'm not well seasonedenough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gallopon Rattler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine. "

Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he lunchedwith Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach the Chase againtill nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in thehousekeeper's room; and when she set out to go home, it would be hislazy 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 atHetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any morenotice of her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted;though Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so softand easily bruised; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cooland cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's case, itwas out of the question: Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond forhimself with perfect confidence. 

So the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping towards Norburne; and bygood fortune Halsell Common lay in his road and gave him some fineleaps for Rattler. Nothing like "taking" a few bushes and ditches forexorcising a demon; and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, withtheir immense advantages in this way, have left so bad a reputation inhistory. 

After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear that although Gawainewas at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcelycleared the last stroke of three when Arthur returned through theentrance-gates, got down from the panting Rattler, and went into thehouse to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been mensince his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and thengalloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favouritestratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp roundupon 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 thecoachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipeagainst the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler. 

"An' I wish he'd get the devil to do's grooming for'n, " growled John. 

"Aye; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now, " observedDalton--and the joke appeared to him so good that, being left alone uponthe scene, he continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouthin order to wink at an imaginary audience and shake luxuriously witha silent, ventral laughter, mentally rehearsing the dialogue from thebeginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' hall. 

When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it wasinevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in theday should flash across his mind; but it was impossible for him nowto dwell on the remembrance--impossible to recall the feelings andreflections which had been decisive with him then, any more than torecall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when hefirst opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like anill-stemmed current; he was amazed himself at the force with which thistrivial fancy seemed to grasp him: he was even rather tremulous as hebrushed his hair--pooh! it was riding in that break-neck way. It wasbecause he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking ofit as if it were of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeingHetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was allIrwine's fault. "If Irwine had said nothing, I shouldn't have thoughthalf so much of Hetty as of Meg's lameness. " However, it was just thesort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he would go and finishDr. Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-treeGrove--the way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm. So nothing could be simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a merecircumstance of his walk, not its object. 

Arthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chasethan might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warmafternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when he stood beforethe tall narrow gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood whichskirted one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, notbecause the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a woodof beeches and limes, with here and there a light silver-stemmedbirch--just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs: you see theirwhite sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behindthe smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquidlaughter--but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, theyvanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that theirvoice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose themselvesinto a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from the topmostbough. It was not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for youto tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged withfaint dashes of delicate moss--paths which look as if they were madeby the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside tolook 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--thegolden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, onlyglancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge offaintly sprinkled moss: an afternoon in which destiny disguises her coldawful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downywings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled alongcarelessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking on the groundas meditative men are apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on thedistant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appearbefore long. Ah! There she comes. First a bright patch of colour, likea tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a roundhat on, and a small basket under her arm; then a deep-blushing, almostfrightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a flutteredyet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had timeto think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feelfluttered too, be conscious of blushing too--in fact, look and feel asfoolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just whathe expected. Poor things! It was a pity they were not in that golden ageof childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each otherwith timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together. Arthur would have gone home to hissilk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun pillow, and both wouldhave slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardlyconscious 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 overpoweringpresence that first privacy is! He actually dared not look at thislittle butter-maker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feetrested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs; she hadforgotten her rose-coloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of herlimbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, restingon a liquid bed and warmed by the midsummer sun-beams. It may seem acontradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and confidencefrom his timidity: it was an entirely different state of mind from whathe had expected in such a meeting with Hetty; and full as he was ofvague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for thethought that his previous debates and scruples were needless. 

"You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase, " hesaid at last, looking down at Hetty; "it is so much prettier as well asshorter than coming by either of the lodges. "

"Yes, sir, " Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice. She didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr. Arthur, andher very vanity made her more coy of speech. 

"Do you come every week to see Mrs. Pomfret?"

"Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with MissDonnithorne. "

"And she's teaching you something, is she?"

"Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and thestocking-mending--it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell it'sbeen 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 audiblynow, but still rather tremulously; she thought, perhaps she seemed asstupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her. 

"I suppose Mrs. Pomfret always expects you at this time?"

"She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because my auntcouldn't spare me; but the regular time is four, because that gives ustime before Miss Donnithorne's bell rings. "

"Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you theHermitage. Did you ever see it?"

"No, sir. "

"This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I'llshow 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 tocome so lonely a road?"

"Oh no, sir, it's never late; I always set out by eight o'clock, andit's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if Ididn't get home before nine. "

"Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?"

A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. "I'm sure he doesn't;I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him; I don't like him, " she saidhastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast that before she haddone speaking a bright drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she feltashamed to death that she was crying, and for one long instant herhappiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her, and a gentle voice said, "Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn't meanto vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come, don't cry; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me. "

Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, andwas stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty liftedher long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with asweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three momentswere while their eyes met and his arms touched her! Love is such asimple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a sweet girlof seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud firstopening her heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such youngunfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches thattouch softly and are at rest; they mingle as easily as two brookletsthat ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple withever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthurgazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to himwhat sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops and powder had beenin fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then thatHetty wanted those signs of high breeding. 

But they started asunder with beating hearts: something had fallen onthe ground with a rattling noise; it was Hetty's basket; all her littleworkwoman's matters were scattered on the path, some of them showinga capability of rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done inpicking up, and not a word was spoken; but when Arthur hung the basketover her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his lookand manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tonethat were almost chilling to her, "I have been hindering you; I must notkeep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye. "

Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurriedback towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursueher way in a strange dream that seemed to have begun in bewilderingdelight and was now passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would hemeet her again as she came home? Why had he spoken almost as if he weredispleased with her? And then run away so suddenly? She cried, hardlyknowing why. 

Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by amore distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood inthe heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammedit after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant corner, and thrustinghis right hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up anddown the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself onthe ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wishnot to abandon ourselves to feeling. 

He was getting in love with Hetty--that was quite plain. He was readyto pitch everything else--no matter where--for the sake of surrenderinghimself to this delicious feeling which had just disclosed itself. Itwas 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 shouldhave to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would bemiserable. He MUST NOT see her alone again; he must keep out of her way. What a fool he was for coming back from Gawaine's!

He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of theafternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round theHermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as he leaned outand looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolutionsufficiently 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 mightgive himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would be ifcircumstances were different--how pleasant it would have been to meether this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again andlook into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little thing werethinking of him too--twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes werewith the tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for aday with looking at them, and he MUST see her again--he must see her, simply to remove any false impression from her mind about his mannerto her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her--just toprevent 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 hismeditations to this point; but once arrived there, he could stay nolonger at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement untilhe should see Hetty again. And it was already late enough to go anddress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six. 

Chapter XIII

Evening in the Wood

IT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning--a fact which had twoconsequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to havetea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's maidwith so lively a recollection of former passages in Mrs. Best's conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as aninterlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presenceof mind than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in anoccasional "yes" or "no. " She would have wanted to put on her hatearlier than usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that sheusually set out about eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD go to the Groveagain expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Herlittle butterfly soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubiousexpectation. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-facedtimepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reasonfor its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret'spreoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked like anew flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat beforethe looking-glass. 

"That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe, " was herinward comment. "The more's the pity. She'll get neither a place nora husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don't like suchpretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had beenso very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teachingher something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. Theyalways told me I was good-natured--and that's the truth, and to my hurttoo, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lordit over me in the housekeeper's room. "

Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which shehad to traverse, dreading to meet Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardlyhave spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely underthe oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready tobe startled as the deer that leaped away at her approach. She thoughtnothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleysbetween the fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visiblethan it had been in the overpowering flood of noon: she thought ofnothing 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 hazysomething--days that were not to be as the other days of her life hadbeen. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might anytime take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was noknowing 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 someunknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot wasgoing to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joywould befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if she had ever seenone, I think the words would have been too hard for her; how then couldshe find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as thesweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated pasther as she walked by the gate. 

She is at another gate now--that leading into Fir-tree Grove. She entersthe wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, thefear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how drearyit was--the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into theunsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turningtowards the Hermitage, walking slowly--he is not there. She hates theleveret that runs across the path; she hates everything that is not whatshe longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend inthe road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry: herheart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes; she gives one greatsob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down. 

She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, thatshe is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yardsfrom her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is theobject. He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which hasbeen growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedlyfallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindnesswhich would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her fromrunning away with wrong notions about their mutual relation. 

If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried; and it wouldhave been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wiselyas he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the endof the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rollingdown 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 herfoot?

"Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in thewood? Don't be frightened--I'll take care of you now. "

Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy ormiserable. To be crying again--what did gentlemen think of girls whocried in that way? She felt unable even to say "no, " but could only lookaway from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drophad fallen on her rose-coloured strings--she knew that quite well. 

"Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter. Come, tell me. "

Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, "I thought you wouldn'tcome, " and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was toomuch: he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovinglyin return. 

"You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won'tcry again, now I'm with you, will you?"

Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not whathe meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again; it istightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to theround cheek; his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for along moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aughthe knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may beEros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche--it is all one. 

There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beatinghearts till they came within sight of the gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, forin their eyes there was the memory of a kiss. 

But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with thefountain of sweets: already Arthur was uncomfortable. He took his armfrom Hetty's waist, and said, "Here we are, almost at the end of theGrove. I wonder how late it is, " he added, pulling out his watch. "Twenty minutes past eight--but my watch is too fast. However, I'dbetter 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 constrainedsmile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet; but hepatted her cheek and said "Good-bye" again. She was obliged to turn awayfrom him and go on. 

As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to puta wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitageagain; he remembered how he had debated with himself there beforedinner, and it had all come to nothing--worse than nothing. He walkedright on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely washaunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes--there wassomething enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knottedold oaks had no bending languor in them--the sight of them would givea man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings inthe fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilightdeepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare lookedblack as it darted across his path. 

He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: itwas as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to disputehis mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. Heno sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way tothe emotions which had stolen over him to-day--of continuing to noticeHetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses ashe had been betrayed into already--than he refused to believe such afuture possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very differentaffair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that wasunderstood to be an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spokenill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and thenthose excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as preciousas if they had the best blood in the land in their veins--he should hatehimself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to behis own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to berespected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his ownesteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches allthe rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position; itwas too odious, too unlike him. 

And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond ofeach other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting, after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece. There must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish. 

And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went toGawaine's; and while he was there something had taken hold of him andmade him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his ownresolution, as he had thought he could; he almost wished his arm wouldget painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfortit would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulsemight seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there wasnothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong day. What couldhe do to secure himself from any more of this folly?

There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine--tell himeverything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; thetemptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when onerepeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tellIrwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfastto-morrow. 

Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to thinkwhich of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thitheras he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tirehim, and there was no more need for him to think. 

Chapter XIV

The Return Home

WHILE that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in thecottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining heraged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted theopposite slope. 

"Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her, " she said to Adam, as they turnedinto the house again. "I'd ha' been willin' t' ha' her about me tillI died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it easier dyin'--shespakes so gentle an' moves about so still. I could be fast sure thatpictur' was drawed for her i' thy new Bible--th' angel a-sittin' on thebig stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in a daughter like that;but nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught. "

"Well, Mother, I hope thee WILT have her for a daughter; for Seth's gota 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 toknow? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out the leaven. Thy figurin'books might ha' tould thee better nor that, I should think, else theemightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does. "

"Nay, Mother, " said Adam, laughing, "the figures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't tell us about folks'sfeelings. It's a nicer job to calculate THEM. But Seth's as good-hearteda lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and good-looking too;and he's got the same way o' thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's a rare bit o' workmanship. You don't seesuch women turned off the wheel every day. "

"Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just thesame, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee wart allays for halvingiverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with marryin', as is on'ythree-an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by sixpence. An' asfor his desarving her--she's two 'ear older nor Seth: she's prettynear as old as thee. But that's the way; folks mun allays choose bycontrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork--a bit o' good meatwi' a bit o' offal. "

To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might bereceive a temporary charm from comparison with what is; and since Adamdid not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on thatscore--as peevish as she would have been if he HAD wanted to marryher, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership aseffectually as by marrying Hetty. 

It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talkingin this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached theturning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah andSeth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them tocome up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in theirwalk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength toSeth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused andshook hands; Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone. 

"Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear, " she said, as shereached Hetty, "but he's very full of trouble to-night. "

Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know whathad been said; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparklingself-engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm pitying face, withits open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secretsof its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman; how was itpossible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word forher when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to takeTotty off her hands--little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet ofby every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinahhad never said anything disapproving or reproachful to Hetty during herwhole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great deal in aserious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for she never listened:whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's cheek afterit, 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 littleperching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look atthe swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did notcare to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what wasmeant by the pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folioBible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday. 

Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. 

"You look very happy to-night, dear child, " she said. "I shall think ofyou often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it isnow. It's a strange thing--sometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting inmy room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I'veseen 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 thanI ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. Andthen my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as ifit was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord andresting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feelsure 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 nightand to-day--seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are sotender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been tellingme what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and hisbrother; it's wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. AndI'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among myown people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often thegentlest to the women and children; and it's pretty to see 'em carryingthe little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And thebabies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would beso with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty?"

"Yes, " said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the whilein the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she wasassenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there wouldnot have been time to say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate. 

The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faintstruggling stars, rested on the farm-yard, where there was not a soundto be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It wasabout twenty minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, withthe black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling-to of the gatedisturbed them and set them barking, like good officials, before theyhad any distinct knowledge of the reason. 

The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hettyapproached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddyblack-eyed face which bore in it the possibility of looking extremelyacute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days, but had now apredominant after-supper expression of hearty good-nature. It is wellknown that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity intheir criticism of other men's scholarship have yet been of a relentingand indulgent temper in private life; and I have heard of a learned manmeekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while withhis right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent whohad betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors mustbe forgiven--alas! they are not alien to us--but the man who takes thewrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treatedas the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixturein Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a disposition that he had beenkinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he had madea deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neighboursmore charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like LukeBritton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn'tknow the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small shareof judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hardand implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make aremark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taintof that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all hisfarming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint tohis mouth in the bar of the Royal George on market-day, and the meresight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and criticalexpression into his black eyes, as different as possible from thefatherly 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 hispockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up after theday's business is done. 

"Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night, " he said, when they reachedthe little gate leading into the causeway. "The mother's begun to fidgetabout you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave theold woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He'd been buta poor bargain to her this five year. "

"She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him, " said Dinah, "butshe's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day, working at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She'sbeen 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 surertrust 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 oneo' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, ashe'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see ussoon? But come in, come in, " he added, making way for them; "I hadn'tneed keep y' out any longer. "

The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to show every corner of thehouse-place. 

Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out ofthe "right-hand parlour, " was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Tottywas not disposed to sleep; and when her cousins entered, she raisedherself up and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter thanever now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. 

In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook satold Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portlyblack-haired son--his head hanging forward a little, and his elbowspushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on thearm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, aswas usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he satwatching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy oldage, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies outpins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectantpurposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or thesun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches eventhe hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in thetick. 

"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Look at the clock, do; why, it's going on for half-past nine, and I'vesent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too; when they'vegot to get up at half after four, and the mowers' bottles to fill, andthe 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 giveher the physic but your uncle, and fine work there's been, and half ofit spilt on her night-gown--it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ullmake her worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' usehave allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to bedone. "

"I did set out before eight, aunt, " said Hetty, in a pettish tone, witha slight toss of her head. "But this clock's so much before the clock atthe 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 acowcumber i' the frame? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the firsttime to-day, I reckon. "

The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clockswhen she told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later thanusual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted from this tendersubject by Totty, who, perceiving at length that the arrival ofher cousins was not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her inparticular, began to cry, "Munny, munny, " in an explosive manner. 

"Well, then, my pet, Mother's got her, Mother won't leave her; Totty bea good dilling, and go to sleep now, " said Mrs. Poyser, leaning back androcking the chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, "Don't yock!" So the mother, withthat wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest temperament, satup again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap and kissedit, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. 

"Come, Hetty, " said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, "go and getyour supper i' the pantry, as the things are all put away; an' then youcan come and take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, forshe won't lie down in bed without her mother. An' I reckon YOU could eata 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 cameaway, for Mrs. Bede would make a kettle-cake for me. "

"I don't want any supper, " said Hetty, taking off her hat. "I can holdTotty now, if Aunt wants me. "

"Why, what nonsense that is to talk!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Do you thinkyou can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' redribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this minute, child; there'sa nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe--just what you're fond of. "

Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs. Poyserwent on speaking to Dinah. 

"Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to makeyourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman wasglad to see you, since you stayed so long. "

"She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say shedoesn't like young women about her commonly; and I thought just at firstshe was almost angry with me for going. "

"Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould folks doesna like the younguns, " said old Martin, bending his head down lower, and seeming to tracethe pattern of the quarries with his eye. 

"Aye, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas, "said Mrs. Poyser. "We've all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be'tgood 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 keepbachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud beunreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargainall o' their own side. What's good for one's good all round i' thelong run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they know thedifference 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, seeingthat Totty was at last nestling quietly, "thee'dst better let Hettycarry her upstairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It'stime thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the pain in thy side again. "

"Well, she may hold her if the child 'ull go to her, " said Mrs. Poyser. 

Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usualsmile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for heraunt to give the child into her hands. 

"Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go tobed? Then Totty shall go into Mother's bed, and sleep there all night. "

Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer inan unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teethagainst her underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm withher utmost force. Then, without speaking, she nestled to her motheragain. 

"Hey, hey, " said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, "not goto Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby. Totty's a little woman, an' not ababby. "

"It's no use trying to persuade her, " said Mrs. Poyser. "She allaystakes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah. "

Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietlyseated in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty andwhat was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came forward, and, putting out her arms, said, "Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry herupstairs along with Mother: poor, poor Mother! she's so tired--she wantsto go to bed. "

Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, thenlifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her fromher mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air ofindifference, 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 longwhile, " said Mrs. Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief fromher low chair. "Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have therushlight burning i' my room. Come, Father. "

The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martinprepared to move, by gathering up his blue handkerchief, and reachinghis bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser thenled the way out of the kitchen, followed by the gandfather, and Dinahwith Totty in her arms--all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. Mrs. Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her two boys lay;just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for amoment their light regular breathing. 

"Come, Hetty, get to bed, " said Mr. Poyser, in a soothing tone, ashe himself turned to go upstairs. "You didna mean to be late, I'llbe bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench, good-night. "

Chapter XV

The Two Bed-Chambers

HETTY and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining eachother, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising ofthe moon--more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about andundress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in theold painted linen-press on which she hung her hat and gown; she couldsee the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion; she could seea reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite asdistinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hairand put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass! Hetty got into anill temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considereda handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into thePoyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteelhousehold furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something forit: it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it; it had a firmmahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decidedjerk and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had abrass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocraticair to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerousdim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixedin an upright position, so that she could only get one good view ofher head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on alow chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was nodressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the mostawkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brasshandles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass atall comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniencesto prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty thisevening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. 

Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from thelarge pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one ofthe lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of waxcandle--secretly bought at Treddleston--and stuck them in the twobrass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches and lighted thecandles; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to lookfirst after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling and turning herhead on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brushand comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss LydiaDonnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthinecurves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely ripplinghair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicaterings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and forma dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she putdown her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms beforeher, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't helpsending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stayswere not of white satin--such as I feel sure heroines must generallywear--but of a dark greenish cotton texture. 

Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettierthan anybody about Hayslope--prettier than any of the ladies she hadever seen visiting at the Chase--indeed it seemed fine ladies wererather old and ugly--and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller'sdaughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked atherself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had everfelt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on herlike morning on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and overagain those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was roundher, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. Thevainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till sheis loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. 

But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of thelinen-press, and a pair of large ear-rings out of the sacred drawer fromwhich 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 thewhiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little ear-ringsshe had in her ears--oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having herears bored!--and put in those large ones. They were but coloured glassand gilding, but if you didn't know what they were made of, they lookedjust as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, withthe large ear-rings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted roundher shoulders. She looked down at her arms: no arms could be prettierdown to a little way below the elbow--they were white and plump, anddimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist, she thought withvexation that they were coarsened by butter-making and other work thatladies never did. 

Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would liketo see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes, and white stockings, perhapswith silk clocks to them; for he must love her very much--no one elsehad ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would wantto marry her and make a lady of her; she could hardly dare to shapethe thought--yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr. James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobodyever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use tobe angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squirecould never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint withawe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have beenearth-born, for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that hehad been young like other men; he had always been the old Squire at whomeverybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it wouldbe! But Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, andcould have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. Andnothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she should bea grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocadedsilk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, likeMiss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-roomone evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby;only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the samethickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in agreat many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimesin a white one--she didn't know which she liked best; and Mary Burge andeverybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage--or rather, they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these thingshappening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all thissplendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught thelittle red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell witha bang on the floor; but she was too eagerly occupied with her visionto care about picking it up; and after a momentary start, began to pacewith a pigeon-like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarfround her shoulders, and the great glass ear-rings in her ears. 

How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be theeasiest folly in the world to fall in love with her: there is such asweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate darkrings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck; her greatdark eyes with their long eye-lashes touch one so strangely, as if animprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. 

Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How themen envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging onhis arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper justas free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goeswrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what helikes--that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too: the littledarling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, hewouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser; those kittenlike glances andmovements are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a greatphysiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which sheuses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in thelanguage. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in thoseexquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate aspetals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in thedark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on herchildren! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink roundthings will hang about her like florets round the central flower; andthe husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweetwife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriagesuch as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise andmajestic and the women all lovely and loving. 

It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought aboutHetty; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever shebehaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is onlybecause she doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man couldpossess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil ofany pretty woman--if you ever COULD, without hard head-breakingdemonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who hasbewitched you. No: people who love downy peaches are apt not to think ofthe stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. 

Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, sofar as he had thought of her nature of all. He felt sure she was adear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wonderingtremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; andif he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himselfbeing virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clinginglyfond of him. God made these dear women so--and it is a convenientarrangement in case of sickness. 

After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this waysometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than theydeserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious; but wedon't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hastyreading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now--what can be more exquisite? I find itimpossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye witha long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me thatthey may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. But if, inthe reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there hasbeen a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at lengththat there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals; orelse, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one'sgrandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. 

No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's; and now, while shewalks with her pigeon-like stateliness along the room and looks down onher shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows toperfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures thather narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future; but of everypicture she is the central figure in fine clothes; Captain Donnithorneis very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her--especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty'sresplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with thisdream of the future--any loving thought of her second parents--of thechildren she had helped to tend--of any youthful companion, any petanimal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are someplants that have hardly any roots: you may tear them from their nativenook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past lifebehind her and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she hadno feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob'sLadder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than otherflowers--perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed tocare about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her--shehardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time withoutbeing told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have abetter opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hettydid not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they hadbeen the very nuisance of her life--as bad as buzzing insects that willcome teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, theeldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the childrenborn before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one afterthe other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her onwet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys wereout of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse thaneither of the others had been, because there was more fuss made abouther. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hettywould have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again;they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was alwaysbringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time; for the lambsWERE 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 notbribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceedsof one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from undertheir mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that wasnot the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about theprettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at TreddlestonFair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under thehen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed tosuspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up noseand a protuberant jaw, was really a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs. Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry; but her stolidface showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brownearthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. 

It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencieshidden under the "dear deceit" of beauty, so it is not surprising thatMrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expectedfrom Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she hadsometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. 

"She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall andspread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish wasdying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not evenwhen we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dearcherub! 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 neverminded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the childever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as apebble. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Themyoung 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'sgot a good husband and children of her own. "

"I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of herown, 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 striveto do my part by a niece o' yours--an' THAT I've done, for I've taughther everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty oftenenough, 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'dneed have twice the strength to keep 'em up to their work. It'slike 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 concealfrom her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great asacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finerywhich Mrs. Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die withshame, vexation, and fright if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about deckedin her scarf and ear-rings. To prevent such a surprise, she alwaysbolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It waswell: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She darednot stay to take out her ear-rings, but she threw off her scarf, and letit fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know howit was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short timeand return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to hermother's arms, and was come upstairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. 

Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of thattall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness ofthe wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where shecould place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering herroom was to seat herself in this chair and look out on the peacefulfields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerowelms. 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 insilvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to beonly one more night on which she would look out on those fields for along 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 allthe dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peacefulfields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance forever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might liebefore them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be awayfrom them, and know nothing of what was befalling them; and the pressureof this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unrespondingstillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she mightfeel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and moretender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah'smode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes and to feelherself enclosed by the Divine Presence; then gradually her fears, heryearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warmocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossedon her lap and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least tenminutes when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of somethingfalling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in astate of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loudand startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpretedit rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and shereflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in gettinginto bed. She began slowly to undress; but now, owing to the suggestionsof this sound, her thoughts became concentrated on Hetty--that sweetyoung thing, with life and all its trials before her--the solemn dailyduties of the wife and mother--and her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child huggingits toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it willhave to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt adouble care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in hisbrother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty did notlove Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence ofany warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature to regard the coldness ofher behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the manshe 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 deeperpity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects apure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies. It was an excellentdivine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrowwith which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is moregrievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. 

By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feelingabout Hetty had gathered a painful intensity; her imagination hadcreated a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poorthing struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue andfinding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathyacted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt adeep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tenderwarning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty wasalready asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition and heard still someslight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Stillshe hesitated; she was not quite certain of a divine direction; thevoice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger that the othervoice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in anunseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than thoseinward 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. Sheknew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book sheopened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. Itwas a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid itsideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and thenopened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were thoseat the top of the left-hand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell onPaul's neck and kissed him. " That was enough for Dinah; she had openedon that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to openhis heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We knowshe had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throwoff her black lace scarf; but after the second tap the door was openedimmediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door widerand let her in. 

What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in thatmingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyesglistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in herears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full ofsubdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul hasreturned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They werenearly of the same height; Dinah evidently a little the taller as sheput her arm round Hetty's waist and kissed her forehead. 

"I knew you were not in bed, my dear, " she said, in her sweet clearvoice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevishvexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and Ilonged to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one thatI shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep usapart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?"

"Oh yes, " said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the secondchair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice herear-rings. 

Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair beforetwisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference whichbelongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah'seyes gradually relieved her; they seemed unobservant of all details. 

"Dear Hetty, " she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to-night thatyou may some day be in trouble--trouble is appointed for us all herebelow, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help thanthe things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever youare in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and loveyou, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if youcome to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and thewords she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?"

"Yes, " said Hetty, rather frightened. "But why should you think I shallbe in trouble? Do you know of anything?"

Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leanedforwards and took her hands as she answered, "Because, dear, troublecomes to us all in this life: we set our hearts on things which it isn'tGod's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing; the people we loveare taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not withus; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies;we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with ourfellow-men. There is no man or woman born into this world to whom someof these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happento you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seekfor strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a supportwhich 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'sanxious affection; but Dinah's words uttered with solemn patheticdistinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died awayalmost to paleness; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure-seekingnature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, andher tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full ofa vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began tocry. 

It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understandthe higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. ButI think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learnthe art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruisesand gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancyingour space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in thisway before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted itwas the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, andbegan to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in thatexcitable state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn thefeelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time shebecame irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done anything to you. Whycan't you let me be?"

Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only saidmildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't hinder you any longer. Makehaste and get into bed. Good-night. "

She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she hadbeen a ghost; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself onher knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity thatfilled her heart. 

As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again--her waking dreams beingmerged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. 

Chapter XVI

Links

ARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you remember, is under an engagement with himself togo and see Mr. Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressingso early that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies ofthe family having a different breakfast-hour; Arthur will have an earlyride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything bestover a meal. 

The progress of civilization has made a breakfast or a dinner aneasy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeableceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our fatherconfessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctlyconscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen inan enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with anappetite for muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbaroustimes would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, isquite a well-bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request fora loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and thirdglasses of claret. 

Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that theycommitted you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed:when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall andare aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are morelikely to say what you came out with the intention of saying than if youwere seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany witha companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothingparticular to say. 

However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes onhorseback in the morning sunshine, has a sincere determination to openhis heart to the rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as hepasses by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this honestpurpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, forgetting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fearful; and thereis something so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general andnot merely personal, that this thought about the hay-harvest reacts onhis state of mind and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A manabout town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to befelt out of a child's story-book; but when you are among the fieldsand hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority tosimple natural pleasures. 

Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope and was approaching theBroxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw afigure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible tomistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usualrapid pace, and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for heretained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunityof chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellowdid not owe some of its force to the love of patronage: our friendArthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have hishandsome deeds recognized. 

Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse'sheels, and waited for the horseman, lifting his paper cap from his headwith a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adamwould have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young manin the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lostthan the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it wasArthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-hairedlad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam's lessons incarpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house withgifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite apride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling hadonly become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown intothe whiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to theinfluence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect toevery one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopheror a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clevercarpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclinedhim to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds forquestioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building withill-seasoned timber--by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans forouthouses and workshops and the like without knowing the bearings ofthings--by slovenly joiners' work, and by hasty contracts that couldnever be fulfilled without ruining somebody; and he resolved, for hispart, to set his face against such doings. On these points he wouldhave maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor inLoamshire or Stonyshire either; but he felt that beyond these it wouldbe better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate weremanaged, and the shameful state of the farm-buildings; and if old SquireDonnithorne had asked him the effect of this mismanagement, he wouldhave spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to arespectful demeanour towards a "gentleman" would have been strong withinhim all the while. The word "gentleman" had a spell for Adam, and, as heoften said, he "couldn't abide a fellow who thought he made himself fineby being coxy to's betters. " I must remind you again that Adam had theblood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his primehalf a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to beobsolete. 

Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam's wasassisted by boyish memories and personal regard so you may imagine thathe thought far more of Arthur's good qualities, and attached far morevalue to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualitiesand actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would bea fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came intothe estate--such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an"uncommon" notion about improvements and repairs, considering he wasonly just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection inthe smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rodeup. 

"Well, Adam, how are you?" said Arthur, holding out his hand. He nevershook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. "Icould swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back, onlybroader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember?"

"Aye, sir, I remember. It 'ud be a poor look-out if folks didn'tremember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think nomore about old friends than we do about new uns, then. "

"You're going to Broxton, I suppose?" said Arthur, putting his horseon at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. "Are you going to therectory?"

"No, sir, I'm going to see about Bradwell's barn. They're afraid of theroof pushing the walls out, and I'm going to see what can be done withit before we send the stuff and the workmen. "

"Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? Ishould 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. Aforeman, if he's got a conscience and delights in his work, will do hisbusiness as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn't give a penny fora man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he didn't get extra pay forit. "

"I know that, Adam; I know you work for him as well as if you wereworking for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account perhaps. The old man mustgive up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he'll want ason-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of hisown, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into thebusiness. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest somemoney in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I'msure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better offin a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age; andwhen 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"--Adamcontinued, in a decided tone--"I shouldn't like to make any offersto Mr. Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to apartnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that 'udbe a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interestthen, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time. "

"Very well, Adam, " said Arthur, remembering what Mr. Irwine had saidabout 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 beburied?"

"On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine's coming earlier on purpose. I shall be gladwhen it's over, for I think my mother 'ull perhaps get easier then. Itcuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' workingit off, and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the witheredtree. "

"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, likeother youngsters. You've always had some care on your mind. "

"Why, yes, sir; but that's nothing to make a fuss about. If we're menand have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can'tbe like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got theirwings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lotevery year. I've had enough to be thankful for: I've allays had healthand strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count ita great thing as I've had Bartle Massey's night-school to go to. He'shelped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by myself. "

"What a rare fellow you are, Adam!" said Arthur, after a pause, in whichhe had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. "I couldhit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you wouldknock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you. "

"God forbid I should ever do that, sir, " said Adam, looking round atArthur and smiling. "I used to fight for fun, but I've never done thatsince I was the cause o' poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I'll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that's got no shame nor conscience to stophim, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up. "

Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought thatmade him say presently, "I should think now, Adam, you never have anystruggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you hadmade up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as youwould knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won't doa thing, and then doing it after all?"

"Well, " said Adam, slowly, after a moment's hesitation, "no. I don'tremember ever being see-saw in that way, when I'd made my mind up, asyou say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o' my mouth forthings, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after 'em. I'veseen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can neverdo what's wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can eversee. It's like a bit o' bad workmanship--you never see th' end o' themischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world tomake your fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better. But there's adifference between the things folks call wrong. I'm not for making asin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be letinto, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whetherit isn't worthwhile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see-saw about anything: I think my fault liesth' other way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hardfor me to go back. "

"Yes, that's just what I expected of you, " said Arthur. "You've got aniron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolutionmay be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We maydetermine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in ourpockets, but we can't prevent our mouths from watering. "

"That's true, sir, but there's nothing like settling with ourselves asthere's a deal we must do without i' this life. It's no use looking onlife as if it was Treddles'on Fair, where folks only go to see shows andget fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where's the useo' me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do. "

"I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had four or five years ofexperience more than I've had, and I think your life has been a betterschool to you than college has been to me. "

"Why, sir, you seem to think o' college something like what BartleMassey does. He says college mostly makes people like bladders--justgood for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he'sgot a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has--it never touches anythingbut it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, asyou're going to the rectory. "

"Good-bye, Adam, good-bye. "

Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked alongthe gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that therector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the lefthand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the old part of the house--dark with the sombre covers ofthe books that lined the walls; yet it looked very cheery this morningas Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant onthe great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliolapillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by theside of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any roomenticing. In the crimson damask easy-chair sat Mr. Irwine, with thatradiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morningtoilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno'sbrown curly back; and close to Juno's tail, which was wagging with calmmatronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in anecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed satPug, with the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiaritiesas animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible ofobserving. On the table, at Mr. Irwine's elbow, lay the first volume ofthe Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by sight; and the silvercoffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steamwhich completed the delights of a bachelor breakfast. 

"Hallo, Arthur, that's a good fellow! You're just in time, " said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill. "Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven't you got somecold fowl for us to eat with that ham? Why, this is like old days, Arthur; you haven't been to breakfast with me these five years. "

"It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast, " said Arthur;"and I used to like breakfasting with you so when I was reading withyou. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than atany other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn't agree withhim. "

Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr. Irwine's presence than theconfidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appearedthe most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment ofshaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he makeIrwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenesin 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 veryopposite of what he intended! Irwine would think him a shilly-shallyfellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way;the conversation might lead up to it. 

"I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day, " saidMr. Irwine. "No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents aclear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book byme at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, thatregularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly becomestudious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who haskilled a hare, and when I've got through my 'justicing, ' as Carrollcalls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way backI meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of amutinous pauper to tell me; and so the day goes on, and I'm always thesame lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants thestimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D'Oyley leftTreddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I shouldhave had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn't run inyour family blood. "

"No indeed. It's well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin toadorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. 'Crasingens iterabimus aequor, ' and a few shreds of that sort, will perhapsstick 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 toa country gentleman; as far as I can see, he'd much better have aknowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's bookslately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out someof his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of theirland; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the samedark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfatherwill never let me have any power while he lives, but there's nothingI should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of theestate--it's in a dismal condition--and set improvements on foot, andgallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I should liketo know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats to me with alook of goodwill. "

"Bravo, Arthur! A man who has no feeling for the classics couldn'tmake a better apology for coming into the world than by increasingthe quantity of food to maintain scholars--and rectors who appreciatescholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord mayI 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 hardwork. Only don't set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are toget in consequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those whotry to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of thewhole neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must makeit quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, oldboy--popularity or usefulness--else you may happen to miss both. "

"Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn't make himself personallyagreeable to his tenants. I don't believe there's anything you can'tprevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live ina neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved. And it's verypleasant to go among the tenants here--they seem all so well inclinedto me I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a littlelad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowanceswere made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuadethem 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 whowill drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. Mymother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes: she says, 'Ill never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he fallsin love with. ' She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rulesthe tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know, and I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don'tdisgrace my judgment. "

Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine's opinionabout him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to besure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, andgetting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at thispoint in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclinationto tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, andlived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerninghimself; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimatefriend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any suchserious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his ownbelief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, athing to make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that hecould not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg'slameness--go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on theold hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but thenext minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he remembered howthoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! Hewould not be vacillating again--he WOULD do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of theconversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pausefor this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, "But I thinkit is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of characterthat he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitutiondoesn't insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitablediseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under asort of witchery from a woman. "

"Yes; but there's this difference between love and smallpox, orbewitchment either--that if you detect the disease at an early stage andtry change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without anyfurther development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative doseswhich a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequencesbefore his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through whichyou may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline;though I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing justat the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortifiedwith a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudentmarriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in thePrometheus. "

The smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and insteadof following Mr. Irwine's playful lead, he said, quite seriously--"Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that afterall one's reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled bymoods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I don't think a man oughtto be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, inspite of his resolutions. "

"Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as hisreflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance withhis own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptionalaction; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on anyparticular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that wecarry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom. "

"Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination ofcircumstances, which one might never have done otherwise. "

"Why, yes, a man can't very well steal a bank-note unless the bank-notelies within convenient reach; but he won't make us think him an honestman 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 temptationinto which he falls at last as bad as the man who never struggles atall?"

"No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for theyforeshadow 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 thatare hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our mindson that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements ofexcuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are considering in thisphilosophical, general way?"

In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himselfback in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspectedthat Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothingthe way for him by this direct question. But he was mistaken. Broughtsuddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrankback and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation hadtaken a more serious tone than he had intended--it would quite misleadIrwine--he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while therewas no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at hisboyishness. 

"Oh no, no danger, " he said as indifferently as he could. "I don't knowthat I am more liable to irresolution than other people; only there arelittle incidents now and then that set one speculating on what mighthappen in the future. "

Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur'swhich had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself? Ourmental business is carried on much in the same way as the businessof the State: a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are notacknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often asmall unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion ofthe large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agentsecretly busy in Arthur's mind at this moment--possibly it was the fearlest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to therector a serious annoyance, in case he should NOT be able quite to carryout his good resolutions? I dare not assert that it was not so. Thehuman soul is a very complex thing. 

The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine's mind as he lookedinquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming indifferent answer confirmedthe thought which had quickly followed--that there could be nothingserious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever sawher 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 moreserious meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse thelittle chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of herlife. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away: no, therecould be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur's character had notbeen a strong security against it. His honest, patronizing pride inthe good-will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard evenagainst foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in the previousconversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. Heperceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said, "By the way, Arthur, at your colonel's birthday fete there were some transparenciesthat made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and theLoamshire Militia, and, above all, the 'generous youth, ' the hero ofthe day. Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort toastonish our weak minds?"

The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope towhich he might have clung had drifted away--he must trust now to his ownswimming. 

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 senseof dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set offfor Eagledale without an hour's delay. 

Book Two

Chapter XVII

In Which the Story Pauses a Little

"THIS Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!" I hear one of myreaders exclaim. "How much more edifying it would have been if you hadmade him give Arthur some truly spiritual advice! You might have putinto his mouth the most beautiful things--quite as good as reading asermon. "

Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the novelistto represent things as they never have been and never will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character entirely after my ownliking; I might select the most unexceptionable type of clergyman andput my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all occasions. But ithappens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any sucharbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and thingsas they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is doubtlessdefective, the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflectionfaint or confused; but I feel as much bound to tell you as preciselyas I can what that reflection is, as if I were in the witness-box, narrating my experience on oath. 

Sixty years ago--it is a long time, so no wonder things havechanged--all clergymen were not zealous; indeed, there is reason tobelieve that the number of zealous clergymen was small, and it isprobable that if one among the small minority had owned the livingsof Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would have liked him nobetter than you like Mr. Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought hima tasteless, indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely thatfacts hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions andrefined taste! Perhaps you will say, "Do improve the facts a little, then; make them more accordant with those correct views which it is ourprivilege to possess. The world is not just what we like; do touch itup with a tasteful pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixedentangled affair. Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions actunexceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on the wrongside, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we shall see at a glancewhom we are to condemn and whom we are to approve. Then we shall be ableto admire, without the slightest disturbance of our prepossessions: weshall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs toundoubting confidence. "

But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow-parishionerwho opposes your husband in the vestry? With your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regrettedpredecessor? With the honest servant who worries your soul with her onefailing? With your neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to youin your last illness, but has said several ill-natured things about yousince your convalescence? Nay, with your excellent husband himself, whohas other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? Thesefellow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are: you can neitherstraighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify theirdispositions; and it is these people--amongst whom your life ispassed--that it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it isthese more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements ofgoodness you should be able to admire--for whom you should cherish allpossible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I hadthe choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so muchbetter than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our dailywork, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on thedusty streets and the common green fields--on the real breathing menand women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by yourprejudice; 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 thingsseem 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 adelightful facility in drawing a griffin--the longer the claws, andthe larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility whichwe mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a realunexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that evenwhen you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say theexact truth, even about your own immediate feelings--much harder than tosay something fine about them which is NOT the exact truth. 

It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight inmany Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a sourceof delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonoushomely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among myfellow-mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragicsuffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, fromcloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to anold woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves, fallson her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, andher stone jug, and all those cheap common things which are the preciousnecessaries of life to her--or I turn to that village wedding, keptbetween four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dancewith a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-agedfriends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probablywith quart-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakablecontentment and goodwill. "Foh!" says my idealistic friend, "what vulgardetails! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exactlikeness 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, Ihope? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race havenot been ugly, and even among those "lords of their kind, " the British, squat figures, ill-shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are notstartling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongstus. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that theApollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yetto my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and theirminiatures--flattering, but still not lovely--are kissed in secret bymotherly lips. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could havenever in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet ofyellow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showeredkisses on her sallow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty ofyoung heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quitesure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, andyet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife whowaddles. Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers thatbless the earth: it does not wait for beauty--it flows with resistlessforce and brings beauty with it. 

All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivateit to the utmost in men, women, and children--in our gardens and in ourhouses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secretof proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us anangel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by thecelestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild faceupward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do notimpose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region ofArt those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, thoseheavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backsand stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and donethe rough work of the world--those homes with their tin pans, theirbrown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. Inthis world there are so many of these common coarse people, who haveno picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful we shouldremember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out ofour religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fita world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them;therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of alife to the faithful representing of commonplace things--men who seebeauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindlythe 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 allmy love and reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of thosefeelings for my every-day fellow-men, especially for the few in theforeground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands Itouch for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither arepicturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as yourcommon labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly butcreditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I shouldhave a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen whoweighs out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than withthe handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers--more needful thatmy heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentlegoodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or inthe clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent andin other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deedsof heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimestabstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived by an ablenovelist. 

And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you to be inperfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your demands on theclerical character. Perhaps you think he was not--as he ought to havebeen--a living demonstration of the benefits attached to a nationalchurch? But I am not sure of that; at least I know that the peoplein Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with theirclergyman, and that most faces brightened at his approach; and until itcan 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 morewholesome one than that of the zealous Mr. Ryde, who came there twentyyears afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been gathered to his fathers. Itis true, Mr. Ryde insisted strongly on the doctrines of the Reformation, visited his flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severein rebuking the aberrations of the flesh--put a stop, indeed, to theChristmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunkenness andtoo light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, towhom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen couldbe less successful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr. Ryde. They learned a great many notions about doctrine from him, sothat almost every church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as wellbetween the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely up to thatstandard, as if he had been born and bred a Dissenter; and for some timeafter his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in thatquiet rural district. "But, " said Adam, "I've seen pretty clear, eversince I was a young un, as religion's something else besides notions. Itisn't notions sets people doing the right thing--it's feelings. It's thesame with the notions in religion as it is with math'matics--a man maybe able to work problems straight off in's head as he sits by the fireand smokes his pipe, but if he has to make a machine or a building, hemust have a will and a resolution and love something else better thanhis own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to fall off, and peoplebegan to speak light o' Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant right at bottom;but, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beating down priceswith the people as worked for him; and his preaching wouldn't go downwell with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i' theparish, punishing folks for doing wrong; and he scolded 'em fromthe pulpit as if he'd been a Ranter, and yet he couldn't abide theDissenters, and was a deal more set against 'em than Mr. Irwine was. Andthen he didn't keep within his income, for he seemed to think at firstgo-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 poorcurates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr. Ryde was adeal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as formath'matics and the natur o' things, he was as ignorant as a woman. Hewas very knowing about doctrines, and used to call 'em the bulwarks ofthe Reformation; but I've always mistrusted that sort o' learning asleaves folks foolish and unreasonable about business. Now Mester Irwinewas as different as could be: as quick!--he understood what you meant ina minute, and he knew all about building, and could see when you'd madea good job. And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the farmers, andth' old women, and the labourers, as he did to the gentry. You never sawHIM interfering and scolding, and trying to play th' emperor. Ah, he wasa fine man as ever you set eyes on; and so kind to's mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne--he seemed to think more of her than ofanybody else in the world. There wasn't a soul in the parish had a wordto say against him; and his servants stayed with him till they were soold and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work. "

"Well, " I said, "that was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays;but I daresay, if your old friend Mr. Irwine were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that hedidn't preach better after all your praise of him. "

"Nay, nay, " said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back inhis chair, as if he were ready to meet all inferences, "nobody has everheard me say Mr. Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn't go into deepsperitial experience; and I know there s a deal in a man's inward lifeas you can't measure by the square, and say, 'Do this and that 'llfollow, ' and, 'Do that and this 'll follow. ' There's things go on in thesoul, and times when feelings come into you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and part your life in two a'most, so you lookback on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as youcan't bottle up in a 'do this' and 'do that'; and I'll go so far withthe strongest Methodist ever you'll find. That shows me there's deepsperitial things in religion. You can't make much out wi' talking aboutit, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine didn't go into those things--he preachedshort moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty muchup to what he said; he didn't set up for being so different from otherfolks one day, and then be as like 'em as two peas the next. And hemade folks love him and respect him, and that was better nor stirringup their gall wi' being overbusy. Mrs. Poyser used to say--you know shewould have her word about everything--she said, Mr. Irwine was like agood meal o' victual, you were the better for him without thinking onit, and Mr. Ryde was like a dose o' physic, he gripped you and worretedyou, and after all he left you much the same. "

"But didn't Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that spiritual partof religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn't you get more out of hissermons than out of Mr. Irwine's?"

"Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But I've seen prettyclear, ever since I was a young un, as religion's something else besidesdoctrines and notions. I look at it as if the doctrines was like findingnames for your feelings, so as you can talk of 'em when you've neverknown 'em, just as a man may talk o' tools when he knows their names, though he's never so much as seen 'em, still less handled 'em. I'veheard a deal o' doctrine i' my time, for I used to go after theDissenting preachers along wi' Seth, when I was a lad o' seventeen, andgot puzzling myself a deal about th' Arminians and the Calvinists. TheWesleyans, you know, are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could neverabide anything harsh and was always for hoping the best, held fast bythe Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a hole ortwo in their notions, and I got disputing wi' one o' the class leadersdown at Treddles'on, and harassed him so, first o' this side and theno' that, till at last he said, 'Young man, it's the devil making use o'your pride and conceit as a weapon to war against the simplicity o'the truth. ' I couldn't help laughing then, but as I was going home, Ithought the man wasn't far wrong. I began to see as all this weighingand sifting what this text means and that text means, and whether folksare saved all by God's grace, or whether there goes an ounce o' theirown 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 andconceited for't. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hearingnobody but Mr. Irwine, for he said nothing but what was good and whatyou'd be the wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soulto be humble before the mysteries o' God's dealings, and not be makinga clatter about what I could never understand. And they're poor foolishquestions after all; for what have we got either inside or outside of usbut what comes from God? If we've got a resolution to do right, He gaveit us, I reckon, first or last; but I see plain enough we shall never doit without a resolution, and that's enough for me. "

Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr. Irwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the people we have knownfamiliarly. Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that loftyorder of minds who pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a generalsense that their emotions are of too exquisite a character to find fitobjects among their everyday fellowmen. I have often been favoured withthe confidence of these select natures, and find them to concur inthe experience that great men are overestimated and small men areinsupportable; that if you would love a woman without ever looking backon your love as a folly, she must die while you are courting her; and ifyou would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must nevermake a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunkfrom confessing to these accomplished and acute gentlemen what my ownexperience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocriticalassent, and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of ourillusions, which any one moderately acquainted with French literaturecan command at a moment's notice. Human converse, I think some wiseman has remarked, is not rigidly sincere. But I herewith discharge myconscience, and declare that I have had quite enthusiastic movements ofadmiration towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English, who wereoccasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never moved in ahigher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer; and thatthe way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature islovable--the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublimemysteries--has been by living a great deal among people more or lesscommonplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear nothing verysurprising if you were to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods wherethey dwelt. Ten to one most of the small shopkeepers in their vicinitysaw nothing at all in them. For I have observed this remarkablecoincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ideal, andfind nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command theirreverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest andpettiest. For example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the landlord ofthe Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours inthe village of Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his ownparish--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 loti' this parish--a poor lot, sir, big and little. " I think he had adim idea that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he might findneighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequently transferhimself to the Saracen's Head, which was doing a thriving business inthe back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he hasfound the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as theinhabitants of Shepperton--"a poor lot, sir, big and little, and themas comes for a go o' gin are no better than them as comes for a pint o'twopenny--a poor lot. "

Chapter XVIII

Church

"HETTY, Hetty, don't you know church begins at two, and it's gone halfafter one a'ready? Have you got nothing better to think on this goodSunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and himdrownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's backrun cold, but you must be 'dizening yourself as if there was a weddingi'stid of a funeral?"

"Well, Aunt, " said Hetty, "I can't be ready so soon as everybody else, when I've got Totty's things to put on. And I'd ever such work to makeher stand still. "

Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet andshawl, was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been madeof roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hatwas trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on awhite ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, exceptin her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyserwas provoked at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as anymortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So sheturned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of someone she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the ground shetrod on. 

And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suitof drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat and a green watch-ribbon havinga large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from thatpromontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of ayellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knittedby 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 thegrowing abuse of top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise thenether limbs had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the humancalf. Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face, which was good humour itself as he said, "Come, Hetty--come, littleuns!" and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causewaygate into the yard. 

The "little uns" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven, in little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosycheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very smallelephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behindcame patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the yardand over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having speedilyrecovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to churchto-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside hertippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over thisafternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though nowthe clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on thehorizon. 

You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in thefarmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooningsubdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he wouldhave been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemedto call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself onthe moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling togetherwith their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sowstretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found anexcellent spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd, in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting, half-standing on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church, like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman whohad the weather and the ewes on his mind. "Church! Nay--I'n gottensummat else to think on, " was an answer which he often uttered in a toneof bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sureAlick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of aspeculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed goingto church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and "Whissuntide. " But he hada general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies, like other non-productive employments, were intended for people who hadleisure. 

"There's Father a-standing at the yard-gate, " said Martin Poyser. "Ireckon he wants to watch us down the field. It's wonderful what sight hehas, and him turned seventy-five. "

"Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies, "said Mrs. Poyser; "they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they'relooking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, aforethey go to sleep. "

Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on his stick--pleased to do this bitof work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, heliked to feel that he was still useful--that there was a better crop ofonions in the garden because he was by at the sowing--and that the cowswould be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoonto look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not veryregularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch ofrheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead. 

"They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to thechurchyard, " he said, as his son came up. "It 'ud ha' been better luckif they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin';there's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boatthere, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather--there's a many asis false but that's sure. "

"Aye, aye, " said the son, "I'm in hopes it'll hold up now. "

"Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads, " saidGrandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious ofa marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling, a little, secretly, during the sermon. 

"Dood-bye, Dandad, " said Totty. "Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklaceon. Dive me a peppermint. "

Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench, " slowlytransferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, andslowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty hadfixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation. 

And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through thefar gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For thehedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the better-managedfarms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pinkwreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the palehoneysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, andover all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow acrossthe path. 

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and letthem pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy ofcows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand thattheir large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was themare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-colouredfoal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still muchembarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirelythrough Mr. Poyser's own fields till they reached the main road leadingto the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the cropsas they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a runningcommentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large sharein making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion onstock and their "keep"--an exercise which strengthens her understandingso much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on mostother subjects. 

"There's that shorthorned Sally, " she said, as they entered the HomeClose, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cudand looking at her with a sleepy eye. "I begin to hate the sight o' thecow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid ofher the better, for there's that little yallow cow as doesn't give halfthe milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her. "

"Why, thee't not like the women in general, " said Mr. Poyser; "they likethe shorthorns, as give such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wantshim to buy no other sort. "

"What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' nomore head-piece nor a sparrow. She'd take a big cullender to strainher lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's run through. I'veseen enough of her to know as I'll niver take a servant from her houseagain--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' theweek; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf ina tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, asthere'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 ifthee lik'st, " said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife's superiorpower of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-dayshe had more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter ofshorthorns. "Aye, them as choose a soft for a wife may's well buy upthe shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs may'swell go after it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you, " Mrs. Poysercontinued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry, toddledon in front of her father and mother. "There's shapes! An' she's gotsuch 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'sgot THY coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i' my family; mymother 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 stickthat Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks 'udthink her as pretty as Hetty. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, "theedostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver run after Dinah asthey would after Hetty. "

"What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice themost of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives yousee, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour'sgone. "

"Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choicewhen I married thee, " said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled littleconjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; "and thee wast twice asbuxom as Dinah ten year ago. "

"I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of ahouse. There's Chowne's wife ugly enough to turn the milk an' save therennet, 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 herdinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them as want. Sheprovoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went cleanagain' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself';'but, ' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better nor you doyourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinkinghe might do well enough on a half-empty stomach. ' Eh, I wonder where sheis this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she'dset her heart on going to all of a sudden. "

"Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, whenshe might ha' stayed wi' us all summer, and eaten twice as much as shewanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' houseat all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, andwas uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married, theed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant. "

"It's no use thinking o' that, " said Mrs. Poyser. "You might aswell beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an' live herecomfortable, 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 hertoo; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do what I canfor 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 wellylike her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened tothink o' the set-downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimesas if she'd a way o' knowing the rights o' things more nor other folkshave. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no morenor a white calf's white 'cause it eats out o' the same bucket wi' ablack un. "

"Nay, " said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as hisgood-nature would allow; "I'm no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'ytradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' themmaggots. There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't overclever at'swork, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, ashas got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; he's a goodChurchman, else I'd never encourage him for a sweetheart for Hetty. "

"Why, goodness me, " said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while herhusband was speaking, "look where Molly is with them lads! They're thefield's length behind us. How COULD you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybodymight as well set a pictur' to watch the children as you. Run back andtell 'em to come on. "

Mr. And Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they setTotty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshirestile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing with complacency, "Deynaughty, naughty boys--me dood. "

The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught withgreat excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going onin the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peepingthan if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quitesure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and whilehe was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which hadrun across the path and was described with much fervour by the juniorTommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged, flutteringalong the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till itmanaged to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be gotto give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her readysympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said"Lawks!" whenever she was expected to wonder. 

Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called tothem that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting, "We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!" with the instinctiveconfidence that people who bring good news are never in fault. 

"Ah, " said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in thispleasant surprise, "that's a good lad; why, where is it?"

"Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, lookingafter the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest. "

"You didn't frighten her, I hope, " said the mother, "else she'll forsakeit. "

"No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly--didn't I, Molly?"

"Well, well, now come on, " said Mrs. Poyser, "and walk before Father andMother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight onnow. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday. "

"But, Mother, " said Marty, "you said you'd give half-a-crown to findthe speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into mymoney-box?"

"We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy. "

The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement attheir eldest-born's acuteness; but on Tommy's round face there was acloud. 

"Mother, " he said, half-crying, "Marty's got ever so much more money inhis box nor I've got in mine. "

"Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots, " said Totty. 

"Hush, hush, hush, " said Mrs. Poyser, "did ever anybody hear suchnaughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, ifthey don't make haste and go on to church. "

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the tworemaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without anyserious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles, alias "bullheads, " which the lads looked at wistfully. 

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow wasnot a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest hadoften some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but notemptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, howeverearly in the morning, on a Sunday; for had not Michael Holdsworth had apair of oxen "sweltered" while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That wasa demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and withwickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would havenothing 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 shinesso, " he observed, as they passed through the "Big Meadow. " "But it'spoor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience. There's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield, 'used to do the same of a Sunday as o' weekdays, and took no heed toright or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's hecome to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi'oranges in't. "

"Ah, to be sure, " said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, "you make but a poortrap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as isgot so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leaveour lads a sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as forthe weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't: it'snothing of a plague to what the wenches are. "

Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habitwhich Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking time by the forelock had securedtheir arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to two, though almost every one who meant to go to church was already within thechurchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, likeTimothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feelingas women feel in that position--that nothing else can be expected ofthem. 

It was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people werestanding about the churchyard so long before service began; that wastheir common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church atonce, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, overthe tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor'sstuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, asfar preferable--about the servants, and their growing exorbitance as towages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you couldsee her--about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, wasgiving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as tohis solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman, and they were all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime themen lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who hada humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the churchuntil Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that prematureentrance--what could they do in church if they were there before servicebegan?--and they did not conceive that any power in the universecould 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 gothis clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cryat him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him atonce as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference withwhich the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to thefarmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must holda candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himselfon weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who hadhorses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the roughersort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of thefarm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, asfellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position, sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to theconversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into thechurch. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord ofthe Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude--that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of hiswaistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head verymuch on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only amono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audiencediscern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast withold Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness thatcould not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone thanusual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine's voice readingthe final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their wordof pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject oftheir own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, whoplayed the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receivehis own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject ofconversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchellhimself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church door. And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine's voice had ceased, and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards thechurch. 

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwinepassed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them;for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was notyet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pausebefore the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to lookagain towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earthunder the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done anyday since her husband's death. Along with all her grief there was mixedan unusual sense of her own importance in having a "burial, " and in Mr. Irwine's reading a special service for her husband; and besides, sheknew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt thiscounter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked withher sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nodsof their fellow-parishioners. 

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one theloiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr. Donnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhapshelping to make them feel that there was no need for haste. 

But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth;the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and everyone must now enter and take his place. 

I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable foranything except for the grey age of its oaken pews--great square pewsmostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews tothemselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a shortprocess for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass, and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk, grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading intothe chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. Donnithorne'sfamily and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with thebuff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior, and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats. And there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, forthe pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crimson clothcushions; 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 andcheering when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, looking benignly round onthat simple congregation--on the hardy old men, with bent knees andshoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clipping andthatching; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces ofthe stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers, with their apple-cheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostlyfarm-labourers' wives, with their bit of snow-white cap-border undertheir black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow, folded passively over their chests. For none of the old people heldbooks--why should they? Not one of them could read. But they knew afew "good words" by heart, and their withered lips now and then movedsilently, following the service without any very clear comprehensionindeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm andbring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standingup--the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the greypews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one ofthose lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation ofrectors and choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe ofPan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not inhis usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his motherand Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absenttoo--all the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bassnotes with unusual complacency and threw an extra ray of severity intothe glances he sent over his spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery. 

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in hisample white surplice that became him so well, with his powdered hairthrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril andupper lip; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keencountenance as there is in all human faces from which a generous soulbeams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through theold windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, thatthrew pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall. 

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instantlonger than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and hisfamily. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossiblenot to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. ButHetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances--she was absorbedin the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church, for the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by this time. Shehad never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursdayevening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on justthe same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened thenhad brought no changes after them; they were already like a dream. Whenshe heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared notlook up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself. That must be old Mr. Donnithorne--he always came first, the wrinkledsmall old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowingand curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing, and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable littlecoal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn'tmind 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 thehouse-keeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hatthat had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of thebutler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look now--shemight be mistaken--for, after all, she had not looked. So she liftedup her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in thechancel--there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacleswith his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edgedprayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She feltherself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, whatSHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she wascrying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderfulhothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It wasdreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she couldkneel down. Two great drops WOULD fall then, but no one saw them exceptgood-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backstowards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in churchexcept faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drewout of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle, and aftermuch labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck againstHetty's nostrils. "It donna smell, " she whispered, thinking this was agreat advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you goodwithout biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but thislittle flash of temper did what the salts could not have done--it rousedher to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her mightnot to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain littlenature: she would have borne anything rather than be laughed at, orpointed at with any other feeling than admiration; she would havepressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people shouldknow a secret she did not want them to know. 

What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, whileMr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn "Absolution" in her deaf ears, andthrough all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close todisappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures hersmall ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on thesupposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see heragain. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because allthe rest were rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even witha heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches toherself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her this pain--she wouldlike him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on inher soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelidswith their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so, as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees. 

But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; theyrather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the churchservice was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousnessof our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all ourmoments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was thebest channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, andresignation; its interchange of beseeching cries for help with outburstsof faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm ofits collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship couldhave done; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from theirchildhood upwards in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must haveseemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of thestreets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, butin its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder the secret escapesthe unsympathizing observer, who might as well put on his spectacles todiscern odours. 

But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found theservice in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other villagenooks in the kingdom--a reason of which I am sure you have not theslightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Wherethat good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a mysteryeven to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got itchiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honestconceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow soulsbefore his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musicalear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed toinspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses. The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare tonothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of thewind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speakingabout the reading of a parish clerk--a man in rusty spectacles, withstubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that isNature's way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy andpoetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him theslightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to hisintervals as a bird. 

Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and itwas always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from thedesk to the choir. Still more to-day: it was a special occasion, for anold man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death--not in hisbed, a circumstance the most painful to the mind of the peasant--andnow the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden departure. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance inthe choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, and the words--

 Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood; We vanish hence like dreams--

seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poorThias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings. Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; itwas part of that decent burial which she would have thought it a greaterwrong to withhold from him than to have caused him many unhappy dayswhile he was living. The more there was said about her husband, themore there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poorLisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and pity are a ground offaith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, andtried to recall, as he had done continually since his father's death, all that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment ofconsciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement;for was it not written in the very psalm they were singing that theDivine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam hadnever been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty oftrouble and vexation since he had been a lad, but this was the firstsorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrowbecause the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for evergone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father'shand before their parting, and say, "Father, you know it was all rightbetween us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgiveme if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!" Adam thought butlittle to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on hisfather: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feelings hadbeen in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head beforethe rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissivesilence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our owngenerosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our angerhas gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for thelast time in the meekness of death!

"Ah! I was always too hard, " Adam said to himself. "It's a sore fault inme as I'm so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong, andmy 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 Icould sooner make a thousand strokes with th' hammer for my father thanbring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' prideand temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having his finger inwhat we call our duties as well as our sins. Mayhap the best thing Iever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It'sallays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real toughjob for me 'ud be to master my own will and temper and go right againstmy own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at hometo-night, I should behave different; but there's no knowing--perhapsnothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's well weshould feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there'sno real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrongsubtraction by doing your addition right. "

This was the key-note to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returnedsince his father's death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalmwas only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with strongeremphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with referenceto Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, "In themidst of life we are in death"--how the present moment is all we cancall our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of familytenderness. All very old truths--but what we thought the oldest truthbecomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on thedead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men wantto impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, dothey not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measureits intensity by remembering the former dimness?

Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublimewords, "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, " seemed toblend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads ofthe congregation; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on thebonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, thefathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through theold archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for on a Sundayevery one was ready to receive a guest--it was the day when all must bein their best clothes and their best humour. 

Mr. And Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they werewaiting for Adam to Come up, not being contented to go away withoutsaying a kind word to the widow and her sons. 

"Well, Mrs. Bede, " said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, "youmust keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they'velived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey. "

"Aye, aye, " said Mr. Poyser; "they wonna have long to wait for oneanother then, anyhow. And ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i'th' country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine abroad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, whyyou're straighter i' the back nor half the young women now. "

"Eh, " said Lisbeth, "it's poor luck for the platter to wear well whenit's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under the thorn the better. I'mno good to nobody now. "

Adam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints; but Sethsaid, "Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 'ull never get anothermother. "

"That's true, lad, that's true, " said Mr. Poyser; "and it's wrong on usto give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it's like the children cryin' whenthe fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knowsbetter nor us. "

"Ah, " said Mrs. Poyser, "an' it's poor work allays settin' the deadabove the livin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon--it 'udbe better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin'when we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the lastyear'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 tochange the subject, "you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hannahad a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you tosee what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it's got broke, and it'll be a nice job to mend it--there'll want a bit o' turning. You'll come as soon as you can now, will you?"

Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to seewhere Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was notwithout a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white abouther than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-whitehot-house plant, with a very long name--a Scotch name, she supposed, since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took theopportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require ofhim that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expressionon Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in hersecret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhapslearn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that shecared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would begiven spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fondof giving information. 

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances werereceived coldly, for to shift one's point of view beyond certain limitsis impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none ofus aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feebleunderstanding--it is possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover, Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenthyear of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony andbachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a littleheated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hettythat the "lass was well enough, " and that "a man might do worse"; but onconvivial occasions men are apt to express themselves strongly. 

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who "knew his business"and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he wasless of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said inconfidence to her husband, "You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for mypart, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purposeto hear him crow. " For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. Hehad also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forwarda little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. Ithink 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 inhis accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire peopleabout him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian. 

"Well, Mr. Poyser, " he said, before the good slow farmer had time tospeak, "ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. Theglass sticks at 'change, ' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' moredownfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloudthere upo' the 'rizon--ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the landand sky seems to meet?"

"Aye, aye, I see the cloud, " said Mr. Poyser, "'rizon or no 'rizon. It'sright 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 prettynigh as quick as you'd spread a tarpaulin over one o' your hay-ricks. It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord blessyou! Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's apretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to, if they'd just cometo me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser?--thinking o' getherin' the redcurrants soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they'reo'erripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to. How do yedo, Mistress Bede?" Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by theway to Adam and Seth. "I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberriesas I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables while ye'rein trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not givingother folks' things away, for when I've supplied the house, the gardens my own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old squire could getas 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd bewilling I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to makesure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to seesome o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before theirnoses as I've got to do every year as comes. "

"They look pretty fur, though, " said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on oneside and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. "Why, what couldcome truer nor that pictur o' the cock wi' the big spurs, as has got itshead 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 trueas th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelson--an' theytold us that beforehand. "

"Pee--ee-eh!" said Mr. Craig. "A man doesna want to see fur to know asth' English 'ull beat the French. Why, I know upo' good authority asit'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 knowledgeo' the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are todo against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor aFrenchman'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 wastalking to him o' Friday, and he said nothing about his going away. "

"Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll beback again afore many days are o'er, for he's to be at all th' arrangingand preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July. But he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' oldsquire fit one another like frost and flowers. "

Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation, but the subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached theturning 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 ifhe had not accepted Mr. Poyser's invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser dulyseconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace notto make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikesmust not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig hadalways been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs. Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had "nothing to say again'him, on'y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatcheddifferent. "

So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way downto the valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory hadtaken the place of a long, long anxiety--where Adam would never have toask again as he entered, "Where's Father?"

And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back tothe pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm--all with quiet minds, except Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only themore puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quitevoluntary; he need not have gone--he would not have gone if he hadwanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could everbe pleasant to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to befulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment anddoubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again, of meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words with that eageryearning which one may call the "growing pain" of passion. 

Chapter XIX

Adam on a Working Day

NOTWITHSTANDING Mr. Craig's prophecy, the dark-blue cloud disperseditself without having produced the threatened consequences. "Theweather"--as he observed the next morning--"the weather, you see, 'sa ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't sometimes when a wise manmisses; that's why the almanecks get so much credit. It's one o' themchancy things as fools thrive on. "

This unreasonable behaviour of the weather, however, could displease noone else in Hayslope besides Mr. Craig. All hands were to be out inthe meadows this morning as soon as the dew had risen; the wives anddaughters did double work in every farmhouse, that the maids might givetheir help in tossing the hay; and when Adam was marching along thelanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the soundof jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the hedges. The jocosetalk of hay-makers is best at a distance; like those clumsy bells roundthe 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, itmingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men'smuscles move better when their souls are making merry music, thoughtheir merriment is of a poor blundering sort, not at all like themerriment of birds. 

And perhaps there is no time in a summer's day more cheering than whenthe warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshnessof the morning--when there is just a lingering hint of early coolnessto keep off languor under the delicious influence of warmth. The reasonAdam was walking along the lanes at this time was because his work forthe rest of the day lay at a country-house about three miles off, whichwas being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and hehad been busy since early morning with the packing of panels, doors, and chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on before him, whileJonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await itsarrival and direct the workmen. 

This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously underthe charm of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he sawHetty in the sunshine--a sunshine without glare, with slanting raysthat tremble between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday when he put out his hand to her as they came out of church, that there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, such as hehad not seen before, and he took it as a sign that she had some sympathywith his family trouble. Poor fellow! That touch of melancholy came fromquite another source, but how was he to know? We look at the one littlewoman's face we love as we look at the face of our mother earth, and seeall sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Adamnot to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought theprospect of marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly thedanger that some other man might step in and get possession of Hetty'sheart and hand, while he himself was still in a position that made himshrink from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong hopethat she was fond of him--and his hope was far from being strong--hehad been too heavily burdened with other claims to provide a home forhimself and Hetty--a home such as he could expect her to be content withafter the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, Adamhad confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; hefelt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a familyand make a good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head notto estimate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And thetime would be so long! And there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked applehanging over the orchard wall, within sight of everybody, and everybodymust long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she would becontent to wait for him: but DID she love him? His hopes had never risenso high that he had dared to ask her. He was clear-sighted enough to beaware that her uncle and aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, andindeed, without this encouragement he would never have persevered ingoing to the Farm; but it was impossible to come to any but fluctuatingconclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and had thesame distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody thatcame near her. 

But now he could not help saying to himself that the heaviest part ofhis burden was removed, and that even before the end of another yearhis circumstances might be brought into a shape that would allow him tothink of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew: she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she hadset her mind especially against Hetty--perhaps for no other reason thanthat she suspected Hetty to be the woman he HAD chosen. It would neverdo, he feared, for his mother to live in the same house with him whenhe was married; and yet how hard she would think it if he asked her toleave him! Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through withhis mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel that hiswill was strong--it would be better for her in the end. For himself, he would have liked that they should all live together till Seth wasmarried, and they might have built a bit themselves to the old house, and made more room. He did not like "to part wi' th' lad": they hadhardly every been separated for more than a day since they were born. 

But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in thisway--making arrangements for an uncertain future--than he checkedhimself. "A pretty building I'm making, without either bricks ortimber. I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much as dug thefoundation. " Whenever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposition, ittook the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge to be actedon, as much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps here laythe secret of the hardness he had accused himself of: he had toolittle fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseenconsequences. Without this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enoughpatience and charity towards our stumbling, falling companions in thelong and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strongdetermined soul can learn it--by getting his heart-strings boundround the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the outwardconsequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is a longand hard lesson, and Adam had at present only learned the alphabet of itin his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant allthat had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thoughtand memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness. 

But it was Adam's strength, not its correlative hardness, thatinfluenced his meditations this morning. He had long made up his mindthat it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry a bloomingyoung girl, so long as he had no other prospect than that of growingpoverty with a growing family. And his savings had been so constantlydrawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's substitutein the militia) that he had not enough money beforehand to furnish evena small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy day. Hehad good hope that he should be "firmer on his legs" by and by; but hecould not be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; hemust have definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnershipwith Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at present--there werethings implicitly tacked to it that he could not accept; but Adamthought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for themselvesin addition to their journeyman's work, by buying a small stock ofsuperior wood and making articles of household furniture, for which Adamhad no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at separatejobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's work, and Adam, in his overhours, could do all the "nice" work that required peculiarskill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he receivedas foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the world, so sparingly as they would all live now. No sooner had this littleplan shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exactcalculations about the wood to be bought and the particular article offurniture that should be undertaken first--a kitchen cupboard of hisown contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of sliding-doors andbolts, such convenient nooks for stowing household provender, and sucha symmetrical result to the eye, that every good housewife would bein raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of melancholylonging till her husband promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured tohimself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen eye and trying in vain tofind out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty, and Adam was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances intodreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening--it was solong since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to goto the night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at churchyesterday, for he feared his old friend was ill; but, unless he couldmanage both visits, this last must be put off till to-morrow--the desireto be near Hetty and to speak to her again was too strong. 

As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end ofhis walk, within the sound of the hammers at work on the refitting ofthe old house. The sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his workis like the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the violinist whohas to bear his part in the overture: the strong fibres begin theiraccustomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, orambition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes strengthwhen it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in thelabour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still, creative activity of our thought. Look at Adam through the rest of theday, as he stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler inhis hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about afloor-joist or a window-frame is to be overcome; or as he pushes one ofthe younger workmen aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight oftimber, saying, "Let alone, lad! Thee'st got too much gristle i' thybones yet"; or as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of aworkman on the other side of the room and warns him that his distancesare not right. Look at this broad-shouldered man with the bare musculararms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed about like troddenmeadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strongbarytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemnpsalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yetpresently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought whichjars with the singing. Perhaps, if you had not been already inthe secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories what warmaffection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athleticbody with the broken finger-nails--in this rough man, who knew no betterlyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasionalhymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and forwhom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and thechanges of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible byfragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble andwork in overhours to know what he knew over and above the secrets of hishandicraft, and that acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and thenature of the materials he worked with, which was made easy to him byinborn inherited faculty--to get the mastery of his pen, and write aplain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in fairness beattributed to the unreasonable character of orthography rather than toany deficiency in the speller, and, moreover, to learn his musical notesand part-singing. Besides all this, he had read his Bible, includingthe apocryphal books; Poor Richard's Almanac, Taylor's Holy Living andDying, The Pilgrim's Progress, with Bunyan's Life and Holy War, a greatdeal of Bailey's Dictionary, Valentine and Orson, and part of a Historyof Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had manymore books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading "thecommin print, " as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures inall the leisure moments which he did not fill up with extra carpentry. 

Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, nor, properlyspeaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that his was an ordinarycharacter among workmen; and it would not be at all a safe conclusionthat the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of tools overhis shoulder and a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience andthe strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of ourfriend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are rearedhere and there in every generation of our peasant artisans--with aninheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of commonneed and common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trainedin skilful courageous labour: they make their way upwards, rarely asgeniuses, most commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill andconscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives haveno discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but youare almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building, some application of mineral produce, some improvement in farmingpractice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their names areassociated by one or two generations after them. Their employers werethe richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the workof their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They went aboutin their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coal-dustor streaked with lime and red paint; in old age their white hairs areseen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they tell theirwell-dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth onwinter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned theirtwopence a-day. Others there are who die poor and never put off theworkman's coal on weekdays. They have not had the art of getting rich, but they are men of trust, and when they die before the work is all outof them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine; themaster who employed them says, "Where shall I find their like?"

Chapter XX

Adam Visits the Hall Farm

ADAM came back from his work in the empty waggon--that was why he hadchanged his clothes--and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when itstill wanted a quarter to seven. 

"What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?" said Lisbeth complainingly, as he came downstairs. "Thee artna goin' to th' school i' thy bestcoat?"

"No, Mother, " said Adam, quietly. "I'm going to the Hall Farm, butmayhap I may go to the school after, so thee mustna wonder if I'm abit late. Seth 'ull be at home in half an hour--he's only gone to thevillage; 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 meanby turnin' worki'day into Sunday a-that'n? It's poor keepin' company wi'folks as donna like to see thee i' thy workin' jacket. "

"Good-bye, mother, I can't stay, " said Adam, putting on his hat andgoing out. 

But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbethbecame uneasy at the thought that she had vexed him. Of course, thesecret of her objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that theywere put on for Hetty's sake; but deeper than all her peevishness laythe need that her son should love her. She hurried after him, and laidhold 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 gotnought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee?"

"Nay, nay, Mother, " said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he puthis arm on her shoulder, "I'm not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to do. I'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But aman has other feelings besides what he owes to's father and mother, andthee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must makeup thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what Ilike. So let us have no more words about it. "

"Eh, " said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the real bearingof Adam's words, "and' who likes to see thee i' thy best cloose betternor thy mother? An' when thee'st got thy face washed as clean asthe smooth white pibble, an' thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyesa-sparklin'--what else is there as thy old mother should like to look athalf so well? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik'stfor me--I'll ne'er plague thee no moor about'n. "

"Well, well; good-bye, mother, " said Adam, kissing her and hurryingaway. 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 himtill he was quite out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaningthat had lain in Adam's words, and, as she lost sight of him and turnedback slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself--for it was herway to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her husband andsons were at their work--"Eh, he'll be tellin' me as he's goin' to bringher home one o' these days; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I munlook on, belike, while she uses the blue-edged platters, and breaks'em, mayhap, though there's ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' mebought 'em at the fair twenty 'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!" she wenton, still louder, as she caught up her knitting from the table, "butshe'll ne'er knit the lad's stockin's, nor foot 'em nayther, while Ilive; an' when I'm gone, he'll bethink him as nobody 'ull ne'er fit'sleg an' foot as his old mother did. She'll know nothin' o' narrowin' an'heelin', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as he canna get's booton. That's what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone thirty, an'th' feyther too, afore we war married; an' young enough too. She'll bea poor dratchell by then SHE'S thirty, a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore herteeth's all come. "

Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. MartinPoyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow: everyone was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier--no onekept watch in the yard but the bull-dog; and when Adam reached thehouse-door, which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the brightclean house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one elsewould be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the door and said inhis strong voice, "Mrs. Poyser within?"

"Come in, Mr. Bede, come in, " Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. Shealways gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house. "You may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave thecheese. "

Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushingthe first evening cheese. 

"Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house, " said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway; "they're all i' the meadow; butMartin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cockedto-night, ready for carrying first thing to-morrow. I've been forcedt' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether the red currantsto-night; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand'swanted. An' there's no trustin' the children to gether it, for they putmore into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as well setthe 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 lookingat your spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps itstands in the house, where I can find it?"

"No, I've put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be tillI can fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now if you'd go into thegarden and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The child 'ull run in if she'stold, an' I know Hetty's lettin' her eat too many currants. I'll be muchobliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you'll go and send her in; an' there's theYork 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 fondo' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser, " said Adam; "a drink o' whey's allays a treatto me. I'd rather have it than beer any day. "

"Aye, aye, " said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood onthe shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, "the smell o' bread'ssweet 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 whata beautiful thing a farm-house is, to be sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; afarm-house is a fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know theliftin', an' the stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside as belongsto't. '"

"Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn't like to live anywhere else but in afarm-house, so well as you manage it, " said Adam, taking the basin;"and there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in thepail, and the fresh butter ready for market, and the calves, and thepoultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have strength to lookafter your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' wives in thecountry. "

Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at acompliment, but a quiet complacency over-spread her face like a stealingsunbeam, 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 wheynow--with a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it froman odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imaginationwith a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping wheyis in my ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wirenetwork window--the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tallGuelder roses. 

"Have a little more, Mr. Bede?" said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down thebasin. 

"No, thank you; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the littlelass. "

"Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy. "

Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, tothe little wooden gate leading into the garden--once the well-tendedkitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome brick wallwith stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhousegarden, with hardy perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchenvegetables growing together in careless, half-neglected abundance. Inthat leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this gardenwas like playing at "hide-and-seek. " There were the tall hollyhocksbeginning to flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, andyellow; there were the syringas and Guelder roses, all large anddisorderly for want of trimming; there were leafy walls of scarlet beansand late peas; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree making a barren circle under itslow-spreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two? Thegarden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beans--ittook nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end of the uncut grasswalk that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, therewas so much more room than was necessary for them that in the rotationof crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrenceon one spot or other. The very rose-trees at which Adam stopped to pluckone looked as if they grew wild; they were all huddled together in bushymasses, now flaunting with wide-open petals, almost all of them of thestreaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless dated from the unionof the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose acompact Provence rose that peeped out half-smothered by its flauntingscentless neighbours, and held it in his hand--he thought he should bemore at ease holding something in his hand--as he walked on to the farend of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest row ofcurrant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour. 

But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard theshaking of a bough, and a boy's voice saying, "Now, then, Totty, holdout your pinny--there's a duck. "

The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where Adam hadno difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in acommodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty wasbelow, behind the screen of peas. Yes--with her bonnet hanging down herback, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned uptowards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouthand her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I amsorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellowinstead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, "Therenow, Totty, you've got your cherries. Run into the house with 'em toMother--she wants you--she's in the dairy. Run in this minute--there's agood little girl. "

He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption tocherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted off quite silentlytowards the house, sucking her cherries as she went along. 

"Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving bird, "said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees. 

He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty wouldnot be far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking at him. Yetwhen he turned the corner she was standing with her back towards him, and stooping to gather the low-hanging fruit. Strange that she hadnot heard him coming! Perhaps it was because she was making theleaves rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one wasnear--started so violently that she dropped the basin with the currantsin it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deepred. That blush made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty hadnever blushed at seeing him before. 

"I frightened you, " he said, with a delicious sense that it didn'tsignify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did; "letME pick the currants up. "

That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on thegrass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, lookedstraight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to thefirst moments of hopeful love. 

Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she methis glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because it was sounlike anything he had seen in her before. 

"There's not many more currants to get, " she said; "I shall soon ha'done now. "

"I'll help you, " said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which wasnearly full of currants, and set it close to them. 

Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's heartwas too full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that was in it. Shewas not indifferent to his presence after all; she had blushed when shesaw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about her which mustsurely mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, whichhad often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at hercontinually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeamsstole through the thick apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheekand neck as if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the timethat a man can least forget in after-life, the time when he believesthat the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something--aword, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid--that she isat least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, itis scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye--he could describe it to noone--it is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed hiswhole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a deliciousunconsciousness of everything but the present moment. So much of ourearly gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall thejoy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on ourfather's back in childhood. Doubtless that joy is wrought up into ournature, as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up in the softmellowness 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 gladmoment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as therecurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hourof happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch totenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the lastkeenness to the agony of despair. 

Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screenof apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotionas he looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and thatthere was no need for them to talk--Adam remembered it all to the lastmoment of his life. 

And Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Likemany other men, he thought the signs of love for another were signs oflove towards himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her, she wasabsorbed as usual in thinking and wondering about Arthur's possiblereturn. The sound of any man's footstep would have affected her just inthe same way--she would have FELT it might be Arthur before she had timeto see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of thatmomentary feeling would have rushed back again at the sight of any oneelse just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinkingthat a change had come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a firstpassion, with which she was trembling, had become stronger than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless dependence onanother's feeling which awakens the clinging deprecating womanhood evenin the shallowest girl that can ever experience it, and creates in her asensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the firsttime Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam's timidyet manly tenderness. She wanted to be treated lovingly--oh, it wasvery hard to bear this blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing love! She was not afraid that Adamwould tease her with love-making and flattering speeches like her otheradmirers; he had always been so reserved to her; she could enjoy withoutany fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was nearher. It never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too--thatAdam too must suffer one day. 

Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gentlyto the man who loved her in vain because she had herself begun to loveanother. It was a very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so hedrank in the sweet delusion. 

"That'll do, " said Hetty, after a little while. "Aunt wants me to leavesome on the trees. I'll take 'em in now. "

"It's very well I came to carry the basket, " said Adam "for it 'ud ha'been too heavy for your little arms. "

"No; I could ha' carried it with both hands. "

"Oh, I daresay, " said Adam, smiling, "and been as long getting into thehouse as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen thosetiny fellows carrying things four times as big as themselves?"

"No, " said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties ofant life. 

"Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I cancarry the basket with one arm, as if it was an empty nutshell, and giveyou th' other arm to lean on. Won't you? Such big arms as mine were madefor little arms like yours to lean on. "

Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down ather, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner of thegarden. 

"Have you ever been to Eagledale?" she said, as they walked slowlyalong. 

"Yes, " said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about himself. "Tenyears ago, when I was a lad, I went with father to see about some workthere. It's a wonderful sight--rocks and caves such as you never saw inyour life. I never had a right notion o' rocks till I went there. "

"How long did it take to get there?"

"Why, it took us the best part o' two days' walking. But it's nothing ofa day's journey for anybody as has got a first-rate nag. The captain 'udget there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And Ishouldn't wonder if he's back again to-morrow; he's too active to restlong in that lonely place, all by himself, for there's nothing but abit 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 'udgive 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. Hespoke very handsome to me th' other day about lending me money to set upi' business; and if things came round that way, I'd rather be beholdingto him nor to any man i' the world. "

Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he thought Hettywould be pleased to know that the young squire was so ready to befriendhim; the fact entered into his future prospects, which he would like toseem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with aninterest which brought a new light into her eyes and a half-smile uponher lips. 

"How pretty the roses are now!" Adam continued, pausing to look at them. "See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I thinkthese as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, areprettier than the striped uns, don't you?"

He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole. 

"It smells very sweet, " he said; "those striped uns have no smell. Stickit in your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It 'ud be apity to let it fade. "

Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought thatArthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope andhappiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did whatshe had very often done before--stuck the rose in her hair a littleabove the left ear. The tender admiration in Adam's face was slightlyshadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just thething that would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked itas much as it was possible for him to dislike anything that belonged toher. 

"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' thepainted women outside the shows at Treddles'on Fair. What can a womanhave to set her off better than her own hair, when it curls so, likeyours? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her good looksall the better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks verynice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It seems to me as awoman's face doesna want flowers; it's almost like a flower itself. I'msure yours is. "

"Oh, very well, " said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the roseout of her hair. "I'll put one o' Dinah's caps on when we go in, andyou'll see if I look better in it. She left one behind, so I can takethe pattern. "

"Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. Idaresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here asit was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people; but I neverrightly noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then Ithought 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'vegot another sort o' face; I'd have you just as you are now, withoutanything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man'ssinging a good tune--you don't want t' hear bells tinkling andinterfering 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 weare apt to do, that she had perceived all the thoughts he had onlyhalf-expressed. And the thing he dreaded most was lest any cloud shouldcome over this evening's happiness. For the world he would not havespoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towardshim should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagination hesaw long years of his future life stretching before him, blest with theright to call Hetty his own: he could be content with very little atpresent. So he took up the basket of currants once more, and they wenton towards the house. 

The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in thegarden. The yard was full of life now: Marty was letting the screaminggeese through the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing athim; the granary-door was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, afterdealing out the corn; the horses were being led out to watering, amidst much barking of all the three dogs and many "whups" from Tim theploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek, intelligentheads, and lifted their shaggy feet so deliberately, were likely to rushwildly in every direction but the right. Everybody was come back fromthe meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr. Poyserwas seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in thelarge arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while thesupper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the clothherself--a cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkeredpattern on it, and of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as allsensible housewives like to see--none of your bleached "shop-rag" thatwould wear into holes in no time, but good homespun that would lastfor two generations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffedchine might well look tempting to hungry men who had dined at half-pasttwelve o'clock. On the large deal table against the wall there werebright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and hiscompanions; for the master and servants ate their supper not far offeach other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a remark aboutto-morrow morning's work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand tohear it. 

"Well, Adam, I'm glad to see ye, " said Mr. Poyser. "What! ye've beenhelping Hetty to gether the curran's, eh? Come, sit ye down, sit yedown. Why, it's pretty near a three-week since y' had your supper withus; and the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I'm gladye're come. "

"Hetty, " said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currantsto see if the fruit was fine, "run upstairs and send Molly down. She'sputting Totty to bed, and I want her to draw th' ale, for Nancy's busyyet i' the dairy. You can see to the child. But whativer did you let herrun away from you along wi' Tommy for, and stuff herself wi' fruit asshe can't eat a bit o' good victual?"

This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talkingto Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict in adherence to her own rules ofpropriety, and she considered that a young girl was not to be treatedsharply in the presence of a respectable man who was courting her. Thatwould not be fair-play: every woman was young in her turn, and had herchances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women notto spoil--just as one market-woman who has sold her own eggs must nottry to balk another of a customer. 

Hetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer toher aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser went out to see after Marty andTommy and bring them in to supper. 

Soon they were all seated--the two rosy lads, one on each side, by thepale mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating coldbroad beans out of a large dish with his pocket-knife, and findinga flavour in them which he would not have exchanged for the finestpineapple. 

"What a time that gell is drawing th' ale, to be sure!" said Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of stuffed chine. "I thinkshe sets the jug under and forgets to turn the tap, as there's nothingyou can't believe o' them wenches: they'll set the empty kettle o' thefire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils. "

"She's drawin' for the men too, " said Mr. Poyser. "Thee shouldst ha'told her to bring our jug up first. "

"Told her?" said Mrs. Poyser. "Yes, I might spend all the wind i' mybody, an' take the bellows too, if I was to tell them gells everythingas their own sharpness wonna tell 'em. Mr. Bede, will you take somevinegar with your lettuce? Aye you're i' the right not. It spoils theflavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor eating where the flavouro' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter andtrusten 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 fullof ale or small beer--an interesting example of the prehensile powerpossessed by the human hand. Poor Molly's mouth was rather wider openthan usual, as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the doublecluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in hermistress's eye. 

"Molly, I niver knew your equils--to think o' your poor mother as isa 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 themore for the want of that preparation. With a vague alarmed sense thatshe must somehow comport herself differently, she hastened her stepa little towards the far deal table, where she might set down hercans--caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fellwith a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a titteringexplosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious "Ello!" from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred. 

"There you go!" resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose andwent towards the cupboard while Molly began dolefully to pick up thefragments of pottery. "It's what I told you 'ud come, over and overagain; and there's your month's wage gone, and more, to pay for that jugas I've had i' the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to'tbefore; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' house you've been'ud make a parson swear--God forgi' me for saying so--an' if it had beenboiling 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 butwhat you will be some day if you go on; for anybody 'ud think you'd gotthe St. Vitus's Dance, to see the things you've throwed down. It'sa pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it'sneither seeing nor hearing as 'ull make much odds to you--anybody 'udthink you war case-hardened. "

Poor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in herdesperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick'slegs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard, turned a blighting eye upon her. 

"Ah, " she went on, "you'll do no good wi' crying an' making more wet towipe up. It's all your own wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobodyno call to break anything if they'll only go the right way to work. Butwooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle. And here must I takethe brown-and-white jug, as it's niver been used three times this year, and go down i' the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, and be laidup wi' inflammation. . . . "

Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown-and-whitejug in her hand, when she caught sight of something at the other endof the kitchen; perhaps it was because she was already trembling andnervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on her; perhapsjug-breaking, like other crimes, has a contagious influence. Howeverit was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the preciousbrown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spoutand handle. 

"Did ever anybody see the like?" she said, with a suddenly loweredtone, after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. "The jugs arebewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles--they slip o'er thefinger like a snail. "

"Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face, " said her husband, whohad now joined in the laugh of the young ones. 

"It's all very fine to look on and grin, " rejoined Mrs. Poyser; "butthere's times when the crockery seems alive an' flies out o' your handlike a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke WILL be broke, for I never dropped a thing i' mylife for want o' holding it, else I should never ha' kept the crockeryall these 'ears as I bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad?Whativer do you mean by coming down i' that way, and making one think asthere's a ghost a-walking i' th' house?"

A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a fatalistic view of jug-breaking thanby that strange appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. Thelittle minx had found a black gown of her aunt's, and pinned it closeround her neck to look like Dinah's, had made her hair as flat as shecould, and had tied on one of Dinah's high-crowned borderless net caps. The thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which thesight of the gown and cap brought with it, made it a laughable surpriseenough to see them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettishdark eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clappingtheir hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked upfrom his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the backkitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free from bewitchment. 

"Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?" said Mr. Poyser, withthat comfortable slow enjoyment of a laugh which one only sees in stoutpeople. "You must pull your face a deal longer before you'll do for one;mustna she, Adam? How come you put them things on, eh?"

"Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes, " saidHetty, sitting down demurely. "He says folks looks better in uglyclothes. "

"Nay, nay, " said Adam, looking at her admiringly; "I only said theyseemed to suit Dinah. But if I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I shouldha' said nothing but what was true. "

"Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr. Poyser tohis wife, who now came back and took her seat again. "Thee look'dst asscared as scared. "

"It little sinnifies how I looked, " said Mrs. Poyser; "looks 'ull mendno jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr. Bede, I'm sorry you've towait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute. Make yourself athome wi' th' cold potatoes: I know you like 'em. Tommy, I'll send you tobed this minute, if you don't give over laughing. What is there to laughat, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o' thatpoor thing's cap; and there's them as 'ud be better if they could maketheirselves like her i' more ways nor putting on her cap. It littlebecomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' herjust gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her. An' Iknow 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 theywill--an' the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everythingwent to rack an' ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah'scap again, wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's oneo' them things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you thebest when you're most i' need on't. "

Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so likelyto expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was of a susceptibledisposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten somany cherries as to have his feelings less under command than usual, wasso affected by the dreadful picture she had made of the possible futurethat he began to cry; and the good-natured father, indulgent to allweaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, "You'd bettertake 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 agreeablediversion; for Adam had to give his opinion of the new tap, which couldnot be otherwise than complimentary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followeda 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 withweight on these subjects that by the time supper was ended, the ale-jugrefilled, and Mr. Poyser's pipe alight she was once more in high goodhumour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheelfor his inspection. 

"Ah, " said Adam, looking at it carefully, "here's a nice bit o' turningwanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop inthe 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 itdone for you by Wednesday. I've been turning it over in my mind, " hecontinued, looking at Mr. Poyser, "to make a bit more convenence at homefor nice jobs o' cabinet-making. I've always done a deal at suchlittle things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's moreworkmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a littlebusiness for ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ulltake as many things as we should make, besides what we could get ordersfor round about. "

Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a steptowards Adam's becoming a "master-man, " and Mrs. Poyser gave herapprobation to the scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was tobe capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen inthe utmost compactness without confusion. Hetty, once more in her owndress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warmevening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam couldsee her quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got upto go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for atthis busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy atfive o'clock in the morning. 

"I shall take a step farther, " said Adam, "and go on to see MesterMassey, for he wasn't at church yesterday, and I've not seen him for aweek past. I've never hardly known him to miss church before. "

"Aye, " said Mr. Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's theboys' hollodays now, so we can give you no account. "

"But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night?" saidMrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting. 

"Oh, Mester Massey sits up late, " said Adam. "An' the night-school's notover yet. Some o' the men don't come till late--they've got so far towalk. 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-droppingcandle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor thefirst thing i' the morning. "

"Aye, eleven o'clock's late--it's late, " said old Martin. "I ne'er sotup so i' MY life, not to say as it warna a marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late. "

"Why, I sit up till after twelve often, " said Adam, laughing, "butit isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty. "

Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and dampwith currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the largepalm that was held out to them, and said, "Come again, come again!"

"Aye, think o' that now, " said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was out of on thecauseway. "Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work! Ye'll not findmany 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 ownspring-cart some day, I'll be your warrant. "

Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle didnot see the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ridein a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now. 

Chapter XXI

The Night-School and the Schoolmaster

Bartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of acommon, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached itin a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had hishand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted bythin dips. 

When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Masseymerely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He hadnot come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too fullof personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed inHetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book till school wasover; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. Itwas a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; heknew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of BartleMassey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way ofkeeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backsof all the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall abovethe pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone outof the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had longago exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to thinkhow the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its nativeelement; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of theold map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age hadturned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasonedmeerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as thescene, nevertheless habit had not made him indifferent to it, and evenin his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of theold fellow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding penor pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through theirreading lesson. 

The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster'sdesk consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have knownit 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 forpresent purposes. The face wore its mildest expression: the grizzledbushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionatekindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lowerlip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word or syllablein a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because theschoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had thatpeculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keenimpatient temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under thetransparent yellow skin, and this intimidating brow was softened by notendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about aninch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever. 

"Nay, Bill, nay, " Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded toAdam, "begin that again, and then perhaps, it'll come to you what d-r-yspells. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know. "

"Bill" was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellentstone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of hisyears; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a hardermatter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. Theletters, he complained, were so "uncommon alike, there was no tellin''em one from another, " the sawyer's business not being concerned withminute differences such as exist between a letter with its tailturned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firmdetermination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on tworeasons: first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything "rightoff, " whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a letterfrom twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and hadgot an overlooker's place; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed withhim, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what could bedone by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, couldbe done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay ifcircumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big fingertowards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that hemight keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to bediscriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Masseymust possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imaginationrecoiled before it: he would hardly have ventured to deny that theschoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regularreturn of daylight and the changes in the weather. 

The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was aMethodist brickmaker who, after spending thirty years of his life inperfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately "got religion, " andalong with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learningwas a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered asusual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hardtask with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul--that he mighthave a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evilmemories and the temptations of old habit--or, in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and wassuspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being theman who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However thatmight be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacherat Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; andthough he was still known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of"Brimstone, " there was nothing he held in so much horror as any furthertransactions with that evil-smelling element. He was a broad-chestedfellow with a fervid temperament, which helped him better in imbibingreligious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere humanknowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shakenin his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that theletter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear thatBrimstone was too eager for the knowledge that puffeth up. 

The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall butthin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale face andhands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dippinghomespun wool and old women's petticoats had got fired with the ambitionto learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He hadalready a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he wasbent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expenseof crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddleston had given him anotion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense ifhe could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours tothe night-school, resolving that his "little chap" should lose no timein 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 hardlabour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books and painfullymaking out, "The grass is green, " "The sticks are dry, " "The corn isripe"--a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single wordsall alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three roughanimals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for suchfull-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he hadno severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with animperturbable temper, and on music-nights it was apparent that patiencecould never be an easy virtue to him; but this evening, as he glancesover his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning hishead on one side with a desperate sense of blankness before the lettersd-r-y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light. 

After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came upwith the imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out ontheir slates and were now required to calculate "off-hand"--a test whichthey stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyeshad been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles for someminutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitched tone, pausingbetween every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick whichrested between his legs. 

"Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did afortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's the reason. You want to learnaccounts--that's well and good. But you think all you need do to learnaccounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or threetimes a-week; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out ofdoors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. Yougo whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking ofthan if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill through thathappened 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 gotcheap--you'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence a-week, and he'll makeyou clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledgeisn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me tell you. If you're to knowfigures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep your thoughtsfixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there'snothing but what's got number in it--even a fool. You may say toyourselves, 'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighedfour pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, howmany pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack's?' A man that hadgot his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work'em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitchesby fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a farthing, andthen see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himselfhow much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then how much tenworkmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at thatrate--and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as ifhe left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and theshort of it is--I'll have nobody in my night-school that doesn't striveto learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to getout of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away becausehe's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd notrefuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on peoplewho 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 youcan't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead ofthinking that you can pay for mine to work for you. That's the last wordI've got to say to you. "

With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than everwith his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with asulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing-books toshow, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round text; andmere pen-strokes, however perverse, were less exasperating to Bartlethan false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on JacobStorey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with theirtops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right"somehow. " But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you neverwanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there "to finish off th'alphabet, like, though ampusand (&) would ha' done as well, for what hecould see. "

At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their"Good-nights, " and Adam, knowing his old master's habits, rose and said, "Shall I put the candles out, Mr. Massey?"

"Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house; andjust lock the outer door, now you're near it, " said Bartle, getting hisstick 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 stickwas necessary--the left leg was much shorter than the right. But theschool-master was so active with his lameness that it was hardly thoughtof as a misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along theschoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhapshave understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace mightbe indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake themeven in their swiftest run. 

The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in hishand, a faint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and abrown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legsand long body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, camecreeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and hesitating at everyother step, as if her affections were painfully divided between thehamper in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leavewithout a greeting. 

"Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?" said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner and holding the candle overthe low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their headstowards the light from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not evensee her master look at them without painful excitement: she got into thehamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true femininefolly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a largeold-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs. 

"Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?" said Adam, smiling, ashe came into the kitchen. "How's that? I thought it was against the lawhere. "

"Law? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let awoman into his house?" said Bartle, turning away from the hamper withsome bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lostall consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. "If I'd knownVixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys from drowning her; butwhen I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now yousee what she's brought me to--the sly, hypocritical wench"--Bartle spokethese last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, whopoked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keensense of opprobrium--"and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday atchurch-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. "Iwas afraid you must be ill for the first time i' your life. And I wasparticularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday. "

"Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why, " said Bartle kindly, going up toAdam and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a levelwith his own head. "You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since Isaw you--a rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better timescoming for you. I've got some news to tell you. But I must get my supperfirst, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down. "

Bartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellenthome-baked loaf; for it was his one extravagance in these dear timesto eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake; and he justified it byobserving, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-cake rantoo much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and aquart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on theround deal table which stood against his large arm-chair in thechimney-corner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a window-shelfwith a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean asif Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a checkered apron; so wasthe quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratichouses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartlehad got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could beat the end of a summer's day. 

"Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business tillwe've had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But, " saidBartle, rising from his chair again, "I must give Vixen her suppertoo, confound her! Though she'll do nothing with it but nourish thoseunnecessary babbies. That's the way with these women--they've got nohead-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or tobrats. "

He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixedher eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to lick up with the utmostdispatch. 

"I've had my supper, Mr. Massey, " said Adam, "so I'll look on while youeat yours. I've been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supperbetimes, you know: they don't keep your late hours. "

"I know little about their hours, " said Bartle dryly, cutting his breadand not shrinking from the crust. "It's a house I seldom go into, thoughI'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's toomany 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 ora-squeak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; andas for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water-grubs. I know whatthey'll turn to--stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, myboy: it's been drawn for you--it's been drawn for you. "

"Nay, Mr. Massey, " said Adam, who took his old friend's whim moreseriously than usual to-night, "don't be so hard on the creaturs God hasmade to be companions for us. A working-man 'ud be badly off withouta wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean andcomfortable. "

"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 becausethe women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tellyou there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, butwhat a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, andthey do that in a poor make-shift way; it had better ha' been left tothe 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 thatthe hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull makeyour porridge every day for twenty years and never think of measuringthe proportion between the meal and the milk--a little more or less, she'll think, doesn't signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now andthen: if it's wrong, it's summat in the meal, or it's summat in themilk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own bread, andthere's no difference between one batch and another from year's end toyear's end; but if I'd got any other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the breadturned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than anyother house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. WillBaker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaningdone in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three, and all the while be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and letthe fender and the fire-irons stand in the middle o' the floor half theday for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't tell me about Godhaving made such creatures to be companions for us! I don't say butHe might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise--there was nocooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and makemischief, though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd anopportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman'sa blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, andfoxes and wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils thatbelong to this state o' probation, which it's lawful for a man to keepas clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for everin another--hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another. "

Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invectivethat he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for thepurpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, theraps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, thatVixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and barkvaguely. 

"Quiet, Vixen!" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. "You're like therest o' the women--always putting in your word before you know why. "

Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her mastercontinued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose tointerrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he hadhad his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk inthis way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to knowwhether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On thatpoint Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had livedprevious to the twenty years in which happily for the peasants andartisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as theironly schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on thissubject, Bartle always replied, "Oh, I've seen many places--I've been adeal in the south, " and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought ofasking for a particular town or village in Africa as in "the south. "

"Now then, my boy, " said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out hissecond mug of ale and lighted his pipe, "now then, we'll have a littletalk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news to-day?"

"No, " said Adam, "not as I remember. "

"Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But Ifound it out by chance; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, elseI'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid. "

Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestlythe while at Adam. Your impatient loquacious man has never any notion ofkeeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always lettingit go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last hesaid, "Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the ladthey sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock thismorning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know; it's much if he getsover it. "

"Well, " said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrowin the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so muchharm to as to th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is toblame--making a stupid fellow like that a sort o' man-of-all-work, justto 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 hopedhe'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to makeany difference to me. "

"But I see it, but I see it, " said Bartle, "and others besides me. Thecaptain's coming of age now--you know that as well as I do--and it's tobe expected he'll have a little more voice in things. And I know, andyou know too, what 'ud be the captain's wish about the woods, if therewas a fair opportunity for making a change. He's said in plenty ofpeople's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods to-morrow, ifhe'd the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine's butler, heard him say so tothe parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smokingour pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; andwhenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to backit, that I'll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tellyou, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you; for ifdonkeys 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 hethere o' Saturday?"

"Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Casson--he's always forsetting other folks right, you know--would have it Burge was the man tohave the management of the woods. 'A substantial man, ' says he, 'withpretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud be all very wellfor Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed the squire'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders andbetters 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 hishands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave yourcustomers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that'sworth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who'sthe backbone of Jonathan Burge's business. '"

"I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey, " said Adam. "But, forall that, Casson was partly i' the right for once. There's not muchlikelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me. I offendedhim about two years ago, and he's never forgiven me. "

"Why, how was that? You never told me about it, " said Bartle. 

"Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen forMiss Lyddy--she's allays making something with her worsted-work, youknow--and she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and therewas 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 onlyworked at it in overhours--often late at night--and I had to go toTreddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass nails andsuch gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th'open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommonpleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss Lyddysent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give medirections about fastening on the work--very fine needlework, Jacob andRachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a picture--and th'old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she wasmighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay shewas to give me. I didn't speak at random--you know it's not my way; I'dcalculated 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, butnone too much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this, and peeredin his way at the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcracklike 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 forclumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more. ' Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believedwhat he told her, and she's not overfond o' parting with the moneyherself--she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought upunder his thumb; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned asred 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 chargedthe regular price for my work, and I know it's done well; and I know, begging His Honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen atRosseter under two guineas. I'm willing to give you my work--it's beendone in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do with it but me; butif 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'dtime to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, lookingalmost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as politeas I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out asI'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought methe one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen prettyclear as th' old squire can't abide me. "

"That's likely enough, that's likely enough, " said Bartle meditatively. "The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for hisown interest, and that the captain may do--that the captain may do. "

"Nay, I don't know, " said Adam; "the squire's 'cute enough but it takessomething else besides 'cuteness to make folks see what'll be theirinterest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in rightand 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 bytricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him:I don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an oldgentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If thecaptain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got aconscience and a will to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor forany man living. "

"Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you putyour 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 wellas in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when youpommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shillingbefore you knew whether he was in jest or earnest--you're overhasty andproud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to yournotions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff-backed--I'm anold schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. Butwhere's the use of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing andmapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world andshow 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 everyopportunity because it's got a bit of a smell about it that nobody findsout but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wifeis to make a working-man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff andnonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simpleaddition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and insix years' time six fools more--they're all of the same denomination, big and little's nothing to do with the sum!"

During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion thepipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by strikinga light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixinghis eye still on Adam, who was trying not to laugh. 

"There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr. Massey, " Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, "as there always is. But you'll givein that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that maynever happen. What I've got to do is to work as well as I can with thetools 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 nothingto do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm turningover a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bitby ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's gettinglate now--it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother mayhappen to lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid yougood-night. "

"Well, well, we'll go to the gate with you--it's a fine night, " saidBartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and withoutfurther words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side ofBartle's potato-beds, to the little gate. 

"Come to the music o' Friday night, if you can, my boy, " said the oldman, as he closed the gate after Adam and leaned against it. 

"Aye, aye, " said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestoneimages--as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a littlefarther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure till it passed intothe darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twicerun back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies. 

"Aye, aye, " muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, "there yougo, stalking along--stalking along; but you wouldn't have been what youare if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongestcalf 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 forBartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what isit? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my ownany more. And those pups--what do you think I'm to do with 'em, whenthey're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was thathulking 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 thehouse. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female willignore. )

"But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?" continuedBartle. "She's got no conscience--no conscience; it's all run to milk. "

Book Three

Chapter XXII

Going to the Birthday Feast

THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warmdays which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. Norain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather wasperfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual onthe dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred theroadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to rollon it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoorJuly 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 flowersare gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; andyet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble atthe possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the momentof its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; thewaggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering theirsweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures areoften a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendourof red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of theirinnocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm--that pause between hay-andcorn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxtonthought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they couldgive their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale whichhad been brewed the autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to betapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with theringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had madehaste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would betime to think of getting ready to go to the Chase. 

The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was noblind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked atherself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she hadin which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hangingglass she had fetched out of the next room--the room that had beenDinah's--would show her nothing below her little chin; and thatbeautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted intoanother roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day shethought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance thisevening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busyyesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make thesleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as shewas to be in the evening, with a tucker made of "real" lace, which heraunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornamentsbesides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she woreevery day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, beforeshe put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear inthe day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her privatetreasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawerbefore, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than theold ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care toput the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! shehas got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly ina pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of takingout that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason aboutit, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, musthave known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornamentsor not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could notpossibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, theessence of vanity being a reference to the impressions producedon others; you will never understand women's natures if you are soexcessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rationalprejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canarybird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as sheturns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-ringsnestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of theperson who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now tothe moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should shehave cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know thatshe had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she couldimagine. 

"Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them oneevening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. "I wish Ihad some pretty ear-rings!" she said in a moment, almost before she knewwhat she was saying--the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutterpast them at the slightest breath. And the next day--it was only lastweek--Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. Thatlittle wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit ofchildishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he hadwrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hettyunwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed backtheir new delight into his. 

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at theear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press themto her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one moment, tosee how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass againstthe wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like alistening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-ringsas one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals bemade for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with thetiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhapswater-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these littleround holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hettymust be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance alight web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her andpress upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at onceher fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep humananguish. 

But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncleand aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts themup. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at theChase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets onher arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. Butshe has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she hasbeen used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle atthe end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brownberries--her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty wasnot quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it wasa handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and abeautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brownslightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hettyhad another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden inher bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounterher aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slippedit on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain roundher neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hanga little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to dobut to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, andher straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, whichhad become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop ofbitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new--everybodywould see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon--and MaryBurge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked forconsolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were verynice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph inthe present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he wouldnever care about looking at other people, but then those other peopledidn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabbyand insignificant in their eyes even for a short space. 

The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing sothis morning in honour of the captain's twenty-first birthday, and thework had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quiteeasy in their minds until their mother had assured them that goingto church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had oncesuggested that the house should be shut up and left to take careof itself; "for, " said he, "there's no danger of anybody's breakingin--everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' houseup, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives. "But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left the house totake care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's beenill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry offevery ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs andmurdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night whenwe'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough thetramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harrywants 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 agun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if amouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alickcan stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come backtow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growlerloose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink. "

Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to barand 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 andthe dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for aburglarious attempt. 

The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the wholefamily except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather saton the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women andchildren; the fuller the cart the better, because then the joltingwould not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were anexcellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no morethan a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting aspossible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings andremarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, speckingthe paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bitsof movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies thatnodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchiefwith ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxtonand all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honourof "th' heir"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far downthis side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought fromBroxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine'ssuggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last tune, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in thefestival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heardapproaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawingMr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of theBenefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--that is to say, inbright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner withthe motto, "Let brotherly love continue, " encircling a picture of astone-pit. 

The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must getdown at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back. 

"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready, " said Mrs. Poyser, as she gotdown 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 polessurmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of thesuccessful climbers. "I should ha' thought there wasna so many peoplei' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Comehere, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! Theymight ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. Ishall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down. "

"Stop a bit, stop a bit, " said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin comingwi' 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 lodgeporch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I remember JacobTaft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned backfrom Stoniton. "

He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as hesaw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggonand walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his twosticks. 

"Well, Mester Taft, " shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of hisvoice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omitthe propriety of a greeting--"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursento-day, for-all you're ninety an' better. "

"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant, " said Feyther Taft in a trebletone, perceiving that he was in company. 

The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn andgrey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser partywisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn andflower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of theopen green space where the games were to be played. The house would havebeen nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but forthe remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in muchthe same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high andprim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnantstood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but thesun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were alldown, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quitesad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with thegrand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, andshe should not see him for a long, long while--not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a speech. 

But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company wascome except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with therector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the longtables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and abright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode--his arm no longer in a sling. So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces. 

"Upon my word, " he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I thinkthe cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightfuldining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners--to let them be as orderly and comfortable aspossible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limitedsum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, hecouldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point. "

"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way, " said Mr. Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are constantly confoundingliberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that somany sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who likedto come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had anenjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantityof ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the gamesas the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too muchtowards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together thandrunkenness and daylight. "

"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddlestonpeople away by having a feast for them in the town; and I've got Cassonand Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out ofale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, letus go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants. "

They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long galleryabove the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless oldpictures had been banished for the last three generations--mouldyportraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eyeknocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and JuliusCaesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding hisCommentaries in his hand. 

"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the oldabbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the galleryin first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a third as largeas this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and childrento be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make aregular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those littlelads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a muchfiner young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the womenand children below as well. But you will see them all--you will come upwith me after dinner, I hope?"

"Yes, to be sure, " said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden speechto the tenantry. "

"And there will be something else you'll like to hear, " said Arthur. "Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about it while mygrandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that willsurprise you, " he continued, as they sat down. "My grandfather has comeround after all. "

"What, about Adam?"

"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was sobusy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter withhim--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning he asked me tocome in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying thathe had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequenceof old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended toemploy Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week, and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had someparticular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that Ipropose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There'sthe most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means toleave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cutoff poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with onlyfive hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet Isometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believeif I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortunethat could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make mylife a series of petty annoyances. "

"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek wordsomitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving love' inthe world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he acceptedthe post? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than hispresent work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of timeon his own hands. 

"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed tohesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not beable to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favourto me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if hereally liked the employment and would not be giving up anything thatwas more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of allthings--it would be a great step forward for him in business, and itwould enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up workingfor Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a littlebusiness of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhapsbe able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I havearranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean toannounce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my friend Adam. He's a finefellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I thinkso. "

"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty partto play, " said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, hewent on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that of the old fogywho sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admitthat I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must playthe amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour ofAdam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed tohave a respectable man as steward?"

"Oh no, " said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatienceand walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. "He's gotsome project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining fora supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions aboutit--it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the businesshimself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing whatenergy he has, though. "

"Well, we'll go to the ladies now, " said Mr. Irwine, rising too. "I wantto tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her underthe marquee. "

"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too, " said Arthur. "It must betwo o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants'dinners. "

Chapter XXIII

Dinner-Time

WHEN Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, hefelt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way abovehis mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. ButMr. Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had givenparticular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was notthere. 

Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off. "Seth, lad, " he said, "the captain has sent to say I'm to dineupstairs--he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it 'udbe behaving ill for me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above theeand mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee't nottake it unkind, I hope?"

"Nay, nay, lad, " said Seth, "thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'strespect, thee'st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see theeabove 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 butwhat's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a common workmannow. "

"Aye, " said Adam, "but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't givennotice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybodyelse 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 beguessing the reason and asking questions, for there's been so much talkup and down about my having the place, this last three weeks. "

"Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told thereason. That's the truth. And mother 'ull be fine and joyful about it. Let's go and tell her. "

Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other groundsthan the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other peoplein the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather thanfrom their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk wasrather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind whenthe 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 publicoccasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turnup in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that forhe 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 dineupstairs with you to-day: the captain's sent me orders. "

"Ah!" said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. "Then there'ssomething in the wind--there's something in the wind. Have you heardanything about what the old squire means to do?"

"Why, yes, " said Adam; "I'll tell you what I know, because I believe youcan keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you'llnot let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasonsagainst its being known. "

"Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out ofme and then run out and cackle it in everybody's hearing. If you trust aman, let him be a bachelor--let him be a bachelor. "

"Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I'm to take themanagement o' the woods. The captain sent for me t' offer it me, whenI was seeing to the poles and things here and I've agreed to't. But ifanybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turnthe talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you. Now, let us goon, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think. "

"I know what to do, never fear, " said Bartle, moving on. "The news willbe good sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll backyou for an eye at measuring and a head-piece for figures, againstany man in this county and you've had good teaching--you've had goodteaching. "

When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, asto who was to be president, and who vice, was still under discussion, sothat Adam's entrance passed without remark. 

"It stands to sense, " Mr. Casson was saying, "as old Mr. Poyser, as isth' oldest man i' the room, should sit at top o' the table. I wasn'tbutler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs aboutdinner. "

"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 munmake way for the young uns. "

"I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more north' 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 landshall sit at top; then whoever gets th' honour, there'll be no envyingon him. "

"Eh, here's Mester Massey, " said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in thedispute, had no interest but in conciliation; "the schoolmaster ought tobe able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr. Massey?"

"Why, the broadest man, " said Bartle; "and then he won't take up otherfolks' room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom. "

This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter--asmaller joke would have sufficed for that Mr. Casson, however, did notfeel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to joinin the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the secondbroadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to bepresident, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice. 

Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of thetable, fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too muchoccupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed hisentrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam "rather lifted upand peppery-like": he thought the gentry made more fuss about thisyoung carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years. 

"Well, Mr. Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace, " he said, when Adam sat down. "You've niver dined here before, as I remember. "

"No, Mr. Casson, " said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heardalong the table; "I've never dined here before, but I come by CaptainDonnithorne's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here. "

"Nay, nay, " said several voices at once, "we're glad ye're come. Who'sgot anything to say again' it?"

"And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away, ' after dinner, wonnaye?" 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 Scotchtunes. I've never cared about singing myself; I've had something betterto do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isnalikely 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'dgot nothing else to think on. "

"The Scotch tunes!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; "I've heardenough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit fornothing but to frighten the birds with--that's to say, the Englishbirds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give thelads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the corn 'llbe safe. "

"Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they knowbut little about, " said Mr. Craig. 

"Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman, " Bartlewent on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig's remark. "They go on withthe same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody 'ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question ofsomebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer yet. "

Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this positionenabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she wasgiving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet onto the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dustymarks on Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fatlegs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busyin staring at the large dishes to see where the plum pudding was forher to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out ofpatience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, shesaid, "Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty; she keeps putting herlegs up so, and messing my frock. "

"What's the matter wi' the child? She can niver please you, " said themother. "Let her come by the side o' me, then. I can put up wi' her. "

Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the darkeyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet MaryBurge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that Adam'seyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must bereflecting 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 shesaid to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adamshould know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had been plain, shewould have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one'smoral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. Butreally there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it lookedso much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe Adamfelt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a little bird withits feathers ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but itwas impossible to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiestthing in the world, and that if he could have his way, nothing shouldever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caughthis eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as shenodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation--she knew Mary Burge waslooking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam. 

Chapter XXIV

The Health-Drinking

WHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask ofbirthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser atthe side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It hadbeen settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the youngsquire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in astate of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in hisbreeches pockets. 

When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every onestood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. Heliked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a greatdeal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinking thatthey had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was inhis face as he said, "My grandfather and I hope all our friends herehave enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwineand I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all likeanything the better that the rector shares with us. "

All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busyin his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock. "Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, forwhere folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score. And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a manythings--one man lays down his land one way an' another another--an' I'llnot take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own--this I'llsay, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nighall on us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver knownanything 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 ourlandlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ullmake no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what Imean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's said what he means, he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'. An'I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it tillwe'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there'sanybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' asfor the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all theparish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll liveto see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' YourHonour a family man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time, an' so we'll drink our young squire's health--three times three. "

Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and ashouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimestmusic in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthurhad felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it wastoo feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he notdeserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something inhis 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 notlikely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little toofar, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would haveacted much worse; and no harm would come--no harm should come, for thenext time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she mustnot think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessaryto Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortablethoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which canbe formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to becomeeasy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished, and when it wastime for him to speak he was quite light-hearted. 

"I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours, " Arthur said, "for thegood opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyserhas been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always bemy heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expectthat, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, itis on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished meto celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward tothis position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for myself, butas a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a manas I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so mucholder, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a gooddeal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunitieshave allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate inmy hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all theencouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land andtrying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wishto be looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, andnothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man onthe estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my placeat present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopesconcerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them--thatwhat you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr. Poyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had betterstop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you wouldnot be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who hasfilled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until youhave joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me toappear among you as the future representative of his name and family. "

Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughlyunderstood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing hisgrandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew wellenough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, "he'dbetter not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth. " The bucolic mind doesnot readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast couldnot 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 Iwish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hopeand believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not arespect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for myfriend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhoodthat there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his; thatwhatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for theinterests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say thatI was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lostmy old feeling for him--I think that shows that I know a good fellowwhen I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have themanagement of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable, not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he hasthe knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happyto tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settledthat Adam shall manage the woods--a change which I am sure will be verymuch for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by joinme in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in lifethat he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than AdamBede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sureyou will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health untilwe have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one ofhis parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, andlet us drink to our excellent rector--three times three!"

This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to thelast, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene whenMr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turnedtowards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more strikingthan that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people roundthem. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour ofhis new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's tastein costume than Mr. Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-wornblack, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for hehad the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat. 

"This is not the first time, by a great many, " he said, "that I havehad to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, butneighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more preciousthe older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof thatwhen what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reasonfor rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishionerscame of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since Ifirst came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here, as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking aspleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to see themlooking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say that among allthose young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is myfriend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed yourregard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, andhave naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannothave occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some pride aswell as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerninghim, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which willmake him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to takethat important position among you. We feel alike on most matters onwhich a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a youngman of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling whichI share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity ofsaying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. Peoplein a high station are of course more thought of and talked about andhave their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed inhumble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary thathumble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should bedone well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feelingthat when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a characterwhich would make him an example in any station, his merit should beacknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friendsshould delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well--I know what he isas a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother--and I am sayingthe simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respectany man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some ofyou are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here whodoes not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health. "

As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, "Abumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and cleveras himself!"

No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast asMr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first speech had been, he would havestarted up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularityof such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling indrinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swingof his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few othersfelt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to lookcontented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparentlyunanimous. 

Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. Hewas a good deal moved by this public tribute--very naturally, for he wasin the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do himhonour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubledwith small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward norembarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his headthrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that roughdignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen, who are never wondering what is their business in the world. 

"I'm quite taken by surprise, " he said. "I didn't expect anything o'this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the morereason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and toall my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'udbe nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion youhave of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known meall these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o'the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'lldo it well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamedto stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that'sa man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's prettyclear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what wewill, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the powers that ha' beengiven to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you oweme, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as tothis new employment I've taken in hand, I'll only say that I took itat Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil hisexpectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, andto know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of hisint'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do theright thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, whichit's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whetherhe sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he doesthe work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any moreabout what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' mylife in my actions. "

There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the womenwhispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed tospeak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion thatnobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine achap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for abailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemenhad risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives andchildren sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, butwine and dessert--sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some goodsherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, andTotty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into awine-glass in search of the nuts floating there. 

"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hearyour husband make such a good speech to-day?"

"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly toguess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs. "

"What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr. Irwine, laughing. 

"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to sayit in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he'sa man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to. "

"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this, " Arthur said, lookinground at the apple-cheeked children. "My aunt and the Miss Irwines willcome up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of thetoasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table. "

He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, whileMr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at adistance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the youngsquire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. Thefoolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what womanwas ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to bethe mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserableday she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and realitycame across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a fewhours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great processionis separated from a small outsider in the crowd. 

Chapter XXV

The Games

THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any ladsand lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there wasmusic always at hand--for was not the band of the Benefit Club capableof playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderfulwind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightfulshow to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann'sfiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had providedhimself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste toprefer dancing to a solo on that instrument. 

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front ofthe house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped polesto be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as thatof walking as many yards possible on one leg--feats in which it wasgenerally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellowi' the country, " was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was tobe a donkey-race--that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grandsocialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, andthe sorriest donkey winning. 

And soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damasksatin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by thewhole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, whereshe was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydiahad requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, andArthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother'staste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air ofpunctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, lookingneutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine camelast with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besidesMr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner forthe neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces wererequired for the entertainment of the tenants. 

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn fromthe park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of thevictors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and thereon benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the whitemarquees up to the sunk fence. 

"Upon my word it's a pretty sight, " said the old lady, in her deepvoice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene withits dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm likely tosee, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care youget a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her. "

"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother, " said Arthur, "I'm afraid Ishould never satisfy you with my choice. "

"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put offwith amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for theexistence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will neverdo, 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, standingwithout his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the sideof him--his mother, of course. I like to see that. "

"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is SethBede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Sethhas looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of hisfather's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted tomarry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a monthago, and I suppose she refused him. "

"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people herethat I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since I used togo about. "

"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who washolding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of thatyoung man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurredspot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to lookclose. I can read small print without spectacles. "

"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and thosenear-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles toread with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things ata distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should beblind to everything that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a manwho stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars. "

"See, " said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their racenow. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"

"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, andthen the little wiry one may win. "

"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand, " saidMiss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her. "

"To be sure I will, " said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not tobe neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on herknee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"

"That is Hetty Sorrel, " said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin Poyser'sniece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid hastaught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine veryrespectably indeed--very respectably. "

"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; youmust have seen her, " said Miss Irwine. 

"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now, " said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed! She's aperfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune!I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just aspretty if she had had round eyes and red hair. "

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine wasspeaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied withsomething on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough withoutlooking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beautypraised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climateto Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, andgrew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in hisplace would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always lookback upon with pride. 

"No, Mother, " and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can'tagree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as youimagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and acoarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man maybe no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refinedbeauty has on him, but he feels it. "

"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?"

"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser thanmarried men, because they have time for more general contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by callingone woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that prettyMethodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preachedto the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but theutmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is--though she doesn'tknow it--that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity abouther. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that thecoarsest fellow is not insensible to. "

"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive aprize, I suppose, " said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one of the racers inthe sacks, who had set off before we came. "

The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwiseChad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergonean exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenlybody, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had takento her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise deckedout in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could havelooked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblancebetween her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. Butthen, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have beeninclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty. 

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from merehedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said therewere to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approachedthe marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultationsparkling in her round eyes. 

"Here is the prize for the first sack-race, " said Miss Lydia, taking alarge parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it toMrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent grogram gown and a pieceof flannel. "

"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?" saidArthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save thatgrim-looking gown for one of the older women?"

"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial, " said MissLydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of encouraging a loveof finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but thatis for the old woman who wins. "

This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped aseries of curtsies. 

"This is Bessy Cranage, mother, " said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "ChadCranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"

"Yes, to be sure, " said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is yourprize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had hard workto win them this warm day. "

Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so hot anddisagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing tocarry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with agrowing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turnedaway. 

"Poor girl, " said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it hadbeen something more to her taste. "

"She's a bold-looking young person, " observed Miss Lydia. "Not at allone I should like to encourage. "

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of moneybefore 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 ofthe open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwingdown the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry--very much tittered atthe while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by herdiscreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having justgiven the baby into her husband's charge. 

"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundleand examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool'srace. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, asshould ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keepaway from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to makeclothes for the lad--ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said thaton ye. "

"Ye may take it all, for what I care, " said Bess the maiden, with apettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself. 

"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't, " said thedisinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad'sBess should change her mind. 

But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spiritsthat secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grandclimax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lostin the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkeyby hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But thestrength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as thearguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mentalforce as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved thefirst-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstilljust when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunaterider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in themidst of its triumph. 

Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was madehappy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimletsenough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returnedfrom the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to beunderstood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, beforethe gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitousperformance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtlessborrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar andcomplex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an accomplishment productive of greateffect at the yearly Wake--had needed only slightly elevating by anextra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would bevery much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had beendecidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that itwas nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, inreturn for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprisedat this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben hadrequested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quitesure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music wouldmake up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not make afool of himself--a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: hewas not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his noseat it. 

"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it somethingyou've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and asmart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole. "

"No, " said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going todance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this moment. "

"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him, " said Mr. Irwine; "rathera loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is toomuch for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you mayrest till dinner. "

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, whileJoshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White Cockade, " fromwhich he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series oftransitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with someskill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had knownit, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben'sdancing for any one to give much heed to the music. 

Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhapsyou have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman incrockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movementsof the head. That is as much like the real thing as the "Bird Waltz" islike the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as adancing monkey--as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopherascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varietiesof angularity that could be given to the human limbs. 

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthurclapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben had one admirerwhose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalledhis own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommybetween his legs. 

"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat to themusic as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un atdancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just toth' hair like that. "

"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking, " re-turnedMrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver comejigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentryto look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can see. "

"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em, " said Mr. Poyser, whodid not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're going awaynow, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking andthings: I doubt he hasna had much fun. "

Chapter XXVI

The Dance

ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely, forno other room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantageof the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entranceinto the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantestto dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it wasto enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of thoseentrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like closets--withstucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, andgreat medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating withstatues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well withgreen boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and hishothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircasewere covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who wereto stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there wasabundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed incoloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers'wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be moresplendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king andqueen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousinsand acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing howthings went on in the great world. The lamps were already lit, thoughthe sun had not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors inwhich 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 familieswere moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along thebroad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet ofmossy grass spread on each side, studded here and there with a darkflat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground withits branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups ofcottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones beingattracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from thewindows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filialattention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been moreconstantly present with him than in this scene, where everything wasso unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at thethoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young women--just asone feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured Madonna the morewhen it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in abonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bearthe better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and morequerulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strangeconflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to herdarling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with thejealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell herthat Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her reach; she wished all the oldtroubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mothersaid and did. 

"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin', " she said, "an' thy father not a fiveweek in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o' bein' left totake up merrier folks's room above ground. "

"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother, " said Adam, who wasdetermined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I shallonly look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud lookas if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day. "

"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right t'hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st slipped awayfrom her, like the ripe nut. "

"Well, Mother, " said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thyfeelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo' that account: hewon't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing. " He said this withsome effort, for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening. 

"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. Iknow it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked on--an' who's to beprouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an'doin' for thee all these 'ears?"

"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when you gethome, " said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been sooccupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak toHetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be theright one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and hehastened on to meet them. 

"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again, " said Mr. Poyser, who wascarrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o'partners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi'you, an' she says no. "

"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night, " said Adam, already temptedto change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. 

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night, all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us asMiss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young squire 'ull pickmy wife for his first partner, t' open the ball: so she'll be forced todance, though she's laid by ever sin' the Christmas afore the little unwas born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine youngfellow and can dance as well as anybody. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin'snonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, youwonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you munswallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone. "

"Then if Hetty 'ull dance with me, " said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever danceshe's free. "

"I've got no partner for the fourth dance, " said Hetty; "I'll dance thatwith you, if you like. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, elseit'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to pick an'choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don'task 'em. "

Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do forhim to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that JonathanBurge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Maryto dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner. 

"There's the big clock strikin' eight, " said Mr. Poyser; "we must makehaste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore us, an'that wouldna look well. "

When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly'scharge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of thedrawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-houseplants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kingsand queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please thetenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if ithad been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objectionto gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to hisfigure. 

The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet thetenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; butthe farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish wasone of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his mostelaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly abouther health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water ashe did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him withgreat self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to herhusband, "I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. OldHarry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'. " Mr. Poyser had no time toanswer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come torequest the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner. "

The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour asArthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extraglass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and gooddancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flatteringhimself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in HER life who couldlift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honoursgiven to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, thelargest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of thecottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished coupleshad taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the gloriouscountry-dance, best of all dances, began. 

Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thickshoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, thatgracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand--wherecan we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, layingaside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but notaffecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by theirside--that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying littlecompliments to their wives, as if their courting days were comeagain--those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with theirpartners, having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety tosee all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, andscanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered bootssmiling with double meaning. 

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance:it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, thatslovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness intohis eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was oppositeto 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 ather to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press it? Would he lookat her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was there--he had taken her hand--yes, he was pressing it. Hettyturned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur likethe beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must danceand smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told herwhat he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--heshould be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really meanso much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between thedesire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray thedesire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended herfeelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathosnot belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, butspeaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations--eyes that tell ofdeep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired withthese eyes--perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just asa national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips thatuse it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet hadsomething of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved himtoo well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felthe would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness ofabandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty. 

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judgenor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet restin the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come andtake it as they chose. 

"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir, "said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless, she'd be likeenough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not topromise too many. "

"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser, " said Arthur, not without a twinge. "Now, sitdown in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you whatyou would like best. "

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must bepaid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; andthe country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and thewaving of the hands, went on joyously. 

At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by thestrong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth ofeighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love;and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transientgreeting--had never danced with her but once before. His eyes hadfollowed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken indeeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly;she did not seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than usual; therewas almost a sweet sadness about her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly;"I'd make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and aheart to love her, could do it. "

And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home fromwork, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softlypressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and thetread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of thewind, for what he knew. 

But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her andclaim 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 herarms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to give themsome cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Mollywas to follow as fast as possible. 

"Let me hold her, " said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the childrenare 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 hadthe unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any childof her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty wasin the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn herown, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fistat Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beadsround Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the nextmoment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locketscattered wide on the floor. 

"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam;"never mind the beads. "

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted hisglance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised woodendais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked itup, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. Ithad fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned itover on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back. 

"It isn't hurt, " he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable totake it because both her hands were occupied with Totty. 

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it, " said Hetty, who had beenpale and was now red. 

"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it, " he added, quietly closinghis hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at itagain. 

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as shehad taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She took itwith an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexedand angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determined now that shewould show no more signs of agitation. 

"See, " she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us go. "

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. HadHetty 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 whomhe was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as thegiver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibilityof finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could only feelwith a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown tohim; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she wouldcome to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of thedance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had anuneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of nothing to sayto her; and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. Theywere both glad when the dance was ended. 

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no onewould notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of doors, hebegan to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowingwhy, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so fullof honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, whenhe was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash ofreviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery outof a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might have bought thething herself. It looked too expensive for that--it looked like thethings on white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adamhad very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thoughtit could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had asmuch as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she mighthave been childish enough to spend it in that way; she was such a youngthing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why had she beenso frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwardspretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of hisseeing that she had such a smart thing--she was conscious that itwas wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adamdisapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked anddisliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwardsthat he was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to beharsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he hadbehaved in a way which might chill Hetty's feeling towards him. For thislast view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty havean accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from heruncle's house for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances thatdid not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. Itwould be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could formno guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it verydistinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or mother's, who had diedwhen she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own alongwith it. 

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingeniousweb of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can place betweenhimself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream thathe was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her toforgive him for being so cold and silent. 

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the danceand saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the wood the dayafter to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can. " And Hetty's foolishjoys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by amere nothing, now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the realperil. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wishedthat dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was thelast weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies with moredelicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he haspersuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow. 

But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mindwas filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrowmorning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty haddone her duty and danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poysermust go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it washalf-past ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his partthat it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyserwas resolute on the point, "manners or no manners. "

"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as shecame to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part with any ofour guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, thinkof sitting out the dance till then. "

"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay upby candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds. We're late enoughas it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want tobe 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 soonerha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin'days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' notrightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i'smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna thinkyou civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if itisn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagree. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt thathe had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll back thee against allthe wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a greathonour for the young squire to ask thee first--I reckon it was becauseI sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty too--shenever 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 youdanced wi' th' young squire the day he come o' age. "

Book Four

Chapter XXVII

A crisis

IT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after thebirthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midlandcounty of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retardedby the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damagethroughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslopefarmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-wateredvalleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were suchexceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their own, you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapidrise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering intheir own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and dryingwinds flattered this hope. 

The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine lookedbrighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses ofcloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind theChase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for amoment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around thefarmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in theorchards; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and onthe common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the windseemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. Amerry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they couldtop the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were ingood spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind hadfallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of thehusk and scattered as untimely seed!

And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if itbe true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentimentof one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindfulunconscious of another? For there is no hour that has not its birthsof gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring newsickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. Thereare so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder thatNature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis ofour lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as suchchildren do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to becontent with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more. 

It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work, for he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until somesatisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan wasslow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, forhis hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen himsince the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all themore kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgivenhis silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned thelocket to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happierbecause he observed in her a more subdued air, something that heinterpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. "Ah!"he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll be thoughtfulenough after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at thework. 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 thebirthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to theHall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the Chaseand had gone home with them--almost as if she were inclined to encourageMr. Craig. "She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the housekeeper's room, " Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For my part, I was never overfondo' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies' fatdogs, 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 ata distance getting over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in againwhen he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little fartherinto the fields after coming from Treddleston because she didn't want togo in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt alwaysmade such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in withme!" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, andhe could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contentedwith 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 andtalked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude. 

That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure forgoing to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going tothe Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he would get as much work doneas possible this evening, that the next might be clear. 

One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairsat the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, asbailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going tolet to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over itone day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for thesquire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr. Casson's agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would takethe Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it. However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with alldispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the orderwith his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in theafternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he hadcalculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good tobe done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, andAdam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so asto make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel forimplements; and all without any great expense for materials. So, whenthe workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, andbusied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of theexpenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set himon persuading the squire to consent. To "make a good job" of anything, however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block, with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now andthen and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile ofgratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, heloved also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the only people who arefree from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own. Itwas nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; andon giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been workinghere to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. "Why, th' lad'sforgot his tools, " thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shopto-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd leavehis head behind him, if it was loose. However, it's lucky I've seen 'em;I'll carry 'em home. "

The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase, at about ten minutes' walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had comethither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nagon his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had cometo look at the captain's new horse, on which he was to ride away the dayafter to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servantswere to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squireluck as he rode out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, thesun was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson raysamong the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare patch ofground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt uponthe grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze tostir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in thehouse all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quiteenough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethoughthimself that he might do so by striking across the Chase and goingthrough the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried onacross the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, withGyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of thelight--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence in a certaincalm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and were moretimid. 

Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said aboutArthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changesthat might take place before he came back; then they travelled backaffectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelton Arthur's good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have inthe virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, witha great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of itshappiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had noideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men inthe past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with lovingadmiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasantthoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into hiskeen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened theold green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say akind word to him. 

After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding paththrough the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree ofall things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam'sperceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. Hekept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks andknots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and hadoften calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as hestood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to geton, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech whichhe had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convincehimself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For therest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examiningthe beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where hisyouth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. Thebeech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway ofboughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from thetree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twentyyards before him. 

He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. Thetwo figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped handsabout to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had beenrunning among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gavea sharp bark. They separated with a start--one hurried through the gateout of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, witha sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools overhis shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in whichamazement was fast turning to fierceness. 

Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to makeunpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine thanusual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flatteringinfluence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adamthan he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best personwho could have happened to see him and Hetty together--he was a sensiblefellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur feltconfident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And sohe sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, hisevening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust intohis waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light whichthe light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now sheddingdown between the topmost branches above him. 

Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understoodit all now--the locket and everything else that had been doubtful tohim: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters thatchanged the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he mustinevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflictingemotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that hewould 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 ownstrong will. 

"Well, Adam, " said Arthur, "you've been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? They're not to be come near by the hatchet, though; this is a sacredgrove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to myden--the Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late. So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly damp. Good-night, Adam. I shall see you to-morrow--to say good-bye, you know. "

Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself tobe thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face. He did not lookdirectly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and thenlifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say nomore--he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam's eyes--and as hespoke the last words, he walked on. 

"Stop a bit, sir, " said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, withoutturning round. "I've got a word to say to you. "

Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected bya change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had thesusceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was stillmore surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with hisback to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He wasgoing to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temperrising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in theconfusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the feeling that aman to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a positionto criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feelshimself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he caresfor. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation asanger in his voice when he said, "What do you mean, Adam?"

"I mean, sir"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still withoutturning round--"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by your lightwords. This is not the first time you've met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first time you've kissed her. "

Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking fromknowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty, which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened hisirritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, "Well, sir, what then?"

"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man we'veall believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a selfishlight-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it's to lead towhen a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman likeHetty, and gives her presents as she's frightened for other folksto see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfishlight-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'drather ha' lost my right hand. "

"Let me tell you, Adam, " said Arthur, bridling his growing anger andtrying to recur to his careless tone, "you're not only devilishlyimpertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not sucha fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty andpays her a little attention, he must mean something particular. Everyman likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to beflirted with. The wider the distance between them, the less harm thereis, for then she's not likely to deceive herself. "

"I don't know what you mean by flirting, " said Adam, "but if you meanbehaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her allthe while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man, and what isn'thonest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and you're not a fool, and youknow better than what you're saying. You know it couldn't be madepublic as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done without her losing hercharacter and bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. Whatif you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Other folkswon't believe as you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her notdeceiving herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with thethought of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never loveanother man as 'ud make her a good husband. "

Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceivedthat Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was noirrevocable damage done by this evening's unfortunate rencontre. Adamcould still be deceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into aposition in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope allayedhis anger a little. 

"Well, Adam, " he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're perhapsright. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking notice of the prettylittle thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You're such a grave, steady fellow, you don't understand the temptation to such trifling. I'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the goodPoysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a littletoo seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan'tmake any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night"--Arthurhere turned round to walk on--"and talk no more about the matter. Thewhole thing will soon be forgotten. "

"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled nolonger, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till hewas right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personalinjury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped upand mastered him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharpagony, could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium ofinflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebellionagainst pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreakour vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he hadbeen robbed of Hetty--robbed treacherously by the man in whom he hadtrusted--and he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaringat him, with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which hehad hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a justindignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to shake himas he spoke. 

"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me, when she might ha' loved me--it'll not soon be forgot as you've robbedme o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and anoble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've been kissingher, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i' mylife--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. Andyou make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage otherfolks, so as you get your bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throwback your favours, for you're not the man I took you for. I'll nevercount you my friend any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, andfight me where I stand--it's all th' amends you can make me. "

Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began tothrow off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice thechange that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur'slips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating violently. Thediscovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for themoment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam'ssuffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error. The words of hatred and contempt--the first he had ever heard in hislife--seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scarson him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away whileothers respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to facewith the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He wasonly twenty-one, and three months ago--nay, much later--he had thoughtproudly that no man should ever be able to reproach him justly. Hisfirst impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been toutter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off hiscoat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale andmotionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets. 

"What!" he said, "won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't strikeyou while you stand so. "

"Go away, Adam, " said Arthur, "I don't want to fight you. "

"No, " said Adam, bitterly; "you don't want to fight me--you think I'm acommon man, as you can injure without answering for it. "

"I never meant to injure you, " said Arthur, with returning anger. "Ididn't know you loved her. "

"But you've made her love you, " said Adam. "You're a double-facedman--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 awaywithout fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you'rea coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you. "

The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his righthand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adamstaggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam's now, andthe two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, foughtwith the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilightdarkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for theworkman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him toprotract the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men thebattle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthurmust sink under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is brokenby an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lyingconcealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darklyclad body. 

He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise. 

The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all theforce of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it? What had hedone by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his ownvengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past--there it was, just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage. 

But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the timeseemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adamshuddered at the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming ofthis dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted his head from amongthe fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. Thehorror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced uponhim its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur'sface, and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death. 

Chapter XXVIII

A Dilemma

IT was only a few minutes measured by the clock--though Adam alwaysthought it had been a long while--before he perceived a gleam ofconsciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver through his frame. The intense joy that flooded his soul brought back some of the oldaffection with it. 

"Do you feel any pain, sir?" he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur'scravat. 

Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way to aslightly startled motion as if from the shock of returning memory. Buthe only shivered again and said nothing. 

"Do you feel any hurt, sir?" Adam said again, with a trembling in hisvoice. 

Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam hadunbuttoned 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 toolsout of the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the edge of theGrove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below the bank. 

When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full, Arthurlooked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened consciousness. 

"Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?" said Adam, kneeling downagain to lift up Arthur's head. 

"No, " said Arthur, "dip my cravat in and souse it on my head. "

The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself alittle 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 medown. "

"Yes, sir, thank God, " said Adam. "I thought it was worse. "

"What! You thought you'd done for me, eh? Come help me on my legs. "

"I feel terribly shaky and dizzy, " Arthur said, as he stood leaningon Adam's arm; "that blow of yours must have come against me like abattering-ram. I don't believe I can walk alone. "

"Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along, " said Adam. "Or, will you sit downa bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll prop y' up. You'll perhaps bebetter in a minute or two. "

"No, " said Arthur. "I'll go to the Hermitage--I think I've got somebrandy there. There's a short road to it a little farther on, near thegate. If you'll just help me on. "

They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking again. In both of them, the concentration in the present which had attendedthe first moments of Arthur's revival had now given way to a vividrecollection of the previous scene. It was nearly dark in the narrowpath among the trees, but within the circle of fir-trees round theHermitage there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at thewindows. Their steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of fir-needles, and the outward stillness seemed to heighten their inward consciousness, as Arthur took the key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand, for him to open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur hadfurnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and itwas a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room withall the signs of frequent habitation. 

Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman. "You'll seemy hunting-bottle somewhere, " he said. "A leather case with a bottle andglass in. "

Adam was not long in finding the case. "There's very little brandy init, sir, " he said, turning it downwards over the glass, as he held itbefore the window; "hardly this little glassful. "

"Well, give me that, " said Arthur, with the peevishness of physicaldepression. When he had taken some sips, Adam said, "Hadn't I betterrun to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy? I can be there andback pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home for you, if you don't havesomething to revive you. "

"Yes--go. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to getit 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 tobe apart from each other for a short time. But Adam's swift pace couldnot still the eager pain of thinking--of living again with concentratedsuffering through the last wretched hour, and looking out from it overall the new sad future. 

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presentlyhe rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly in the brokenmoonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of wax candle thatstood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials. There wasmore searching for the means of lighting the candle, and when that wasdone, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himselfof the presence or absence of something. At last he had found a slightthing, which he put first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was awoman's little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table, and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the effort. 

When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur from adoze. 

"That's right, " Arthur said; "I'm tremendously in want of somebrandy-vigour. "

"I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir, " said Adam. "I've beenthinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn. "

"No, no; the candle will last long enough--I shall soon be up to walkinghome now. "

"I can't go before I've seen you safe home, sir, " said Adam, hesitatingly. 

"No: it will be better for you to stay--sit down. "

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasysilence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visiblyrenovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position, andlooked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations. Adam waskeenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety about Arthur'scondition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience whichevery one knows who has had his just indignation suspended by thephysical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his mind to bedone before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what hadbeen unjust in his own words. Perhaps he longed all the more to makethis confession, that his indignation might be free again; and as he sawthe signs of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came tohis lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be betterto leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they were silent they didnot look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam that if theybegan to speak as though they remembered the past--if they looked ateach other with full recognition--they must take fire again. So they satin silence till the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket, thesilence all the while becoming more irksome to Adam. Arthur had justpoured out some more brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind hishead and drew up one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was anirresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind. 

"You begin to feel more yourself again, sir, " he said, as the candlewent out and they were half-hidden from each other in the faintmoonlight. 

"Yes: I don't feel good for much--very lazy, and not inclined to move;but I'll go home when I've taken this dose. "

There was a slight pause before Adam said, "My temper got the better ofme, and I said things as wasn't true. I'd no right to speak as if you'dknown you was doing me an injury: you'd no grounds for knowing it; I'vealways 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 mayhave acted out o' thoughtlessness more than I should ha' believed waspossible for a man with a heart and a conscience. We're not all puttogether alike, and we may misjudge one another. God knows, it's all thejoy I could have now, to think the best of you. "

Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too painfullyembarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to wish for anyfurther explanation to-night. And yet it was a relief to him that Adamreopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the wretched position of an open, generous man who hascommitted an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The nativeimpulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frankconfession, must be suppressed, and duty was becoming a question oftactics. His deed was reacting upon him--was already governing himtyrannously and forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitualfeelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceiveAdam 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 thesad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice inthe remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answerimmediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful. 

"Say no more about our anger, Adam, " he said, at last, very languidly, for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; "I forgive your momentaryinjustice--it was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions you had inyour mind. We shall be none the worse friends in future, I hope, becausewe've fought. You had the best of it, and that was as it should be, forI believe I've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shakehands. "

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 shakehands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I spoke asif you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong in what I saidbefore, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't shake hands with youas if I held you my friend the same as ever till you've cleared that upbetter. "

Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, as indifferently as hecould, "I don't know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I've told youalready that you think too seriously of a little flirtation. But ifyou are right in supposing there is any danger in it--I'm going away onSaturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pain it has givenyou, I'm heartily sorry for it. I can say no more. "

Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his facetowards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of themoonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but theconflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not to speaktill to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it was several minutesbefore he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing andlooking down on him as he lay. 

"It'll be better for me to speak plain, " he said, with evident effort, "though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go making lovefirst to one woman and then t' another, and don't think it much oddswhich of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it and Godas has given it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to me, all butmy conscience and my good name. And if it's true what you've been sayingall 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, andhope her heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speakfalse to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look. "

"You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it, " saidArthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving away. But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly, "You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputationsupon her. "

"Nay, sir, " Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he werehalf-relieved--for he was too straightforward to make a distinctionbetween a direct falsehood and an indirect one--"Nay, sir, things don'tlie 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'sall but a child--as any man with a conscience in him ought to feel boundto take care on. And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbedher mind. I know she's been fixing her heart on you, for there's a manythings clear to me now as I didn't understand before. But you seem tomake light o' what she may feel--you don't think o' that. "

"Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I feel itenough 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 asyou may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her believe asyou loved her, when all the while you meant nothing, I've this demandto make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t'undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't going away for ever, and ifyou leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your feeling about herthe same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, and themischief may get worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save herpain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeingas she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself forbehaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't your equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody cantake care o' Hetty in this thing but me. "

"I can do what I think needful in the matter, " said Arthur, more andmore irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, "without givingpromises to you. I shall take what measures I think proper. "

"No, " said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I must knowwhat ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've put an end to whatought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget what's owing to you as agentleman, but in this thing we're man and man, and I can't give up. "

There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see youto-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill. " He rose as he spoke, andreached his cap, as if intending to go. 

"You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurringanger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing his backagainst it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife--tell me you'vebeen lying--or else promise me what I've said. "

Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate beforeArthur, 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--thatinward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, "I promise; let mego. "

Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached thestep, he stopped again and leaned against the door-post. 

"You're not well enough to walk alone, sir, " said Adam. "Take my armagain. "

Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, "I believe Imust trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may be an alarm setup about me at home. "

Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till theycame where the basket and the tools lay. 

"I must pick up the tools, sir, " Adam said. "They're my brother's. Idoubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a minute. "

Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed betweenthem till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped to get inwithout being seen by any one. He said then, "Thank you; I needn'ttrouble you any further. "

"What time will it be conven'ent for me to see you to-morrow, sir?" saidAdam. 

"You may send me word that you're here at five o'clock, " said Arthur;"not before. "

"Good-night, sir, " said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turnedinto the house. 

Chapter XXIX

The Next Morning

ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleepcomes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary enough. But atseven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going toget up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight. 

"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell mygrandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am gone fora ride. "

He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed ouryesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though itbe but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers someresistance to the past--sensations which assert themselves againsttyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averagesof feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shootingseasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter oncountry gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that heshould be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waitingon him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after thescenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion, the loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment whichsuffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes--asa sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous woman afraideven to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense ofdanger. 

Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were aseasy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknessesand good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn't like towitness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as thegiver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down anold 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 thatsad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knifeout of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the sameArthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itselfagainst the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps thetime was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at discovering thatAdam's happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there hadbeen a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends--if deeds of gift, orany other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment and regard forhim as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them withouthesitation, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam couldreceive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect andaffection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. Hestood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure couldavail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing in--theirrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusalto shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last conversationin the Hermitage--above all, the sense of having been knocked down, towhich a man does not very well reconcile himself, even under the mostheroic circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which wasstronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himselfthat he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, hecould have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge asword for herself out of our consciences--out of the suffering we feelin the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough thereto make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of goodsociety and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person givesrough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. Andso 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 andresolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He wasdistressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed for his own, that hemust leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breakingresolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedilyend in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him notto suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled withuneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living--that shewas to be a lady in silks and satins--and when he had first talked toher about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her gowith him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which hadgiven the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had said noword with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all spun by herown childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to himself that it wasspun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on thislast evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had beenobliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throwher into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt thesorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darkeranxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other hecould evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret;the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knewanything of what had passed--no one else was likely to know; for Arthurhad impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word orlook, that there had been the least intimacy between them; and Adam, whoknew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betrayit. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use inmaking it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodingsof evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty wasthe worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any badconsequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty mighthave had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhapshereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to herfor all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the advantageof his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had incurred now. So good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things!

Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, twomonths ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour whichshrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate anymore positive offence as possible for it?--who thought that his ownself-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The same, I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been orwill be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, whichconstitutes a man's critical actions, it will be better not to thinkourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion inour deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and thenreconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second wrongpresents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. Theaction which before commission has been seen with that blended commonsense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of thesoul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen tobe made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character--until the placidadjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution. 

No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his ownsentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because ofthat very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still atease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful tohim--he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not beenvery much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity hewas under of deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honestyof his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do. 

Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough inconsequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter thathe had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a grossbarbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across all this reflection would dart every now and then a suddenimpulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carryHetty away, and all other considerations might go to. . . . 

In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerableprison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all thecrowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of whichwould fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make uphis mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg's back, inthe fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of thesituation. 

The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed thegravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, andpatted 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. ButMeg was quite as well acquainted with her master's mental state as manyothers of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlementowards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectation. 

Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the footof a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Thenhe threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepared to make up his mind. 

Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthurwent away--there was no possibility of their contriving another withoutexciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened child, unable to thinkof anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then puther face up to have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing butcomfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be adreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adamsaid--that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might beworse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfyingAdam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could haveseen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a thorny hedgeof hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet, if he COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him tosuffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it. Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control. 

A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination--the dreadlest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon thatdread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them offwith the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting thefuture in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthurtold himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. Hehad never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved;he had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicitconfidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence would not treat him harshly. 

At all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could dowas to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And hepersuaded himself that that course was to make the way open betweenAdam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after awhile; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, sinceit was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adamwas deceived--deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as adeep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflectionthat marred the consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned inmingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do insuch a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injureHetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told oracted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he wasto have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man hadexcuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excusesbut by actions!)

Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promiseda solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur's eyes as hethought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for himto write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and thislast thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could neverdeliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and lefthimself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving upHetty 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 setoff home again in a canter. The letter should be written the firstthing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business:he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawainewere coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock the next day he shouldhave left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in thisconstant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him torush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that wouldundo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at everyslight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swiftgallop. 

"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night, " saidsour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants' hall. "He'sbeen 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 beenrelieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learningthat he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was punctually thereagain, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came downwith a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the captainwas 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 beforeopening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On theinside of the cover Adam read:

"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave itto you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hettyor to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not takinga measure which may pain her more than mere silence. 

"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meetwith better feelings some months hence. 

"A. D. "

"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me, " thought Adam. "It'sno use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use meeting to shakehands and say we're friends again. We're not friends, an' it's betternot to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man's duty, but, to mythinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all thoughts o' takingrevenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old feelings backagain, for that's not possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can'tfeel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel thesame towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from afalse line, and had got it all to measure over again. "

But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbedAdam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwingthe decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given tohesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way--to ascertainas well as he could what was Hetty's state of mind before he decided ondelivering the letter. 

Chapter XXX

The Delivery of the Letter

THE next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of church, hoping for an invitation to go home with them. He had the letter inhis pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hettyalone. He could not see her face at church, for she had changed herseat, and when he came up to her to shake hands, her manner was doubtfuland constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she hadmet him since she had been aware that he had seen her with Arthur in theGrove. 

"Come, you'll go on with us, Adam, " Mr. Poyser said when they reachedthe turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam ventured tooffer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity oflingering behind a little, and then Adam said:

"Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you thisevening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I've something partic'lar to talk toyou about. "

Hetty said, "Very well. " She was really as anxious as Adam was that sheshould have some private talk with him. She wondered what he thought ofher and Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she hadno conception of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam. Her first feeling had been that Adam would be very angry with her, andperhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never entered her mindthat he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It was arelief to her that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted tospeak to her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was goinghome with them lest he should mean "to tell. " But, now he wanted to talkto her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what he meant todo. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not todo anything she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make himbelieve that she didn't care for Arthur; and as long as Adam thoughtthere was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she liked, she knew. Besides, she MUST go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest heruncle and aunt should be angry and suspect her of having some secretlover. 

Hetty's little brain was busy with this combination as she hung onAdam's arm and said "yes" or "no" to some slight observations of hisabout the many hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds thisnext winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would hardly hold up tillmorning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle, she could pursue herthoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a youngman might like to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he wouldnevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about business thewhile; and, for his own part, he was curious to heal the most recentnews about the Chase Farm. So, through the rest of the walk, he claimedAdam's conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots andimagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked alongby the hedgerows on honest Adam's arm, quite as well as if she had beenan elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country beautyin clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is astonishing howclosely her mental processes may resemble those of a lady in societyand crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the problem ofcommitting indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps theresemblance was not much the less because Hetty felt very unhappy allthe while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to her--minglingwith the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fearthat the future might shape itself in some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in theirlast meeting--"I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will seewhat can be done. " She clung to the belief that he was so fond ofher, he would never be happy without her; and she still hugged hersecret--that a great gentleman loved her--with gratified pride, as asuperiority over all the girls she knew. But the uncertainty of thefuture, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began topress upon her like the invisible weight of air; she was alone on herlittle island of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown waterwhere Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now bylooking forward, but only by looking backward to build confidence onpast words and caresses. But occasionally, since Thursday evening, herdim anxieties had been almost lost behind the more definite fear thatAdam might betray what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his suddenproposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in anew way. She was eager not to lose this evening's opportunity; and aftertea, when the boys were going into the garden and Totty begged to gowith 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 thefilbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the largeunripe nuts to play at "cob-nut" with, and Totty was watching them witha puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a short time--hardly twomonths--since Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as hestood by Hetty's side un this garden. The remembrance of that scene hadoften been with him since Thursday evening: the sunlight throughthe apple-tree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It cameimportunately now, on this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, buthe tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say morethan was needful for Hetty's sake. 

"After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty, " he began, "you won't thinkme making too free in what I'm going to say. If you was being courted byany man as 'ud make you his wife, and I'd known you was fond of him andmeant to have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you aboutit; but when I see you're being made love to by a gentleman as can nevermarry you, and doesna think o' marrying you, I feel bound t' interferefor you. I can't speak about it to them as are i' the place o' yourparents, for that might bring worse trouble than's needful. "

Adam's words relieved one of Hetty's fears, but they also carried ameaning which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding. She was paleand trembling, and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if shehad dared to betray her feelings. But she was silent. 

"You're so young, you know, Hetty, " he went on, almost tenderly, "and y'haven't seen much o' what goes on in the world. It's right for me todo what I can to save you from getting into trouble for want o' yourknowing where you're being led to. If anybody besides me knew what Iknow about your meeting a gentleman and having fine presents from him, they'd speak light on you, and you'd lose your character. And besidesthat, you'll have to suffer in your feelings, wi' giving your love toa man as can never marry you, so as he might take care of you all yourlife. "

Adam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from thefilbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand. Her little plans andpreconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill-learnt lesson, under the terrible agitation produced by Adam's words. There was a cruelforce in their calm certainty which threatened to grapple and crush herflimsy hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist them--she wanted to throwthem off with angry contradiction--but the determination to conceal whatshe felt still governed her. It was nothing more than a blind promptingnow, for she was unable to calculate the effect of her words. 

"You've no right to say as I love him, " she said, faintly, butimpetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. She was verybeautiful in her paleness and agitation, with her dark childish eyesdilated and her breath shorter than usual. Adam's heart yearned over heras 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 thatwould enable him to rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would haverescued her body in the face of all danger!

"I doubt it must be so, Hetty, " he said, tenderly; "for I canna believeyou'd let any man kiss you by yourselves, and give you a gold box withhis hair, and go a-walking i' the Grove to meet him, if you didna lovehim. 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 forstealing your love i' that way, when he knew he could never make youthe right amends. He's been trifling with you, and making a plaything ofyou, and caring nothing about you as a man ought to care. "

"Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you, " Hetty burst out. Everything was forgotten but the pain and anger she felt at Adam'swords. 

"Nay, Hetty, " said Adam, "if he'd cared for you rightly, he'd neverha' behaved so. He told me himself he meant nothing by his kissing andpresents, and he wanted to make me believe as you thought light of 'emtoo. But I know better nor that. I can't help thinking as you've beentrusting to his loving you well enough to marry you, for all he's agentleman. And that's why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, forfear you should be deceiving yourself. It's never entered his head thethought o' marrying you. "

"How do you know? How durst you say so?" said Hetty, pausing in her walkand trembling. The terrible decision of Adam's tone shook her with fear. She had no presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur wouldhave his reasons for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and lookwere enough to determine Adam: he must give her the letter. 

"Perhaps you can't believe me, Hetty, because you think too well ofhim--because you think he loves you better than he does. But I've gota letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give you. I've notread the letter, but he says he's told you the truth in it. But beforeI give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don't let it take too muchhold on you. It wouldna ha' been good for you if he'd wanted to do sucha mad thing as marry you: it 'ud ha' led to no happiness i' th' end. "

Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of aletter which Adam had not read. There would be something quite differentin it from what he thought. 

Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while hesaid, in a tone of tender entreaty, "Don't you bear me ill will, Hetty, because I'm the means o' bringing you this pain. God knows I'd ha' bornea good deal worse for the sake o' sparing it you. And think--there'snobody but me knows about this, and I'll take care of you as if I wasyour brother. You're the same as ever to me, for I don't believe you'vedone any wrong knowingly. "

Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it tillhe had done speaking. She took no notice of what he said--she had notlistened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket, without opening it, and then began to walk more quickly, as if shewanted to go in. 

"You're in the right not to read it just yet, " said Adam. "Read it whenyou're by yourself. But stay out a little bit longer, and let us callthe children: you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice ofit. "

Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of rallyingher native powers of concealment, which had half given way under theshock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in her pocket: she wassure there was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to findTotty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who wasmaking a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripeapple that she had set her small teeth in. 

"Hegh, Totty, " said Adam, "come and ride on my shoulder--ever sohigh--you'll touch the tops o' the trees. "

What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense ofbeing seized strongly and swung upward? I don't believe Ganymede criedwhen the eagle carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove'sshoulder at the end. Totty smiled down complacently from her secureheight, and pleasant was the sight to the mother's eyes, as she stood atthe house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden. 

"Bless your sweet face, my pet, " she said, the mother's strong lovefilling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty leaned forward and putout 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 areboth at the cheese. "

After the ale had been drawn and her uncle's pipe lighted, there wasTotty to be taken to bed, and brought down again in her night-gownbecause she would cry instead of going to sleep. Then there was supperto 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 herand her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake ofleaving Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he wanted to see hersafely through that evening, and he was delighted to find how muchself-command she showed. He knew she had not had time to read theletter, but he did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that theletter would contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for himto leave her--hard to think that he should not know for days how she wasbearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and all he could do wasto press her hand gently as he said "Good-bye, " and hope she would takethat as a sign that if his love could ever be a refuge for her, it wasthere the same as ever. How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home, in devising pitying excuses for her folly, in referring all her weaknessto the sweet lovingness of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less andless inclination to admit that his conduct might be extenuated too! Hisexasperation at Hetty's suffering--and also at the sense that she waspossibly thrust for ever out of his own reach--deafened him to anyplea for the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery. Adam was aclear-sighted, fair-minded man--a fine fellow, indeed, morally as wellas physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever in love and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly magnanimous. And I cannot pretendthat Adam, in these painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignationand loving pity. He was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his lovemade him indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a ventin his feeling towards Arthur. 

"Her head was allays likely to be turned, " he thought, "when agentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, and his white hands, and that way o' talking gentlefolks have, came about her, making up toher in a bold way, as a man couldn't do that was only her equal; andit's much if she'll ever like a common man now. " He could not helpdrawing his own hands out of his pocket and looking at them--at the hardpalms and the broken finger-nails. "I'm a roughish fellow, altogether; Idon't know, now I come to think on't, what there is much for a woman tolike about me; and yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, ifI hadn't set my heart on her. But it's little matter what other womenthink about me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me, perhaps, as likely as any other man--there's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid of, if he hadn't come between us; but now I shall belike be hateful to herbecause I'm so different to him. And yet there's no telling--she mayturn round the other way, when she finds he's made light of her all thewhile. She may come to feel the vally of a man as 'ud be thankful to bebound to her all his life. But I must put up with it whichever way itis--I've only to be thankful it's been no worse. I am not th' only manthat's got to do without much happiness i' this life. There's many agood bit o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that'senough for us: we shouldn't know better how things ought to be than Hedoes, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling. But it 'ud ha'gone near to spoil my work for me, if I'd seen her brought to sorrow andshame, and through the man as I've always been proud to think on. SinceI've been spared that, I've no right to grumble. When a man's got hislimbs whole, he can bear a smart cut or two. "

As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections, heperceived a man walking along the field before him. He knew it was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, and made haste to overtake him. 

"I thought thee'dst be at home before me, " he said, as Seth turned roundto wait for him, "for I'm later than usual to-night. "

"Well, I'm later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with JohnBarnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of perfection, and I'd a question to ask him about his experience. It's one o' themsubjects that lead you further than y' expect--they don't lie along thestraight road. "

They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam was notinclined to enter into the subtleties of religious experience, but hewas inclined to interchange a word or two of brotherly affection andconfidence with Seth. That was a rare impulse in him, much as thebrothers loved each other. They hardly ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam wasby nature reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certaintimidity towards his more practical brother. 

"Seth, lad, " Adam said, putting his arm on his brother's shoulder, "hastheard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?"

"Yes, " said Seth. "She told me I might write her word after a while, howwe went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble. So I wrote to hera fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment, andhow Mother was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at thepost at Treddles'on, I found a letter from her. I think thee'dst perhapslike to read it, but I didna say anything about it because thee'stseemed so full of other things. It's quite easy t' read--she writeswonderful for a woman. "

Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, whosaid, as he took it, "Aye, lad, I've got a tough load to carry justnow--thee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit silenter and crustier norusual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we shallstick together to the last. "

"I take nought ill o' thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means ifthee't a bit short wi' me now and then. "

"There's Mother opening the door to look out for us, " said Adam, as theymounted the slope. "She's been sitting i' the dark as usual. Well, Gyp, well, art glad to see me?"

Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heardthe welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp's joyfulbark. 

"Eh, my lads! Th' hours war ne'er so long sin' I war born as they'n beenthis blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha' been doin' till thistime?"

"Thee shouldstna sit i' the dark, Mother, " said Adam; "that makes thetime seem longer. "

"Eh, what am I to do wi' burnin' candle of a Sunday, when there's on'yme an' it's sin to do a bit o' knittin'? The daylight's long enoughfor 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 onyou's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or full, I shouldthink, 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 coldpotato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head that looked uptowards him. 

"Thee needstna be gi'in' th' dog, " said Lisbeth; "I'n fed him wella'ready. I'm not like to forget him, I reckon, when he's all o' thee Ican get sight on. "

"Come, then, Gyp, " said Adam, "we'll go to bed. Good-night, Mother; I'mvery tired. "

"What ails him, dost know?" Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was goneupstairs. "He's like as if he was struck for death this day or two--he'sso cast down. I found him i' the shop this forenoon, arter thee wastgone, 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 thinkhe's a bit troubled in his mind. Don't you take notice of it, because ithurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don'tsay anything to vex him. "

"Eh, what dost talk o' my vexin' him? An' what am I like to be but kind?I'll ma' him a kettle-cake for breakfast i' the mornin'. "

Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah's letter by the light of his dipcandle. 

DEAR BROTHER SETH--Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of itat the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the carriage, thisbeing a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that havefallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to layby money, from day to day, in such a time, when there are so many inpresent need of all things, would be a want of trust like the layingup of the manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think meslow to answer, or that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldlygood that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bearhim is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he usesthem as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to a place ofpower and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his parent and hisyounger brother. 

"My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be nearher in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell her I often bearher in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim lightas I did with her, and we held one another's hands, and I spoke thewords of comfort that were given to me. Ah, that is a blessed time, isn't it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is alittle wearied with its work and its labour. Then the inward lightshines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divinestrength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and itis as if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. Forthen, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sinI have beheld and been ready to weep over--yea, all the anguish of thechildren of men, which sometimes wraps me round like sudden darkness--Ican 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 thefulness of knowledge it suffers, it yearns, it mourns; and that is ablind self-seeking which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewiththe whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not trueblessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin in theworld: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw itoff. It is not the spirit only that tells me this--I see it in the wholework and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in heaven? Is not theMan of Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? Andis He not one with the Infinite Love itself--as our love is one with oursorrow?

"These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seenwith new clearness the meaning of those words, 'If any man love me, lethim take up my cross. ' I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant thetroubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. Butsurely that is a narrow thought. The true cross of the Redeemer was thesin and sorrow of this world--that was what lay heavy on his heart--andthat is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we must drinkof with him, if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is onewith his sorrow. 

"In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. Ihave had constant work in the mill, though some of the other hands havebeen turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so thatI feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What you sayabout staying in your own country with your mother and brother shows methat you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clearshowing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying afalse offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindleit. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes thinkI cling too much to my life among the people here, and should berebellious if I was called away. 

"I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the HallFarm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt's desire, after I cameback from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. Myaunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house issufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My heart cleaves to herand her children as the nearest of all to me in the flesh--yea, and toall 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 themis borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is darkto me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be taught. You saythey are all well. 

"We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be, not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at Leeds are desirousto have me for a short space among them, when I have a door opened meagain to leave Snowfield. 

"Farewell, dear brother--and yet not farewell. For those children ofGod whom it has been granted to see each other face to face, and tohold communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both cannever more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their soulsare enlarged for evermore by that union, and they bear one another aboutin their thoughts continually as it were a new strength. --Your faithfulSister and fellow-worker in Christ, "DINAH MORRIS. "

"I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen movesslow. 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 twicewhen we parted. "

Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his headresting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came upstairs. 

"Hast read the letter?" said Seth. 

"Yes, " said Adam. "I don't know what I should ha' thought of her and herletter if I'd never seen her: I daresay I should ha' thought a preachingwoman hateful. But she's one as makes everything seem right she saysand does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read theletter. It's wonderful how I remember her looks and her voice. She'dmake thee rare and happy, Seth; she's just the woman for thee. "

"It's no use thinking o' that, " said Seth, despondingly. "She spoke sofirm, and she's not the woman to say one thing and mean another. "

"Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love bydegrees--the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I'd have thee go andsee her by and by: I'd make it convenient for thee to be away threeor four days, and it 'ud be no walk for thee--only between twenty andthirty mile. "

"I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna bedispleased with me for going, " said Seth. 

"She'll be none displeased, " said Adam emphatically, getting up andthrowing off his coat. "It might be a great happiness to us all if she'dhave thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so contentedto be with her. "

"Aye, " said Seth, rather timidly, "and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too; shethinks a deal about her. "

Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but "good-night" passedbetween them. 

Chapter XXXI

In Hetty's Bed-Chamber

IT was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even inMrs. Poyser's early household, and Hetty carried one with her as shewent up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted thedoor behind her. 

Now she would read her letter. It must--it must have comfort in it. Howwas Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he should say what hedid say. 

She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent ofroses, which made her feel as if Arthur were close to her. She put it toher lips, and a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two sweptaway all fear. But her heart began to flutter strangely, and her handsto tremble as she broke the seal. She read slowly; it was not easy forher to read a gentleman's handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains towrite plainly. 

"DEAREST HETTY--I have spoken truly when I have said that I loved you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true friend as longas life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If I sayanything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want oflove and tenderness towards you, for there is nothing I would not dofor you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear tothink of my little Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss themaway; and if I followed only my own inclinations, I should be with herat this moment instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part fromher--harder still for me to write words which may seem unkind, thoughthey spring from the truest kindness. 

"Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it wouldbe to me for you to love me always, I feel that it would have beenbetter for us both if we had never had that happiness, and that it ismy duty to ask you to love me and care for me as little as you can. Thefault has all been mine, for though I have been unable to resist thelonging to be near you, I have felt all the while that your affectionfor me might cause you grief. I ought to have resisted my feelings. Ishould 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 evilthat I have power to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil foryou if your affections continued so fixed on me that you could think ofno other man who might be able to make you happier by his love than Iever can, and if you continued to look towards something in the futurewhich cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what youone day spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do what you yourselfwould come to feel was for your misery instead of your welfare. I knowyou can never be happy except by marrying a man in your own station; andif I were to marry you now, I should only be adding to any wrong I havedone, besides offending against my duty in the other relations of life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live, and you would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so littlein which we should be alike. 

"And since I cannot marry you, we must part--we must try not to feellike lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but nothing elsecan be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believethat I shall not always care for you--always be grateful to you--alwaysremember my Hetty; and if any trouble should come that we do not nowforesee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power. 

"I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want towrite, but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten. Do notwrite unless there is something I can really do for you; for, dearHetty, we must try to think of each other as little as we can. Forgiveme, and try to forget everything about me, except that I shall be, aslong as I live, your affectionate friend, "ARTHUR DONNITHORNE. "

Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it therewas the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass--a whitemarble face with rounded childish forms, but with something sadder thana child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the face--she saw nothing--sheonly felt that she was cold and sick and trembling. The letter shook andrustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible sensation--thiscold and trembling. It swept away the very ideas that produced it, andHetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her clothes-press, wrapped itround 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 readit through again. The tears came this time--great rushing tears thatblinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur wascruel--cruel to write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he couldnot marry her had no existence for her mind; how could she believe inany misery that could come to her from the fulfilment of all she hadbeen longing for and dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could makeup the notion of that misery. 

As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face in theglass; it was reddened now, and wet with tears; it was almost like acompanion that she might complain to--that would pity her. She leanedforward on her elbows, and looked into those dark overflooding eyes andat 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 onher new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving nature with anoverpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to resistance, andsuspended her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw herself on the bed withoutundressing and went to sleep. 

There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little afterfour o'clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause of which broke uponher gradually as she began to discern the objects round her in the dimlight. And then came the frightening thought that she had to conceal hermisery as well as to bear it, in this dreary daylight that was coming. She could lie no longer. She got up and went towards the table: therelay the letter. She opened her treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-ringsand the locket--the signs of all her short happiness--the signs ofthe lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the littletrinkets which she had once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnestof her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the moments whenthey had been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangelypretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her with a bewilderingdelicious surprise--they were so much sweeter than she had thoughtanything could be. And the Arthur who had spoken to her and looked ather in this way, who was present with her now--whose arm she felt roundher, his cheek against hers, his very breath upon her--was the cruel, cruel Arthur who had written that letter, that letter which she snatchedand crushed and then opened again, that she might read it once more. Thehalf-benumbed mental condition which was the effect of the last night'sviolent crying made it necessary to her to look again and see if herwretched thoughts were actually true--if the letter was really so cruel. She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not have read itby the faint light. Yes! It was worse--it was more cruel. She crushedit up again in anger. She hated the writer of that letter--hated himfor the very reason that she hung upon him with all her love--all thegirlish passion and vanity that made up her love. 

She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, which is worse than thefirst shock because it has the future in it as well as the present. Every morning to come, as far as her imagination could stretch, shewould have to get up and feel that the day would have no joy for her. For there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the firstmoments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it isto have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recoveredhope. As Hetty began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn allthe night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had asickening sense that her life would go on in this way. She should alwaysbe doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks ofwork, seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, and toTreddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and carrying no happy thoughtwith her. For her short poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all thelittle joys that had once made the sweetness of her life--the new frockready 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 prospectof the wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gownand a great many clothes all at once. These things were all flat anddreary to her now; everything would be a weariness, and she would carryabout for ever a hopeless thirst and longing. 

She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned against thedark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms were bare, her hair hung downin delicate rings--and they were just as beautiful as they were thatnight two months ago, when she walked up and down this bed-chamberglowing with vanity and hope. She was not thinking of her neck and armsnow; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered sadlyover the dull old chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards thegrowing dawn. Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her mind? Of herforeboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's affectionateentreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the impressionhad been too slight to recur. Any affection or comfort Dinah couldhave given her would have been as indifferent to Hetty this morning aseverything else was except her bruised passion. She was only thinkingshe could never stay here and go on with the old life--she could betterbear 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 theold faces again. But Hetty's was not a nature to face difficulties--todare to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknowncondition. Hers was a luxurious and vain nature--not a passionateone--and if she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be urgedto it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room for herthoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and she soonfixed on the one thing she would do to get away from her old life: shewould ask her uncle to let her go to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maidwould help her to get a situation, if she krew Hetty had her uncle'sleave. 

When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began towash: it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try to behaveas usual. She would ask her uncle this very day. On Hetty's bloominghealth it would take a great deal of such mental suffering as hers toleave any deep impress; and when she was dressed as neatly as usualin her working-dress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, an indifferent observer would have been more struck with the youngroundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of her eyes andeyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her. But when she took upthe crushed letter and put it in her drawer, that she might lock it outof sight, hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the greatdrops had that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes. Shewiped them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-time. Nobody shouldfind out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was disappointedabout anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and unclewould be upon her gave her the self-command which often accompanies agreat dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret misery towards thepossibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick andweary prisoner might think of the possible pillory. They would think herconduct shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty'sconscience. 

So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work. 

In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and hisgood-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized theopportunity of her aunt's absence to say, "Uncle, I wish you'd let me gofor a lady's maid. "

Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mildsurprise for some moments. She was sewing, and went on with her workindustriously. 

"Why, what's put that into your head, my wench?" he said at last, afterhe had given one conservative puff. 

"I should like it--I should like it better than farm-work. "

"Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn'tbe half so good for your health, nor for your luck i' life. I'd like youto stay wi' us till you've got a good husband: you're my own niece, andI wouldn't have you go to service, though it was a gentleman's house, aslong as I've got a home for you. "

Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe. 

"I like the needlework, " said Hetty, "and I should get good wages. "

"Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi' you?" said Mr. Poyser, not noticingHetty's further argument. "You mustna mind that, my wench--she does itfor your good. She wishes you well; an' there isn't many aunts as are nokin to you 'ud ha' done by you as she has. "

"No, it isn't my aunt, " said Hetty, "but I should like the work better. "

"It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit--an' I gev myconsent 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 handto different sorts o' things. But I niver meant you to go to service, mywench; my family's ate their own bread and cheese as fur back as anybodyknows, hanna they, Father? You wouldna like your grand-child to takewage?"

"Na-a-y, " said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant to makeit bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and looked downon the floor. "But the wench takes arter her mother. I'd hard work t'hould HER in, an' she married i' spite o' me--a feller wi' on'y two heado' stock when there should ha' been ten on's farm--she might well die o'th' inflammation afore she war thirty. "

It was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son's questionhad fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long unextinguishedresentment, which had always made the grandfather more indifferent toHetty than to his son's children. Her mother's fortune had been spent bythat good-for-nought Sorrel, and Hetty had Sorrel's blood in her veins. 

"Poor thing, poor thing!" said Martin the younger, who was sorry to haveprovoked this retrospective harshness. "She'd but bad luck. But Hetty'sgot as good a chance o' getting a solid, sober husband as any gell i'this country. "

After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his pipeand his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did not give some signof having renounced her ill-advised wish. But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at the denial, half out of the day's repressed sadness. 

"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, "don'tlet's have any crying. Crying's for them as ha' got no home, not forthem as want to get rid o' one. What dost think?" he continued to hiswife, who now came back into the house-place, knitting with fiercerapidity, as if that movement were a necessary function, like thetwittering of a crab's antennae. 

"Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are mucholder, wi' that gell forgetting to lock the pens up o' nights. What'sthe matter now, Hetty? What are you crying at?"

"Why, she's been wanting to go for a lady's maid, " said Mr. Poyser. "Itell her we can do better for her nor that. "

"I thought she'd got some maggot in her head, she's gone about wi' hermouth buttoned up so all day. It's all wi' going so among them servantsat the Chase, as we war fools for letting her. She thinks it 'ud be afiner life than being wi' them as are akin to her and ha' brought her upsin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks there's nothing belongs tobeing a lady's maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born to, I'llbe bound. It's what rag she can get to stick on her as she's thinking onfrom morning till night, as I often ask her if she wouldn't like to bethe mawkin i' the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out. I'll never gi' my consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she'sgot good friends to take care on her till she's married to somebodybetter nor one o' them valets, as is neither a common man nor agentleman, an' must live on the fat o' the land, an's like enough tostick his hands under his coat-tails and expect his wife to work forhim. "

"Aye, aye, " said Mr. Poyser, "we must have a better husband for her northat, and there's better at hand. Come, my wench, give over crying andget to bed. I'll do better for you nor letting you go for a lady's maid. Let's hear no more on't. "

When Hetty was gone upstairs he said, "I canna make it out as she shouldwant to go away, for I thought she'd got a mind t' Adam Bede. She'slooked like it o' late. "

"Eh, there's no knowing what she's got a liking to, for things takeno 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 believeshe'd care more about leaving us and the children, for all she's beenhere but a year come Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But she's got thisnotion o' being a lady's maid wi' going among them servants--we mightha' known what it 'ud lead to when we let her go to learn the fine work. But I'll put a stop to it pretty quick. "

"Thee'dst be sorry to part wi' her, if it wasn't for her good, " said Mr. Poyser. "She's useful to thee i' the work. "

"Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on her nor she deserves--a little hard-heartedhussy, wanting to leave us i' that way. I can't ha' had her about methese seven year, I reckon, and done for her, and taught her everythingwi'out caring about her. An' here I'm having linen spun, an' thinkingall the while it'll make sheeting and table-clothing for her when she'smarried, an' she'll live i' the parish wi' us, and never go out ofour sights--like a fool as I am for thinking aught about her, as is nobetter 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' getsthings in her head as she can't rightly give account on. Them youngfillies 'ull run away often wi'-ou; knowing why. "

Her uncle's answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty besidesthat of disappointing her and making her cry. She knew quite well whomhe had in his mind in his allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solidhusband; and when she was in her bedroom again, the possibility of hermarrying Adam presented itself to her in a new light. In a mind where nostrong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme sense ofright to which the agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quietendurance, one of the first results of sorrow is a desperate vagueclutching after any deed that will change the actual condition. PoorHetty's vision of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantasticcalculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was now quite shutout by reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was readyfor one of those convulsive, motiveless actions by which wretched menand women leap from a temporary sorrow into a lifelong misery. 

Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so thatit made some change in her life. She felt confident that he would stillwant to marry her, and any further thought about Adam's happiness in thematter had never yet visited her. 

"Strange!" perhaps you will say, "this rush of impulse to-wards a coursethat might have seemed the most repugnant to her present state of mind, and in only the second night of her sadness!"

Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty's, strugglingamidst the serious sad destinies of a human being, are strange. So arethe motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a stormysea. 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 beena lasting joy. 

Chapter XXXII

Mrs. Poyser "Has Her Say Out"

THE next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at theDonnithorne Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that veryday--no less than a second appearance of the smart man in top-boots saidby some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others tobe the future steward, but by Mr. Casson himself, the personal witnessto the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing betterthan a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had thoughtof denying Mr. Casson's testimony to the fact that he had seenthe stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroboratingcircumstances. 

"I see him myself, " he said; "I see him coming along by the Crab-treeMeadow on a bald-faced hoss. I'd just been t' hev a pint--it washalf after ten i' the fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg'lar as theclock--and I says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon, 'You'll geta bit o' barley to-day, Knowles, ' I says, 'if you look about you'; andthen I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the Treddles'on road, andjust as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i' top-boots comingalong on a bald-faced hoss--I wish I may never stir if I didn't. And Istood 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 hewas a this-country man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hupfor the barley this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, ifwe've good luck. ' And he says, 'Eh, ye may be raight, there's nootallin', ' he says, and I knowed by that"--here Mr. Casson gave awink--"as he didn't come from a hundred mile off. I daresay he'd thinkme a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as talksthe right language. "

"The right language!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. "You're aboutas near the right language as a pig's squeaking is like a tune played ona key-bugle. "

"Well, I don't know, " answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. "Ishould think a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is likely toknow what's the right language 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 saysba-a-a, it's all right--it 'ud be unnatural for it to make any othernoise. "

The rest of the party being Loamsnire men, Mr. Casson had the laughstrongly against him, and wisely fell back on the previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed inthe churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh interestconferred on all news when there is a fresh person to hear it; andthat fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, "neverwent boozin' with that set at Casson's, a-sittin' soakin' in drink, andlooking as wise as a lot o' cod-fish wi' red faces. "

It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husbandon their way from church concerning this problematic stranger thatMrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or twoafterwards, as she was standing at the house-door with her knitting, in that eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning wasdone, 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 ofprevision, which really had something more in it than her own remarkablepenetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she said toherself, "I shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is a-going totake the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without pay. But Poyser's a fool if he does. "

Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire'svisits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser had during thelast twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more thanmet the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him the next timehe appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches had alwaysremained imaginary. 

"Good-day, Mrs. Poyser, " said the old squire, peering at her with hisshort-sighted eyes--a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyserobserved, "allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and hewas going to dab his finger-nail on you. "

However, she said, "Your servant, sir, " and curtsied with an air ofperfect deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the womanto misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism, without severe provocation. 

"Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?"

"Yes, sir; he's only i' the rick-yard. I'll send for him in a minute, ifyou'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 youropinion too. "

"Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in, " said Mrs. Poyser, as theyentered the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty'scurtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with gooseberryjam, stood hiding her face against the clock and peeping roundfurtively. 

"What a fine old kitchen this is!" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking roundadmiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, well-chiselled, polite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous. "And you keep itso exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any on the estate. "

"Well, sir, since you're fond of 'em, I should be glad if you'd let abit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the boarding's i' that state as we'relike to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and the cellar, you may stan' upto your knees i' water in't, if you like to go down; but perhaps you'drather believe my words. Won't you please to sit down, sir?"

"Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and Ihear on all hands about your fine cheese and butter, " said the squire, looking politely unconscious that there could be any question on whichhe and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree. "I think I see the dooropen, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on yourcream and butter. I don't expect that Mrs. Satchell's cream and butterwill 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 damptemple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. "I'm sure I shouldlike my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came from thisdairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, myslight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I'll sit downin your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst ofbusiness, I see, as usual. I've been looking at your wife's beautifuldairy--the best manager in the parish, is she not?"

Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with aface a shade redder than usual, from the exertion of "pitching. " Ashe stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool oldgentleman, 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'sarm-chair forward a little: "you'll find it easy. "

"No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs, " said the old gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the door. "Do you know, Mrs. Poyser--sit down, pray, both of you--I've been far from contented, forsome time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy management. I think she has not agood 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 ifhe liked, she thought; she wasn't going to sit down, as if she'd give into any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt thereverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair. 

"And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let theChase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm tired of having a farm on myown hands--nothing is made the best of in such cases, as you know. Asatisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrangement inconsequence, which will be to our mutual advantage. "

"Oh, " said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination asto the nature of the arrangement. 

"If I'm called upon to speak, sir, " said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing ather husband with pity at his softness, "you know better than me; but Idon't see what the Chase Farm is t' us--we've cumber enough wi' our ownfarm. Not but what I'm glad to hear o' anybody respectable coming intothe parish; there's some as ha' been brought in as hasn't been looked oni' that character. "

"You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assureyou--such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the littleplan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it as muchto your own advantage as his. "

"Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the firstoffer o' the sort I've heared on. It's them as take advantage that getadvantage i' this world, I think. Folks have to wait long enough aforeit's brought to 'em. "

"The fact is, Poyser, " said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's theory ofworldly prosperity, "there is too much dairy land, and too little ploughland, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle's purpose--indeed, he will onlytake 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 ofis to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under yourwife's management; and I should request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply myhouse with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the otherhand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be a good riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn land. "

Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his headon one side, and his mouth screwed up--apparently absorbed in making thetips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy theribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through the wholebusiness, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife's view of thesubject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on apoint of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to him. So, after a few moments' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, "Whatdost say?"

Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severityduring his silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss, lookedicily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her knittingtogether with the loose pin, held it firmly between her clasped hands. 

"Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o' yourcorn-land afore your lease is up, which it won't be for a year come nextMichaelmas, 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 Ican see, on'y other folks's love o' theirselves, and the money as is togo into other folks's pockets. I know there's them as is born t' ownthe land, and them as is born to sweat on't"--here Mrs. Poyser pausedto gasp a little--"and I know it's christened folks's duty to submit totheir betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not makea martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and worretmyself as if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, for no landlord inEngland, not if he was King George himself. "

"No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not, " said the squire, stillconfident in his own powers of persuasion, "you must not overworkyourself; but don't you think your work will rather be lessened thanincreased in this way? There is so much milk required at the Abbeythat you will have little increase of cheese and butter making fromthe addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the mostprofitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?"

"Aye, that's true, " said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on aquestion of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this casea purely abstract question. 

"I daresay, " said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-waytowards her husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair--"I daresayit's true for men as sit i' th' chimney-corner and make believe aseverything's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int' everything else. If youcould make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be easy gettingdinner. How do I know whether the milk 'ull be wanted constant? What'sto make me sure as the house won't be put o' board wage afore we'remany months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights wi' twentygallons o' milk on my mind--and Dingall 'ull take no more butter, letalone paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg thebutcher 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 workfor a man an' hoss--that's to be took out o' the profits, I reckon? Butthere's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry awaythe water. "

"That difficulty--about the fetching and carrying--you will not have, Mrs. Poyser, " said the squire, who thought that this entrance intoparticulars indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs. Poyser's part. "Bethell will do that regularly with the cart and pony. "

"Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' havinggentlefolks's servants coming about my back places, a-making love toboth the gells at once and keeping 'em with their hands on their hipslistening to all manner o' gossip when they should be down on theirknees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi' having ourback kitchen turned into a public. "

"Well, Poyser, " said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as ifhe thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings andleft the room, "you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. I can easilymake another arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall notforget your readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as aneighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for threeyears, when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, whois a man of some capital, would be glad to take both the farms, as theycould be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an oldtenant like you. "

To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough tocomplete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the oldplace where he had been bred and born--for he believed the old squirehad small spite enough for anything--was beginning a mild remonstranceexplanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to buy andsell more stock, with, "Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard. . . " whenMrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her sayout this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the onlyshelter were the work-house. 

"Then, sir, if I may speak--as, for all I'm a woman, and there's folksas thinks a woman's fool enough to stan' by an' look on while the mensign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I make one quarter o' therent, and save another quarter--I say, if Mr. Thurle's so ready to takefarms under you, it's a pity but what he should take this, and see ifhe 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 bydozens--and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bito' cheese, and runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect'em to eat us up alive--as it's a mercy they hanna eat the children longago. 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 tumblesdown--and not then, on'y wi' begging and praying and having to payhalf--and being strung up wi' the rent as it's much if he gets enoughout o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own money into the groundbeforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such a life here asthat: 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, followingthe old squire beyond the door--for after the first moments of stunnedsurprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to getaway immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard, and was some distance from the causeway when his master beckoned. 

"You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin' underhandways o' doing us a mischief, for you've got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we're not dumbcreatures 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' thinkingi' this parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better than abrimstone match in everybody's nose--if it isna two-three old folks asyou think o' saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a dropo' porridge. An' you may be right i' thinking it'll take but little tosave your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made, wi' allyour scrapin'. "

There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may be aformidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black pony, eventhe gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being awarethat Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps hesuspected that sour old John was grinning behind him--which was alsothe fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick'ssheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony'sheels carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser's solo in an impressivequartet. 

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than sheturned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove theminto the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit againwith her usual rapidity as she re-entered the house. 

"Thee'st done it now, " said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, butnot without some triumphant amusement at his wife's outbreak. 

"Yes, I know I've done it, " said Mrs. Poyser; "but I've had my say out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no pleasure i'living if you're to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mindout by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan't repent saying what Ithink, if I live to be as old as th' old squire; and there's littlelikelihood--for it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' onlyfolks as aren't wanted i' th' other world. "

"But thee wutna like moving from th' old place, this Michaelmastwelvemonth, " said Mr. Poyser, "and going into a strange parish, wherethee 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 betweenthis and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be master afore them, for what we know, " said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusuallyhopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her ownmerit and not by other people's fault. 

"I'M none for worreting, " said Mr. Poyser, rising from histhree-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; "but I shouldbe loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred andborn, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again. "

Chapter XXXIII

More Links

THE barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went bywithout waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. The apples andnuts were gathered and stored; the scent of whey departed from thefarm-houses, and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The woodsbehind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a solemn splendourunder the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrantbasketfuls of purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and itslads and lasses leaving or seeking service and winding along betweenthe yellow hedges, with their bundles under their arms. But thoughMichaelmas was come, Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come tothe Chase Farm, and the old squire, after all, had been obliged to putin a new bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that thesquire's plan had been frustrated because the Poysers had refused tobe "put upon, " and Mrs. Poyser's outbreak was discussed in allthe farm-houses with a zest which was only heightened by frequentrepetition. The news that "Bony" was come back from Egypt wascomparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy wasnothing to Mrs. Poyser's repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine had hearda version of it in every parishioner's house, with the one exception ofthe Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided anyquarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasureof laughing at the old gentleman's discomfiture with any one besides hismother, 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 parsonagethat 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 irregularjustice on Mrs. Poyser's part, but a magistrate like me must notcountenance irregular justice. There must be no report spread that Ihave taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose the little goodinfluence I have over the old man. "

"Well, I like that woman even better than her cream-cheeses, " said Mrs. Irwine. "She has the spirit of three men, with that pale face of hers. And she says such sharp things too. "

"Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She's quite originalin her talk too; one of those untaught wits that help to stock a countrywith proverbs. I told you that capital thing I heard her say aboutCraig--that he was like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to hearhim crow. Now that's an AEsop's fable in a sentence. "

"But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out ofthe farm next Michaelmas, eh?" said Mrs. Irwine. 

"Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorneis likely to think twice, and digest his spleen rather than turn themout. But if he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur and I mustmove heaven and earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they aremust 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 littleshaken: he's eighty-three, you know. It's really an unconscionable age. It's only women who have a right to live as long as that. "

"When they've got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without them, "said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother's hand. 

Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband's occasional forebodings of a noticeto quit with "There's no knowing what may happen before Lady day"--oneof those undeniable general propositions which are usually intended toconvey a particular meaning very far from undeniable. But it is reallytoo hard upon human nature that it should be held a criminal offence toimagine the death even of the king when he is turned eighty-three. It isnot to be believed that any but the dullest Britons can be good subjectsunder that hard condition. 

Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the Poyserhousehold. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a surprising improvementin Hetty. To be sure, the girl got "closer tempered, and sometimes sheseemed 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 quiteeagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how she never wantedto go out now--indeed, could hardly be persuaded to go; and she boreher aunt's putting a stop to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chasewithout the least grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that shehad set her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting tobe a lady's maid must have been caused by some little pique ormisunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adamcame to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits and to talkmore than at other times, though she was almost sullen when Mr. Craig orany other admirer happened to pay a visit there. 

Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which gaveway to surprise and delicious hope. Five days after delivering Arthur'sletter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm again--not withoutdread lest the sight of him might be painful to her. She was not in thehouse-place when he entered, and he sat talking to Mr. And Mrs. Poyserfor a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they mightpresently tell him Hetty was ill. But by and by there came a light stepthat he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, "Come, Hetty, where have youbeen?" Adam was obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see thechanged look there must be in her face. He almost started when he sawher smiling as if she were pleased to see him--looking the same as everat a first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never seenher in before when he came of an evening. Still, when he looked ather again and again as she moved about or sat at her work, there was achange: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she smiled as much as shehad ever done of late, but there was something different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her movements, Adamthought--something harder, older, less child-like. "Poor thing!" hesaid to himself, "that's allays likely. It's because she's had her firstheartache. But she's got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God forthat. "

As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to seehim--turning up her lovely face towards him as if she meant him tounderstand that she was glad for him to come--and going about her workin the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began to believethat her feeling towards Arthur must have been much slighter than he hadimagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had been ableto think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and wouldmarry 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--herheart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man sheknew to have a serious love for her. 

Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in hisinterpretations, and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming in asensible man to behave as he did--falling in love with a girl who reallyhad nothing more than her beauty to recommend her, attributing imaginaryvirtues to her, and even condescending to cleave to her after she hadfallen in love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a patienttrembling dog waits for his master's eye to be turned upon him. But inso complex a thing as human nature, we must consider, it is hard to findrules without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensiblemen fall in love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance, see through all the pretty deceits of coquettish beauty, never imaginethemselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on allproper occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them in everyrespect--indeed, so as to compel the approbation of all the maidenladies in their neighbourhood. But even to this rule an exception willoccur now and then in the lapse of centuries, and my friend Adam wasone. For my own part, however, I respect him none the less--nay, I thinkthe deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyedHetty, of whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of thevery strength of his nature and not out of any inconsistent weakness. Isit any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite music? To feel itswondrous harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul, thedelicate fibres of life where no memory can penetrate, and bindingtogether your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibration, melting you in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that hasbeen scattered through the toilsome years, concentrating in oneemotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons ofself-renouncing sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow andyour present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then neither is ita weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman'scheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, orthe sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty of a lovely woman islike music: what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond andfar above the one woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of geniushave a wider meaning than the thought that prompted them. It is morethan a woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyes--it seems to be afar-off mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for itselfthere; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by something morethan their prettiness--by their close kinship with all we have knownof tenderness and peace. The noblest nature sees the most of thisimpersonal expression in beauty (it is needless to say that there aregentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason, the noblest nature is often the most blinded tothe character of the one woman's soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, Ifear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a long timeto come, in spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the bestreceipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind. 

Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling forHetty: he could not disguise mystery in this way with the appearance ofknowledge; 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, touchingthe spring of all love and tenderness, all faith and courage withinhim. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in her?He created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish, tender. 

The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling towardsArthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have been of a slight kind;they were altogether wrong, and such as no man in Arthur's positionought to have allowed himself, but they must have had an air ofplayfulness about them, which had probably blinded him to their dangerand had prevented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty's heart. Asthe new promise of happiness rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousybegan to die out. Hetty was not made unhappy; he almost believed thatshe liked him best; and the thought sometimes crossed his mind that thefriendship which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the daysto come, and he would not have to say "good-bye" to the grand old woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur's. For this newpromise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain had anintoxicating effect on the sober Adam, who had all his life been used tomuch hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easylot after all? It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, JonathanBurge, finding it impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up hismind to offer him a share in the business, without further conditionthan that he should continue to give his energies to it and renounceall thought of having a separate business of his own. Son-in-law or noson-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted with, and his headwork was so much more important to Burge than his skillin handicraft that his having the management of the woods made littledifference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains aboutthe squire's timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adamsaw here an opening into a broadening path of prosperous work such as hehad thought of with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he mightcome to build a bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had alwayssaid to himself that Jonathan Burge's building business was like anacorn, which might be the mother of a great tree. So he gave his handto Burge on that bargain, and went home with his mind full of happyvisions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps be shocked when Isay it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for seasoningtimber at a trifling expense, calculations as to the cheapening ofbricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a favourite scheme for thestrengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron girder. What then? Adam's enthusiasm lay in these things; and our love isinwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a subtle presence. 

Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for hismother in the old one; his prospects would justify his marrying verysoon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their mother would perhapsbe more contented to live apart from Adam. But he told himself that hewould not be hasty--he would not try Hetty's feeling for him until ithad had time to grow strong and firm. However, tomorrow, after church, he would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. Mr. Poyser, heknew, would like it better than a five-pound note, and he should see ifHetty's eyes brightened at it. The months would be short with all he hadto fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him oflate must not hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he got homeand told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while she satby almost crying for joy and wanting him to eat twice as much as usualbecause of this good-luck, he could not help preparing her gently forthe coming change by talking of the old house being too small for themall to go on living in it always. 

Chapter XXXIV

The Betrothal

IT was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds were high, and the wind was sostill that the yellow leaves which fluttered down from the hedgerow elmsmust have fallen from pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not goto church, for she had taken a cold too serious to be neglected; onlytwo winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold; and sincehis wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser considered that on the wholeit would be as well for him to stay away too and "keep her company. " Hecould perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that determinedthis conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds that ourfirmest convictions are often dependent on subtle impressions for whichwords are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no one from thePoyser family went to church that afternoon except Hetty and the boys;yet Adam was bold enough to join them after church, and say that hewould walk home with them, though all the way through the village heappeared to be chiefly occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them aboutthe squirrels in Binton Coppice, and promising to take them there someday. But when they came to the fields he said to the boys, "Now, then, which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' home-gate first shallbe the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the donkey. But Tommymust have the start up to the next stile, because he's the smallest. "

Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As soonas the boys had both set off, he looked down at Hetty and said, "Won'tyou hang on my arm, Hetty?" in a pleading tone, as if he had alreadyasked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and puther round arm through his in a moment. It was nothing to her, puttingher arm through Adam's, but she knew he cared a great deal about havingher arm through his, and she wished him to care. Her heart beat nofaster, and she looked at the half-bare hedgerows and the ploughed fieldwith the same sense of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcelyfelt that he was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he waspressing her arm a little--a very little. Words rushed to his lips thathe dared not utter--that he had made up his mind not to utter yet--andso he was silent for the length of that field. The calm patiencewith which he had once waited for Hetty's love, content only with herpresence and the thought of the future, had forsaken him since thatterrible shock nearly three months ago. The agitations of jealousy hadgiven a new restlessness to his passion--had made fear and uncertaintytoo hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to Hetty of hislove, he would tell her about his new prospects and see if she would bepleased. So when he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, "I'mgoing to tell your uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and Ithink he'll be glad to hear it too. "

"What's that?" Hetty said indifferently. 

"Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I'm going totake it. "

There was a change in Hetty's face, certainly not produced by anyagreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt a momentaryannoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her unclethat Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business any day, if he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and the thoughtimmediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because ofwhat had happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. With thatthought, and before she had time to remember any reasons why it couldnot be true, came a new sense of forsakenness and disappointment. Theone thing--the one person--her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes withtears. She was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw thetears, and before he had finished saying, "Hetty, dear Hetty, whatare you crying for?" his eager rapid thought had flown through all thecauses conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the trueone. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge--she didn't like himto marry--perhaps she didn't like him to marry any one but herself? Allcaution was swept away--all reason for it was gone, and Adam could feelnothing but trembling joy. He leaned towards her and took her hand, ashe said:

"I could afford to be married now, Hetty--I could make a wifecomfortable; 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 toArthur that first evening in the wood, when she had thought he was notcoming, and yet he came. It was a feebler relief, a feebler triumph shefelt now, but the great dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautifulas ever, perhaps more beautiful, for there was a more luxuriantwomanliness about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in thehappiness of that moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressedher arm close against his heart as he leaned down towards her. 

"Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love and takecare of as long as I live?"

Hetty did not speak, but Adam's face was very close to hers, and sheput up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. She wanted to becaressed--she wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her again. 

Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through therest of the walk. He only said, "I may tell your uncle and aunt, mayn'tI, Hetty?" and she said, "Yes. "

The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful facesthat evening, when Hetty was gone upstairs and Adam took the opportunityof telling Mr. And Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather that he saw his wayto maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had consented to have him. 

"I hope you have no objections against me for her husband, " said Adam;"I'm a poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing as I can work for. "

"Objections?" said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned forward andbrought out his long "Nay, nay. " "What objections can we ha' to you, lad? Never mind your being poorish as yet; there's money in yourhead-piece as there's money i' the sown field, but it must ha' time. You'n got enough to begin on, and we can do a deal tow'rt the bit o'furniture you'll want. Thee'st got feathers and linen to spare--plenty, eh?"

This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was wrapped upin a warm shawl and was too hoarse to speak with her usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, but she was presently unable toresist the temptation to be more explicit. 

"It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen, " she said, hoarsely, "when I never sell a fowl but what's plucked, and the wheel'sa-going every day o' the week. "

"Come, my wench, " said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, "come and kissus, and let us wish you luck. "

Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man. 

"There!" he said, patting her on the back, "go and kiss your aunt andyour grandfather. I'm as wishful t' have you settled well as if you wasmy own daughter; and so's your aunt, I'll be bound, for she's done byyou this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her own. Come, come, now, "he went on, becoming jocose, as soon as Hetty had kissed her aunt andthe old man, "Adam wants a kiss too, I'll warrant, and he's a right toone now. "

Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair. 

"Come, Adam, then, take one, " persisted Mr. Poyser, "else y' arena halfa man. "

Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden--great strong fellow as hewas--and, putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently kissed herlips. 

It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were nocandles--why should there be, when the fire was so bright and wasreflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted towork on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like contentmentin the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to her, Adam's caress, stirred no passion in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity, but they were the best her life offered her now--they promised her somechange. 

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about thepossibility of his finding a house that would do for him to settle in. No house was empty except the one next to Will Maskery's in the village, and that was too small for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the bestplan would be for Seth and his mother to move and leave Adam in the oldhome, which might be enlarged after a while, for there was plenty ofspace in the woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning hismother out. 

"Well, well, " said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everythingto-night. We must take time to consider. You canna think o' gettingmarried afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but there must be abit o' time to make things comfortable. "

"Aye, to be sure, " said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; "Christianfolks can't be married like cuckoos, I reckon. "

"I'm a bit daunted, though, " said Mr. Poyser, "when I think as we mayhave notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm twenty mileoff. "

"Eh, " said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands upand down, while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair, "it's a poortale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a strange parish. An'you'll happen ha' double rates to pay, " he added, looking up at his son. 

"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father, " said Martin the younger. "Happen the captain 'ull come home and make our peace wi' th' oldsquire. I build upo' that, for I know the captain 'll see folks rightedif he can. "

Chapter XXXV

The Hidden Dread

IT was a busy time for Adam--the time between the beginning of Novemberand the beginning of February, and he could see little of Hetty, excepton Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him nearerand nearer to March, when they were to be married, and all the littlepreparations for their new housekeeping marked the progress towards thelonged-for day. Two new rooms had been "run up" to the old house, forhis mother and Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth had criedso piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he had gone to Hettyand asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with hismother's ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hettysaid, "Yes; I'd as soon she lived with us as not. " Hetty's mind wasoppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth'sways; she could not care about them. So Adam was consoled for thedisappointment he had felt when Seth had come back from his visit toSnowfield and said "it was no use--Dinah's heart wasna turned towardsmarrying. " For when he told his mother that Hetty was willing theyshould all live together and there was no more need of them to think ofparting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had heard her speakin 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 butth' offal work, as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part theplatters an' things, as ha' stood on the shelf together sin' afore theewast born. "

There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam's sunshine:Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his anxious, tenderquestions, she replied with an assurance that she was quite contentedand wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was morelively than usual. It might be that she was a little overdone with workand anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken anothercold, which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confinedher to her room all through January. Hetty had to manage everythingdownstairs, and half-supply Molly's place too, while that good damselwaited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely intoher 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 agood housekeeper he would have; but he "doubted the lass was o'erdoingit--she must have a bit o' rest when her aunt could come downstairs. "

This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser's coming downstairs happened in theearly part of February, when some mild weather thawed the last patch ofsnow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt camedown, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things whichwere 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-frostthat had whitened the hedges in the early morning had disappeared asthe sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February days have a strongercharm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likesto pause in the mild rays of the sun, and look over the gates at thepatient plough-horses turning at the end of the furrow, and think thatthe beautiful year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just thesame: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are no leaves onthe trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! Andthe dark purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branchesis beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives orrides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought sowhen, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods have looked to melike our English Loamshire--the rich land tilled with just as much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadows--I havecome on something by the roadside which has reminded me that I am notin Loamshire: an image of a great agony--the agony of the Cross. It hasstood perhaps by the clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshineby the cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook wasgurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this world whoknew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this image of agonywould seem to him strangely out of place in the midst of this joyousnature. He would not know that hidden behind the apple-blossoms, oramong the golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, theremight be a human heart beating heavily with anguish--perhaps a youngblooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from swift-advancingshame, understanding no more of this life of ours than a foolish lostlamb wandering farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath, yet tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness. 

Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind theblossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if you cameclose to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your earwith a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion has much sorrow init: no wonder he needs a suffering God. 

Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand, isturning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston road, but not thatshe may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and thinkwith hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun isshining; and for weeks, now, when she has hoped at all, it has been forsomething at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wants tobe out of the high-road, that she may walk slowly and not care how herface looks, as she dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gateshe can get into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her greatdark eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who isdesolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave tenderman. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept away inthe weary night, before she went to sleep. At the next stile the pathwaybranches off: there are two roads before her--one along by the hedgerow, which will by and by lead her into the road again, the other acrossthe fields, which will take her much farther out of the way into theScantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see nobody. She choosesthis and begins to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thoughtof an object towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is inthe Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards, andshe leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is aclump 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 withthe wintry rains that the under boughs of the elder-bushes lie lowbeneath the water. She sits down on the grassy bank, against thestooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She hasthought of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just goneby, and now at last she is come to see it. She clasps her hands roundher knees, and leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying toguess what sort of bed it would make for her young round limbs. 

No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and ifshe had, they might find her--they might find out why she had drownedherself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go away, go wherethey can't find her. 

After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after herbetrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague hopethat something would happen to set her free from her terror; but shecould wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been concentratedon the one effort of concealment, and she had shrunk with irresistibledread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of hermiserable secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurredto her, she had rejected it. He could do nothing for her that wouldshelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbourswho once more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Herimagination no longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could donothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something elsewould happen--something must happen--to set her free from this dread. Inyoung, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind trust insome unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe thata great wretchedness will actually befall them as to believe that theywill die. 

But now necessity was pressing hard upon her--now the time of hermarriage was close at hand--she could no longer rest in this blindtrust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyescould detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of going to Arthur athought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now, sounable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwingherself on him had a relief in it which was stronger than her pride. Asshe sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope thathe would receive her tenderly--that he would care for her and think forher--was like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the momentindifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothingbut the scheme by which she should get away. 

She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about thecoming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when Hetty hadread this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, "I wish Dinah 'ud comeagain now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt when you're gone. Whatdo you think, my wench, o' going to see her as soon as you can be sparedand persuading her to come back wi' you? You might happen persuade herwi' telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o' not beingable 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 pretextfor going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again that sheshould like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. Andthen, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would askfor the coach that would take her on the way to Windsor. Arthur was atWindsor, and she would go to him. 

As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from thegrassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way toTreddleston, 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 anysuspicion that she was going to run away. 

Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go andsee Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding. The soonershe went the better, since the weather was pleasant now; and Adam, whenhe came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off to-morrow, hewould make time to go with her to Treddleston and see her safe into theStoniton coach. 

"I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty, " he said, thenext morning, leaning in at the coach door; "but you won't stay muchbeyond a week--the time 'ull seem long. "

He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand held hers in itsgrasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence--she was usedto it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no other lovethan her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she gave him the lastlook. 

"God bless her for loving me, " said Adam, as he went on his way to workagain, with Gyp at his heels. 

But Hetty's tears were not for Adam--not for the anguish that would comeupon him when he found she was gone from him for ever. They were for themisery of her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender manwho offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helplesssuppliant, on the man who would think it a misfortune that she wasobliged to cling to him. 

At three o'clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to takeher, they said, to Leicester--part of the long, long way to Windsor--shefelt dimly that she might be travelling all this weary journey towardsthe beginning of new misery. 

Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If hedid not mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to be good toher. 

Book Five

Chapter XXXVI

The Journey of Hope

A LONG, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from thefamiliar to the strange: that is a hard and dreary thing even to therich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when we are calledby duty, not urged by dread. 

What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no longermelting into vague hopes, but pressed upon by the chill ofdefinite fear, repeating again and again the same small round ofmemories--shaping again and again the same childish, doubtful imagesof what was to come--seeing nothing in this wide world but the littlehistory of her own pleasures and pains; with so little money in herpocket, and the way so long and difficult. Unless she could affordalways to go in the coaches--and she felt sure she could not, for thejourney to Stoniton was more expensive than she had expected--it wasplain that she must trust to carriers' carts or slow waggons; and whata time it would be before she could get to the end of her journey! Theburly old coachman from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young womanamong the outside passengers, had invited her to come and sit besidehim; and feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open thedialogue with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off thestones to the elaboration of one suitable in all respects. After manycuts 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 prettynigh six foot, I'll be bound, isna he, now?"

"Who?" said Hetty, rather startled. 

"Why, the sweetheart as you've left behind, or else him as you're goin'arter--which is it?"

Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought thiscoachman must know something about her. He must know Adam, and mighttell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to country people tobelieve that those who make a figure in their own parish are not knowneverywhere else, and it was equally difficult to Hetty to understandthat chance words could happen to apply closely to her circumstances. She was too frightened to speak. 

"Hegh, hegh!" said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not sogratifying as he had expected, "you munna take it too ser'ous; if he'sbehaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass as you can get a sweetheartany day. "

Hetty's fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the coachmanmade no further allusion to her personal concerns; but it still had theeffect of preventing her from asking him what were the places on theroad to Windsor. She told him she was only going a little way out ofStoniton, and when she got down at the inn where the coach stopped, shehastened away with her basket to another part of the town. When shehad formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen anydifficulties except that of getting away, and after she had overcomethis by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meetingwith Arthur and the question how he would behave to her--not resting onany probable incidents of the journey. She was too entirely ignorantof traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her storeof money--her three guineas--in her pocket, she thought herself amplyprovided. It was not until she found how much it cost her to get toStoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journey, and then, forthe first time, she felt her ignorance as to the places that must bepassed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along thegrim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little inn, where she hoped to get a cheap lodging for the night. Here she askedthe landlord if he could tell her what places she must go to, to get toWindsor. 

"Well, I can't rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it'swhere the king lives, " was the answer. "Anyhow, you'd best go t' Ashbynext--that's south'ard. But there's as many places from here to Londonas there's houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I've never beenno traveller myself. But how comes a lone young woman like you to bethinking o' taking such a journey as that?"

"I'm going to my brother--he's a soldier at Windsor, " said Hetty, frightened at the landlord's questioning look. "I can't afford to goby the coach; do you think there's a cart goes toward Ashby in themorning?"

"Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; butyou might run over the town before you found out. You'd best set off andwalk, and trust to summat overtaking you. "

Every word sank like lead on Hetty's spirits; she saw the journeystretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get to Ashby seemed a hardthing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was nothingto the rest of the journey. But it must be done--she must get to Arthur. Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who would care for her!She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeingfamiliar faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whosefarthest 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--thiskittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any othergrief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girdedat by her aunt for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way inloneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but atremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the first time, asshe lay down to-night in the strange hard bed, she felt that her homehad been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, thather quiet lot at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, with herlittle pride in her one best gown and bonnet, and nothing to hide fromany one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and findthat 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 ownsake. Her own misery filled her heart--there was no room in it for otherpeople's sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been sotender and loving. The memory of that had still a charm for her, thoughit was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable. For Hetty could conceive no other existence for herself in future thana hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would have had nodelights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew noromances, and had only a feeble share in the feelings which are thesource of romance, so that well-read ladies may find it difficult tounderstand her state of mind. She was too ignorant of everything beyondthe simple notions and habits in which she had been brought up to haveany more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur wouldtake care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn. He wouldnot marry her and make her a lady; and apart from that she could thinkof nothing he could give towards which she looked with longing andambition. 

The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and breadfor her breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards Ashby, under aleaden-coloured sky, with a narrowing streak of yellow, like a departinghope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at thelength and difficulty of her journey, she was most of all afraid ofspending her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have to askpeople's charity; for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud naturebut of a proud class--the class that pays the most poor-rates, andmost shudders at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had not yetoccurred to her that she might get money for her locket and earringswhich she carried with her, and she applied all her small arithmeticand knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many rideswere contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings, which hada melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the otherbright-flaming coin. 

For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely, alwaysfixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush at the most distantvisible point in the road as a goal, and feeling a faint joy when shehad reached it. But when she came to the fourth milestone, the first shehad happened to notice among the long grass by the roadside, and readthat she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage sank. She had come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and almost hungryagain in the keen morning air; for though Hetty was accustomed to muchmovement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks whichproduced quite a different sort of fatigue from that of householdactivity. As she was looking at the milestone she felt some dropsfalling on her face--it was beginning to rain. Here was a new troublewhich had not entered into her sad thoughts before, and quite weigheddown by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat down on the step ofa stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of hardship is likethe first taste of bitter food--it seems for a moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take another biteand find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her burst ofweeping, she rallied her fainting courage: it was raining, and shemust 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 heavywheels behind her; a covered waggon was coming, creeping slowly alongwith a slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She waitedfor it, thinking that if the waggoner were not a very sour-looking man, she would ask him to take her up. As the waggon approached her, thedriver had fallen behind, but there was something in the front of thebig vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her lifeshe would not have noticed it, but now, the new susceptibility thatsuffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress herstrongly. It was only a small white-and-liver-coloured spaniel whichsat on the front ledge of the waggon, with large timid eyes, and anincessant trembling in the body, such as you may have seen in some ofthese small creatures. Hetty cared little for animals, as you know, but at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid creature had somefellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the reason, shewas less doubtful about speaking to the driver, who now came forward--alarge ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf ormantle. 

"Could you take me up in your waggon, if you're going towards Ashby?"said Hetty. "I'll pay you for it. "

"Aw, " said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which belongsto heavy faces, "I can take y' up fawst enough wi'out bein' paid for'tif you dooant mind lyin' a bit closish a-top o' the wool-packs. Where doyou coom from? And what do you want at Ashby?"

"I come from Stoniton. I'm going a long way--to Windsor. "

"What! Arter some service, or what?"

"Going to my brother--he's a soldier there. "

"Well, I'm going no furder nor Leicester--and fur enough too--but I'lltake you, if you dooant mind being a bit long on the road. Th' hosseswooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they feel the little doog there, asI puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He war lost, I b'lieve, an's beenall of a tremble iver sin'. Come, gi' us your basket an' come behind andlet me put y' in. "

To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the curtains of theawning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty now, and she half-sleptaway the hours till the driver came to ask her if she wanted to get downand have "some victual"; he himself was going to eat his dinner at this"public. " Late at night they reached Leicester, and so this second dayof Hetty's journey was past. She had spent no money except what shehad paid for her food, but she felt that this slow journeying would beintolerable for her another day, and in the morning she found her wayto a coach-office to ask about the road to Windsor, and see if it wouldcost her too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! Thedistance was too great--the coaches were too dear--she must give themup; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty anxiousface, wrote down for her the names of the chief places she must passthrough. This was the only comfort she got in Leicester, for the menstared at her as she went along the street, and for the first time inher life Hetty wished no one would look at her. She set out walkingagain; but this day she was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken bya carrier's cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of areturn chaise, with a drunken postilion--who frightened her by drivinglike Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her, twisting himself backwards on his saddle--she was before night in theheart of woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles fromWindsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard workfor her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to Stratford-on-Avon, finding Stratford set down in her list of places, and then she was toldshe had come a long way out of the right road. It was not till the fifthday that she got to Stony Stratford. That seems but a slight journey asyou look at the map, or remember your own pleasant travels to and fromthe meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty!It seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, and hedgerows, anddotted houses, and villages, and market-towns--all so much alike to herindifferent eyes--must have no end, and she must go on wandering amongthem for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for some cart to come, andthen finding the cart went only a little way--a very little way--to themiller's a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public houses, where she must go to get food and ask questions, because there werealways men lounging there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Herbody was very weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; theyhad made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dreadshe had gone through at home. When at last she reached Stony Stratford, her impatience and weariness had become too strong for her economicalcaution; she determined to take the coach for the rest of the way, though it should cost her all her remaining money. She would neednothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare forthe last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at thesign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve o'clock in the middle of theseventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged herto "remember him. " She put her hand in her pocket and took out theshilling, but the tears came with the sense of exhaustion and thethought that she was giving away her last means of getting food, whichshe really required before she could go in search of Arthur. As sheheld out the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled eyes to thecoachman'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 thisscene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding served to keep hisgood nature, as well as his person, in high condition. And that lovelytearful face of Hetty's would have found out the sensitive fibre in mostmen. 

"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 thisyoung woman into the parlour; she's a little overcome"--for Hetty'stears were falling fast. They were merely hysterical tears: she thoughtshe had no reason for weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weakand 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 thatthe landlady brought her, and for some minutes she forgot everythingelse in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger and recoveringfrom exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and lookedat her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had thrown off her bonnet, and hercurls had fallen down. Her face was all the more touching in itsyouth and beauty because of its weary look, and the good woman's eyespresently wandered to her figure, which in her hurried dressing on herjourney she had taken no pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eyedetects what the familiar unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed. 

"Why, you're not very fit for travelling, " she said, glancing while shespoke at Hetty's ringless hand. "Have you come far?"

"Yes, " said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more self-command, and feeling the better for the food she had taken. "I've come a goodlong way, and it's very tiring. But I'm better now. Could you tell mewhich way to go to this place?" Here Hetty took from her pocket a bitof paper: it was the end of Arthur's letter on which he had written hisaddress. 

While she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to lookat her as earnestly as his wife had done. He took up the piece of paperwhich Hetty handed across the table, and read the address. 

"Why, what do you want at this house?" he said. It is in the nature ofinnkeepers and all men who have no pressing business of their own to askas many questions as possible before giving any information. 

"I want to see a gentleman as is there, " said Hetty. 

"But there's no gentleman there, " returned the landlord. "It's shutup--been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman is it you want? PerhapsI can let you know where to find him. "

"It's Captain Donnithorne, " said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginningto beat painfully at this disappointment of her hope that she shouldfind Arthur at once. 

"Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit, " said the landlord, slowly. "Was hein the Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer with a fairish skin andreddish 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 toIreland; it's been gone this fortnight. "

"Look there! She's fainting, " said the landlady, hastening to supportHetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked like abeautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress. 

"Here's a bad business, I suspect, " said the landlord, as he brought insome 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 likea respectable country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judgeby her tongue. She talks something like that ostler we had that comefrom the north. He was as honest a fellow as we ever had about thehouse--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 ather. "

"It 'ud have been a good deal better for her if she'd been uglier andhad more conduct, " said the landlady, who on any charitable constructionmust have been supposed to have more "conduct" than beauty. "But she'scoming to again. Fetch a drop more water. "

Chapter XXXVII

The Journey in Despair

HETTY was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions to beaddressed to her--too ill even to think with any distinctness of theevils 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 theborders of a new wilderness where no goal lay before her. The sensationsof bodily sickness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance of thegood-natured landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite asthere is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw himself onthe sand instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun. 

But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength necessary for thekeenness of mental suffering--when she lay the next morning looking atthe growing light which was like a cruel task-master returning to urgefrom her a fresh round of hated hopeless labour--she began to think whatcourse she must take, to remember that all her money was gone, tolook at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with the newclearness shed on it by the experience of her journey to Windsor. Butwhich way could she turn? It was impossible for her to enter into anyservice, even if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediatebeggary before her. She thought of a young woman who had been foundagainst the church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly dead with coldand hunger--a tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued and takento the parish. "The parish!" You can perhaps hardly understand theeffect of that word on a mind like Hetty's, brought up among people whowere somewhat hard in their feelings even towards poverty, who livedamong the fields, and had little pity for want and rags as a cruelinevitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities, but held thema mark of idleness and vice--and it was idleness and vice that broughtburdens on the parish. To Hetty the "parish" was next to the prisonin obloquy, and to ask anything of strangers--to beg--lay in the samefar-off hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her lifethought it impossible she could ever come near. But now the remembranceof that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, on her way fromchurch, being carried into Joshua Rann's, came back upon her with thenew terrible sense that there was very little now to divide HER fromthe same lot. And the dread of bodily hardship mingled with the dreadof shame; for Hetty had the luxurious nature of a round soft-coated petanimal. 

How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and caredfor as she had always been! Her aunt's scolding about trifles would havebeen music to her ears now; she longed for it; she used to hear it in atime when she had only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hetty thatused to make up the butter in the dairy with the Guelder roses peepingin at the window--she, a runaway whom her friends would not open theirdoors to again, lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge thatshe had no money to pay for what she received, and must offer thosestrangers some of the clothes in her basket? It was then she thought ofher locket and ear-rings, and seeing her pocket lie near, she reached itand spread the contents on the bed before her. There were the locket andear-rings in the little velvet-lined boxes, and with them there was abeautiful silver thimble which Adam had bought her, the words "Rememberme" making the ornament of the border; a steel purse, with her oneshilling in it; and a small red-leather case, fastening with a strap. Those beautiful little ear-rings, with their delicate pearls and garnet, that she had tried in her ears with such longing in the bright sunshineon the 30th of July! She had no longing to put them in her ears now: herhead with its dark rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow, andthe sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was something too hardfor regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it wasbecause there were some thin gold rings in them, which were also wortha little money. Yes, she could surely get some money for her ornaments:those Arthur had given her must have cost a great deal of money. Thelandlord and landlady had been good to her; perhaps they would help herto get the money for these things. 

But this money would not keep her long. What should she do when it wasgone? Where should she go? The horrible thought of want and beggarydrove her once to think she would go back to her uncle and aunt and askthem to forgive her and have pity on her. But she shrank from that ideaagain, as she might have shrunk from scorching metal. She could neverendure that shame before her uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge, and theservants at the Chase, and the people at Broxton, and everybody who knewher. They should never know what had happened to her. What could she do?She would go away from Windsor--travel again as she had done the lastweek, and get among the flat green fields with the high hedges roundthem, where nobody could see her or know her; and there, perhaps, whenthere was nothing else she could do, she should get courage to drownherself in some pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would getaway from Windsor as soon as possible: she didn't like these people atthe inn to know about her, to know that she had come to look for CaptainDonnithorne. She must think of some reason to tell them why she hadasked 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 herhand on the red-leather case, when it occurred to her that there mightbe something in this case which she had forgotten--something worthselling; for without knowing what she should do with her life, shecraved the means of living as long as possible; and when we desireeagerly to find something, we are apt to search for it in hopelessplaces. No, there was nothing but common needles and pins, and driedtulip-petals between the paper leaves where she had written down herlittle 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 likea newly discovered message. The name was--Dinah Morris, Snowfield. Therewas a text above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah's own handwith a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting together andHetty happened to have the red case lying open before her. Hetty did notread the text now: she was only arrested by the name. Now, for the firsttime, she remembered without indifference the affectionate kindnessDinah had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber--thatHetty must think of her as a friend in trouble. Suppose she were to goto Dinah, and ask her to help her? Dinah did not think about things asother people did. She was a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she wasalways kind. She couldn't imagine Dinah's face turning away from her indark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice willingly speaking ill of her, orrejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to belong tothat world of Hetty's, whose glance she dreaded like scorching fire. Buteven to her Hetty shrank from beseeching and confession. She could notprevail on herself to say, "I will go to Dinah": she only thought ofthat as a possible alternative, if she had not courage for death. 

The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come downstairs soonafter herself, neatly dressed, and looking resolutely self-possessed. Hetty told her she was quite well this morning. She had only been verytired and overcome with her journey, for she had come a long way to askabout her brother, who had run away, and they thought he was gone for asoldier, and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he had been verykind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and the landlady lookeddoubtfully at Hetty as she told it; but there was a resolute air ofself-reliance about her this morning, so different from the helplessprostration of yesterday, that the landlady hardly knew how to make aremark that might seem like prying into other people's affairs. She onlyinvited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in the course of itHetty brought out her ear-rings and locket, and asked the landlord ifhe could help her to get money for them. Her journey, she said, had costher much more than she expected, and now she had no money to get back toher friends, which she wanted to do at once. 

It was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for shehad examined the contents of Hetty's pocket yesterday, and she and herhusband had discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautifulthings, with a stronger conviction than ever that Hetty had beenmiserably deluded by the fine young officer. 

"Well, " said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious triflesbefore him, "we might take 'em to the jeweller's shop, for there's onenot far off; but Lord bless you, they wouldn't give you a quarter o'what the things are worth. And you wouldn't like to part with 'em?" headded, looking at her inquiringly. 

"Oh, I don't mind, " said Hetty, hastily, "so as I can get money to goback. "

"And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to sell'em, " he went on, "for it isn't usual for a young woman like you to havefine jew'llery like that. "

The blood rushed to Hetty's face with anger. "I belong to respectablefolks, " she said; "I'm not a thief. "

"No, that you aren't, I'll be bound, " said the landlady; "and you'd nocall to say that, " looking indignantly at her husband. "The things weregev 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 beoffering much money for 'em. "

"Well, " said the wife, "suppose you were to advance some money on thethings yourself, and then if she liked to redeem 'em when she got home, she could. But if we heard nothing from her after two months, we mightdo as we liked with 'em. "

I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady hadno regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature in theultimate possession of the locket and ear-rings: indeed, the effect theywould have in that case on the mind of the grocer's wife had presenteditself with remarkable vividness to her rapid imagination. The landlordtook up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. He wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many of your well-wisherswould decline to make a little gain out of you? Your landlady issincerely affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and willreally rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the sametime she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a percentage aspossible. 

"How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?" said thewell-wisher, at length. 

"Three guineas, " answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, forwant of any other standard, and afraid of asking too much. 

"Well, I've no objections to advance you three guineas, " said thelandlord; "and if you like to send it me back and get the jewelleryagain, you can, you know. The Green Man isn't going to run away. "

"Oh yes, I'll be very glad if you'll give me that, " said Hetty, relievedat the thought that she would not have to go to the jeweller's and bestared at and questioned. 

"But if you want the things again, you'll write before long, " said thelandlady, "because when two months are up, we shall make up our minds asyou don't want 'em. "

"Yes, " said Hetty indifferently. 

The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. Thehusband thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could make agood thing of it by taking them to London and selling them. The wifethought she would coax the good man into letting her keep them. Andthey were accommodating Hetty, poor thing--a pretty, respectable-lookingyoung woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anythingfor her food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at eleven o'clock Hettysaid "Good-bye" to them with the same quiet, resolute air she had wornall the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty milesback along the way she had come. 

There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that thelast hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others than perfectcontentment, and in despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the senseof dependence. 

Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would makelife hateful to her; and no one, she said to herself, should ever knowher misery and humiliation. No; she would not confess even to Dinah. Shewould wander out of sight, and drown herself where her body would neverbe found, and no one should know what had become of her. 

When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take cheaprides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and on without distinctpurpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the way she hadcome, though she was determined not to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the grassy Warwickshirefields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows that made a hiding-placeeven in this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, oftengetting over the stiles and sitting for hours under the hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself at theedge of a hidden pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wonderingif it were very painful to be drowned, and if there would be anythingworse after death than what she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines hadtaken no hold on Hetty's mind. She was one of those numerous peoplewho have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their catechism, beenconfirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and yet, for any practicalresult of strength in life, or trust in death, have never appropriated asingle Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would misunderstandher thoughts during these wretched days, if you imagined that they wereinfluenced either by religious fears or religious hopes. 

She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had gone before bymistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her former way towardsit--fields among which she thought she might find just the sort of poolshe had in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she carriedher basket; death seemed still a long way off, and life was so strongin her. She craved food and rest--she hastened towards them at the verymoment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she would leaptowards death. It was already five days since she had left Windsor, forshe had wandered about, always avoiding speech or questioning looks, and recovering her air of proud self-dependence whenever she was underobservation, choosing her decent lodging at night, and dressing herselfneatly in the morning, and setting off on her way steadily, or remainingunder shelter if it rained, as if she had a happy life to cherish. 

And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was sadlydifferent from that which had smiled at itself in the old specked glass, or smiled at others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard and evenfierce look had come in the eyes, though their lashes were as long asever, and they had all their dark brightness. And the cheek was neverdimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting, childishprettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from it--thesadder for its beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, with thepassionate, passionless lips. 

At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a longnarrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a pool in thatwood! It would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was not awood, only a wild brake, where there had once been gravel-pits, leavingmounds and hollows studded with brushwood and small trees. She roamed upand down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow before shecame to it, till her limbs were weary, and she sat down to rest. Theafternoon was far advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening, as if thesun were setting behind it. After a little while Hetty started up again, feeling that darkness would soon come on; and she must put off findingthe pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and might as well go in onedirection as another, for aught she knew. She walked through field afterfield, and no village, no house was in sight; but there, at the cornerof this pasture, there was a break in the hedges; the land seemed todip down a little, and two trees leaned towards each other across theopening. Hetty's heart gave a great heat as she thought there must bea pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the tufted grass, withpale lips and a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were come inspite 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 gotshallow, 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 herbasket--she must hide that too. She must throw it into the water--makeit heavy with stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to lookabout for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she laid downbeside her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need tohurry--there was all the night to drown herself in. She sat leaning herelbow on the basket. She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in herbasket--three, which she had supplied herself with at the place whereshe ate her dinner. She took them out now and ate them eagerly, and thensat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that cameover her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed dreamyattitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head sank down on herknees. She was fast asleep. 

When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was frightenedat this darkness--frightened at the long night before her. If she couldbut throw herself into the water! No, not yet. She began to walk aboutthat she might get warm again, as if she would have more resolutionthen. Oh how long the time was in that darkness! The bright hearth andthe warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising and lying down, the familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and holidays withtheir simple joys of dress and feasting--all the sweets of her younglife rushed before her now, and she seemed to be stretching her armstowards them across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought ofArthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her cursing would do. Shewished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life of shame thathe dared not end by death. 

The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude--out of all humanreach--became greater every long minute. It was almost as if she weredead already, and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to lifeagain. But no: she was alive still; she had not taken the dreadfulleap. She felt a strange contradictory wretchedness and exultation:wretchedness, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that shewas still in life--that she might yet know light and warmth again. Shewalked backwards and forwards to warm herself, beginning to discernsomething of the objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed tothe night--the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some livingcreature--perhaps a field-mouse--rushing across the grass. She no longerfelt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk backacross the field, and get over the stile; and then, in the very nextfield, she thought she remembered there was a hovel of furze near asheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. Shecould pass the night there, for that was what Alick did at Hayslopein lambing-time. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a newhope. She took up her basket and walked across the field, but it wassome time before she got in the right direction for the stile. Theexercise and the occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to her, however, and lightened the horror of the darkness and solitude. Therewere sheep in the next field, and she startled a group as she set downher basket and got over the stile; and the sound of their movementcomforted her, for it assured her that her impression was right--thiswas the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the field wherethe sheep were. Right on along the path, and she would get to it. Shereached the opposite gate, and felt her way along its rails and therails of the sheep-fold, till her hand encountered the pricking of thegorsy wall. Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She gropedher 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 onthe ground. Hetty sank down on the straw with a sense of escape. Tearscame--she had never shed tears before since she left Windsor--tears andsobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that shewas still on the familiar earth, with the sheep near her. The veryconsciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her: she turned up hersleeves, and kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soonwarmth and weariness lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fellcontinually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the poolagain--fancying that she had jumped into the water, and then awakingwith a start, and wondering where she was. But at last deep dreamlesssleep came; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow againstthe gorsy wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two equalterrors, found the one relief that was possible to it--the relief ofunconsciousness. 

Alas! That relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It seemed toHetty as if those dozen dreams had only passed into another dream--thatshe was in the hovel, and her aunt was standing over her with a candlein her hand. She trembled under her aunt's glance, and opened her eyes. There was no candle, but there was light in the hovel--the light ofearly morning through the open door. And there was a face looking downon her; but it was an unknown face, belonging to an elderly man in asmock-frock. 

"Why, what do you do here, young woman?" the man said roughly. 

Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame than she haddone in her momentary dream under her aunt's glance. She felt that shewas like a beggar already--found sleeping in that place. But in spite ofher trembling, she was so eager to account to the man for her presencehere, that she found words at once. 

"I lost my way, " she said. "I'm travelling--north'ard, and I got awayfrom the road into the fields, and was overtaken by the dark. Will youtell me the way to the nearest village?"

She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet toadjust it, and then laid hold of her basket. 

The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without giving her anyanswer, for some seconds. Then he turned away and walked towards thedoor of the hovel, but it was not till he got there that he stood still, and, turning his shoulder half-round towards her, said, "Aw, I can showyou the way to Norton, if you like. But what do you do gettin' out o'the highroad?" he added, with a tone of gruff reproof. "Y'ull be gettin'into mischief, if you dooant mind. "

"Yes, " said Hetty, "I won't do it again. I'll keep in the road, ifyou'll be so good as show me how to get to it. "

"Why dooant you keep where there's a finger-poasses an' folks to ax theway on?" the man said, still more gruffly. "Anybody 'ud think you was awild woman, an' look at yer. "

Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more at this lastsuggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As she followed him out ofthe hovel she thought she would give him a sixpence for telling her theway, and then he would not suppose she was wild. As he stopped to pointout the road to her, she put her hand in her pocket to get the six-penceready, and when he was turning away, without saying good-morning, she held it out to him and said, "Thank you; will you please to takesomething for your trouble?"

He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, "I want none o' yourmoney. You'd better take care on't, else you'll get it stool from yer, if you go trapesin' about the fields like a mad woman a-thatway. "

The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held on her way. Another day had risen, and she must wander on. It was no use to think ofdrowning herself--she could not do it, at least while she had money leftto buy food and strength to journey on. But the incident on her wakingthis morning heightened her dread of that time when her money would beall gone; she would have to sell her basket and clothes then, and shewould really look like a beggar or a wild woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life she had felt in the night, after escapingfrom the brink of the black cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by the morning light, with the impression of that man's hardwondering look at her, was as full of dread as death--it was worse; itwas a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank and shrankas she did from the black pool, and yet could find no refuge from it. 

She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it. She had stilltwo-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her for many days more, or itwould help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, within reach ofDinah. The thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since theexperience of the night had driven her shuddering imagination away fromthe pool. If it had been only going to Dinah--if nobody besides Dinahwould ever know--Hetty could have made up her mind to go to her. Thesoft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn her. But afterwards theother people must know, and she could no more rush on that shame thanshe could rush on death. 

She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair to giveher courage. Perhaps death would come to her, for she was getting lessand less able to bear the day's weariness. And yet--such is the strangeaction of our souls, drawing us by a lurking desire towards the veryends we dread--Hetty, when she set out again from Norton, asked thestraightest road northwards towards Stonyshire, and kept it all thatday. 

Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face and the hard, unloving, despairing soul looking out of it--with the narrow heartand narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but her own, andtasting that sorrow with the more intense bitterness! My heart bleedsfor her as I see her toiling along on her weary feet, or seated ina cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, neverthinking or caring whither it tends, till hunger comes and makes herdesire that a village may be near. 

What will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart fromall love, caring for human beings only through her pride, clinging tolife only as the hunted wounded brute clings to it?

God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such misery!

Chapter XXXVIII

The Quest

THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as anyother days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at his dailywork. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, because there mightthen be something to detain them at Snowfield. But when a fortnight hadpassed 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 onecould have supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatientto 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. Therewas no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was light, andperhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive prettyearly at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next day--Dinah too, if shewere coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would afford tolose his Monday for the sake of bringing her. 

His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there onSaturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to come backwithout Hetty, for she had been quite too long away, considering thethings she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week wassurely 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 herbelieve the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks atSnowfield. "Though, " said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, "you mighttell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh toa shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off hernext Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange folks, andleave the children fatherless and motherless. "

"Nay, nay, " said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a manperfectly heart-whole, "it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking rarelynow, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, forshe'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 firstmile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the possibility that Dinahmight come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the coldmorning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense ofSunday 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 blackhedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down thehill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they walked insilence, though with a pleased sense of companionship. 

"Good-bye, lad, " said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder andlooking at him affectionately as they were about to part. "I wish theewast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am. "

"I'm content, Addy, I'm content, " said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be an oldbachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children. "

The'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward, mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was very fond ofhymns:

 Dark and cheerless is the morn Unaccompanied by thee: Joyless is the day's return Till thy mercy's beams I see: Till thou inward light impart, Glad my eyes and warm my heart. 

 Visit, then, this soul of mine, Pierce the gloom of sin and grief-- Fill me, Radiancy Divine, Scatter all my unbelief. More and more thyself display, Shining to the perfect day. 

Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne roadat sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in this tallbroad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firmas any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the dark-blue hills asthey began to show themselves on his way. Seldom in Adam's life had hisface been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; andthis freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical mindslike his, made him all the more observant of the objects round himand all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards hisown favourite plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy love--theknowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was so soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morningair was to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-beingthat made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush ofmore intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images thanHetty; and along with that would come a wondering thankfulness thatall this happiness was given to him--that this life of ours had suchsweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhapsrather impatient of devout words, and his tenderness lay very closeto his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without theother. But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in thisway, busy thought would come back with the greater vigour; and thismorning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improvedthat were so imperfect all through the country, and on picturing allthe benefits that might come from the exertions of a single countrygentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in hisown district. 

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that prettytown within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted. Afterthis, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no morewide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting the meagre pastures, and dismalwide-scattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been andwere no longer. "A hungry land, " said Adam to himself. "I'd rather gosouth'ard, where they say it's as flat as a table, than come to livehere; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be themost comfort to folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for shemust look as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in thedesert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat. " And when at lasthe came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was"fellow to the country, " though the stream through the valley where thegreat mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The townlay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adamdid not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him where to findDinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little way fromthe mill--an old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with alittle bit of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderlycouple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn wherethey were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah might be outon some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by theroadside before him, there shone out in his face that involuntary smilewhich belongs to the expectation of a near joy. 

He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow palsied shake ofthe head. 

"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam. 

"Eh?. . . No, " said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger witha wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "Will you please tocome in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself. "Why, ye're brother to the young man as come afore, arena ye?"

"Yes, " said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam. He told me to give his respects to you and your good master. "

"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye feature him, on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My man isna come homefrom meeting. "

Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman withquestions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting stairs in onecorner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his voiceand would come down them. 

"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standingopposite to him. "An' you didn' know she was away from home, then?"

"No, " said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing asit's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home, or gone alongwith 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 townye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's people. She'sbeen gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for herjourney. You may see her room here, " she went on, opening a door and notnoticing the effect of her words on Adam. He rose and followed her, anddarted an eager glance into the little room with its narrow bed, theportrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the largeBible. He had had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He couldnot speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; anundefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on thejourney. Still the old woman was so slow of; speech and apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all. 

"It's a pity ye didna know, " she said. "Have ye come from your owncountry o' purpose to see her?"

"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel, " said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"

"I know nobody by that name, " said the old woman, wonderingly. "Is itanybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"

"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday was afortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"

"Nay; I'n seen no young woman. "

"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyesand dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her arm? Youcouldn't forget her if you saw her. "

"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--therecome nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till you come, forthe folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summatthe matter?"

The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But hewas not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly where he couldinquire about Hetty. 

"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was afortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something has happenedto her. I can't stop. Good-bye. "

He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to thegate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost ran towardsthe town. He was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne coachstopped. 

No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accidenthappened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there was no coach totake him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn'tstay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam wasin great anxiety, and entering into this new incident with the eagernessof a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pocketslooking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him backto Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart" this very evening. It was not fiveo'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to getto Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he reallywanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as well go to-night; he should haveall Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attemptto eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready to set off. As they approached the cottage, itoccurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old womanwhere Dinah was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the HallFarm--he only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--thePoysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left anyaddress, and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could notrecall the name of the "blessed woman" who was Dinah's chief friend inthe Society at Leeds. 

During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time forall the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope. In the veryfirst shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, thethought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but hetried for some time to ward off its return by busying himself with modesof accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerablethought. Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance, got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and didnot want to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fenceof vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinctagonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking that shecould love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; andnow, in her desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had runaway. And she was gone to him. The old indignation and jealousyrose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealingfalsely--had written to Hetty--had tempted her to come to him--beingunwilling, after all, that she should belong to another man besideshimself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he hadgiven her directions how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew thatArthur had been gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt itat the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engagedto Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painfulretrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The poor thinghadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought thatshe could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man whooffered her a protecting, faithful love. He couldn't bear to blame her:she never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay withthat man who had selfishly played with her heart--had perhaps evendeliberately lured her away. 

At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young womanas Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more than afortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that ina hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton coach that wentthrough Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while he went away with thehorses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight tothe house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was themost obvious place for Hetty to go to first, whatever might beher destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chiefcoach-roads. She had been noticed here too, and was remembered to havesat on the box by the coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, foranother man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three orfour days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at theinn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken Adam must ofnecessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay, till eleven o'clock, when the coach started. 

At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had drivenHetty would not be in the town again till night. When he did come heremembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke addressed to her, quoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency thathe thought there was something more than common, because Hetty had notlaughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had done atthe inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part ofthe next morning was consumed in inquiries at every house in the townfrom which a coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did notstart from Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--andthen in walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines ofroad, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No, she was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adamwas to go home and carry the wretched tidings to the Hall Farm. As towhat he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutionsamidst the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within himwhile he went to and fro. He would not mention what he knew of ArthurDonnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity forit: it was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosuremight be an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been homeand done what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, hewould start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road, he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and make himself certainhow far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thoughtoccurred to him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would beuseless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mindabout Hetty, should never have alighted on the probability that she hadgone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps thereason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthuruncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to sucha step, after that letter written in August. There were but twoalternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again andenticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching marriagewith himself because she found, after all, she could not love him wellenough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if she retracted. 

With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which had proved tobe almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would nottell the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or hisintention to follow her thither, he must be able to say to them that hehad traced her as far as possible. 

It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reachedTreddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and alsoto encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself withoutundressing on a bed at the "Waggon Overthrown, " and slept hard from pureweariness. Not more than four hours, however, for before five o'clock heset out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept akey 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 anxiousto avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, andasking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gentlyalong the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but, as heexpected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsidedwhen he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to impose silence, andin his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with rubbing his bodyagainst his master's legs. 

Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He threwhimself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the signs of workaround him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in themagain, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wrong with hismaster, laid his rough grey head on Adam's knee and wrinkled his browsto look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had beenconstantly among strange people and in strange places, having noassociations with the details of his daily life, and now that by thelight of this new morning he was come back to his home and surroundedby the familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, thereality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon himwith a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's use, when his homeshould be hers. 

Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp'sbark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above, dressinghimself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother: he would comehome to-day, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly byto-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he had had a longer holiday thanhe had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was thegreatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he hadno hope left that she would ever love him well enough to marry him; buthe had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend andbrother than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always nearher, instead of living so far off!

He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitcheninto the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood still inthe doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seatedlistlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almostlike a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in an instant what themarks meant--not drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up athim without speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himselftrembling so that speech did not come readily. 

"God have mercy on us, Addy, " he said, in a low voice, sitting down onthe bench beside Adam, "what is it?"

Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress thesigns of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at this firstapproach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed. 

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections oftheir boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before. 

"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when Adamraised his head and was recovering himself. 

"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been toSnowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was afortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where she wentafter she got to Stoniton. "

Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that couldsuggest 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 camenigh--that must be it, " said Adam. He had determined to mention nofurther reason. 

"I hear Mother stirring, " said Seth. "Must we tell her?"

"No, not yet, " said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hairfrom his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. "I can't have her toldyet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I've been tothe village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, andthee must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody is to know anythingabout. I'll go and wash myself now. " Adam moved towards the door of theworkshop, but after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth'seyes with a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all the money outo' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll bethine, to take care o' Mother with. "

Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secretunder all this. "Brother, " he said, faintly--he never called Adam"Brother" except in solemn moments--"I don't believe you'll do anythingas you can't ask God's blessing on. "

"Nay, lad, " said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what'sa man's duty. "

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she wouldonly distress him by words, half of blundering affection, half ofirrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as shehad always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness andself-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--he told her when shecame down--had stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and abad headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for hispaleness and heavy eyes. 

He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to hisbusiness for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being obliged togo on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; forhe wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfast-time, when thechildren and servants would be in the house-place, and there must beexclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty. He waited until the clock struck nine before he left the work-yard atthe village, and set off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It wasan 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 goingto the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning, with asense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master'seye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his spud as a usefulcompanion by the way. His surprise was great when he caught sight ofAdam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil. 

"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and notbrought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"

"No, I've not brought 'em, " said Adam, turning round, to indicate thathe wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser. 

"Why, " said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye lookbad. Is there anything happened?"

"Yes, " said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hettyat Snowfield. "

Mr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled astonishment. "Not find her? What's happened to her?" he said, his thoughts flying atonce to bodily accident. 

"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never wentto Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't learn nothingof her after she got down from the Stoniton coach. "

"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still, sopuzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself felt as atrouble by him. 

"She must ha' done, " said Adam. "She didn't like our marriage when itcame 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 rootingup the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was doing. His usualslowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful. Atlast he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, "Then she didna deservet' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault myself, for she was my niece, andI was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye, lad--the more's the pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt. "

Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for alittle while, went on, "I'll be bound she's gone after trying to get alady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago, andwanted 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 tolook for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been gotready. "

Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be true. Hehad 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, "ifshe felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away before thanrepent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back, asshe 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 onher: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've knowed on her. It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come backwi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit. "

"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, andI couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction where she is at Leeds, else I should ha' brought it you. "

"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin, " said Mr. Poyser, indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n. "

"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser, " said Adam, "for I've a deal to seeto. "

"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis whenI go home. It's a hard job. "

"But, " said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quietfor a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's no knowinghow things may turn out. "

"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why the matchis broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake hands wi' me, lad: I wish I could make thee amends. "

There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment whichcaused 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 mengrasped each other's hard hands in mutual understanding. 

There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Sethto go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire, saying that AdamBede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journey--and to say asmuch, and no more, to any one else who made inquiries about him. If thePoysers learned that he was gone away again, Adam knew they would inferthat he was gone in search of Hetty. 

He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now theimpulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr. Irwine, and make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force which belongsto a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journey--adifficult one--by sea--and no soul would know where he was gone. Ifanything happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matterconcerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling whichmade Adam shrink from telling anything which was her secret must giveway before the need there was that she should have some one else besideshimself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity. Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt, Adamfelt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's interest calledon him to speak. 

"I must do it, " said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spreadthemselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon him inan instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering; "it's the rightthing. I can't stand alone in this way any longer. "

Chapter XXXIX

The Tidings

ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swifteststride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might be goneout--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state ofstrong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it hesaw the deep marks of a recent hoof on the gravel. 

But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and thoughthere was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: ithad evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some onewho had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam couldhardly find breath and calmness to tell Carroll that he wanted to speakto the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow hadbegun to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, ashe threw himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at theclock 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 thelast five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick, and Adamwatched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had somereason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almostalways these pauses, when our consciousness is benumbed to everythingbut some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy cameto give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave usin our sleep. 

Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. Hewas to go into the study immediately. "I can't think what that strangeperson's come about, " the butler added, from mere incontinence ofremark, as he preceded Adam to the door, "he's gone i' the dining-room. And master looks unaccountable--as if he was frightened. " Adam took nonotice 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 feltin an instant that there was a new expression in it, strangely differentfrom the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letterlay open on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changedglance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to preoccupation withsome disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's entrance were a matter of poignant anxiety to him. 

"You want to speak to me, Adam, " he said, in that low constrainedlyquiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to suppress agitation. "Sit down here. " He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no morethan a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sensethat this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an additional unexpecteddifficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind toa measure, he was not the man to renounce it for any but imperativereasons. 

"I come to you, sir, " he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most ofanybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as it'llpain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrongother 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 wast' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o'this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' theparish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me. "

Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then, determined to control himself, walked to the window and looked out. 

"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was goingto Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last Sunday tofetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach toStoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a longjourney to look for her, and I can't trust t' anybody but you where I'mgoing. "

Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down. 

"Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?" he said. 

"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir, " said Adam. "Shedidn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I doubt. There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody elseconcerned besides me. "

A gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came across theeager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment. Adam was looking onthe 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, "andused to be proud to think as I should pass my life i' working for him, and had felt so ever since we were lads. . . . "

Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No, Adam, no--don't sayit, for God's sake!"

Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of thewords that had passed his lips and sat in distressed silence. The graspon his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in hischair, saying, "Go on--I must know it. "

"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd noright to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents and usedto go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only two days beforehe 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 lovedher for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with hiswrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he saidsolemnly to me, after that, as it had been all nonsense and no morethan a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hettyhe'd meant nothing, for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things asI hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, andI thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to loveanother man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter, and sheseemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected. . . And shebehaved kinder and kinder to me. . . I daresay she didn't know her ownfeelings then, poor thing, and they came back upon her when it was toolate. . . I don't want to blame her. . . I can't think as she meant to deceiveme. But I was encouraged to think she loved me, and--you know the rest, sir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away, and she's gone to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go towork again till I know what's become of her. "

During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover hisself-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when Arthurbreakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of aconfession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to confess. Andif their words had taken another turn. . . If he himself had been lessfastidious about intruding on another man's secrets. . . It was cruelto think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt andmisery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination whichthe present sheds back upon the past. But every other feeling as itrushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sadblind resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was closeupon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to havefeared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comesover us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish he mustinflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand onthe arm that lay on the table, but very gently this time, as he saidsolemnly:

"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. Youcan bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God requires bothtasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you thanany you have yet known. But you are not guilty--you have not the worstof all sorrows. God help him who has!"

The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was tremblingsuspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity. But he went on. 

"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him. She isin Stonyshire--at Stoniton. "

Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leapedto 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 youto find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for ever. "

Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, andhe whispered, "Tell me. "

"She has been arrested. . . She is in prison. "

It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistanceinto Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said, loudly andsharply, "For what?"

"For a great crime--the murder of her child. "

"It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his chair andmaking a stride towards the door; but he turned round again, setting hisback against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. "It isn'tpossible. She never had a child. She can't be guilty. WHO says it?"

"God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is. "

"But who says she is guilty?" said Adam violently. "Tell me everything. "

"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and theconstable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She will not confessher name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be nodoubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, onlythat she is said to look very pale and ill. She had a small red-leatherpocket-book in her pocket with two names written in it--one at thebeginning, 'Hetty Sorrel, Hayslope, ' and the other near the end, 'DinahMorris, Snowfield. ' She will not say which is her own name--she denieseverything, and will answer no questions, and application has been madeto me, as a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was thought probable that the name which stands first is her ownname. "

"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said Adam, still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his whole frame. "I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it. "

"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime;but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it. Try and readthat letter, Adam. "

Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyessteadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give some orders. Whenhe came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first page--he couldn'tread--he could not put the words together and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last and clenched his fist. 

"It's HIS doing, " he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his door, not at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me first. Let 'em putHIM on his trial--let him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell 'emhow he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied tome. Is HE to go free, while they lay all the punishment on her. . . So weakand young?"

The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poorAdam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the corner of theroom as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone ofappealing anguish, "I can't bear it. . . O God, it's too hard to lay uponme--it's too hard to think she's wicked. "

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

"She can't ha' done it, " he said, still without moving his eyes, asif he were only talking to himself: "it was fear made her hide it. . . Iforgive her for deceiving me. . . I forgive thee, Hetty. . . Thee wastdeceived too. . . It's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty. . . But they'llnever make me believe it. "

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierceabruptness, "I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make him go andlook at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he can't forgetit--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he lives it shallfollow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--I'll fetch him, I'lldrag him myself. "

In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically andlooked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or who waspresent with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by thearm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No, Adam, no; I'm sure youwill wish to stay and see what good can be done for her, instead ofgoing on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fallwithout your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on hisway home--or would be, long before you arrived, for his grandfather, Iknow, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to gowith me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, assoon as you can compose yourself. "

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

"Remember, " Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, andact for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the goodPoysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear tothink. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--from your sense ofduty to God and man--that you will try to act as long as action can beof any use. "

In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam'sown sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the best means ofcounteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours. 

"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a moment'spause. "We have to see if it is really Hetty who is there, you know. "

"Yes, sir, " said Adam, "I'll do what you think right. But the folks atth' Hall Farm?"

"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shallhave ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now, and I shallreturn as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready. "

Chapter XL

The Bitter Waters Spread

MR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and thefirst words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house, were, thatSquire Donnithorne was dead--found dead in his bed at ten o'clock thatmorning--and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awakewhen Mr. Irwine came home, and she begged him not to go to bed withoutseeing her. 

"Well, Dauphin, " Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, "you'recome at last. So the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low spirits, whichmade him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. Isuppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bedthis morning. You will believe my prognostications another time, thoughI daresay I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death. "

"What have they done about Arthur?" said Mr. Irwine. "Sent a messengerto await him at Liverpool?"

"Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, Ishall live now to see him master at the Chase, and making good times onthe estate, like a generous-hearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happyas a king now. "

Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn withanxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almostintolerable. 

"What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or areyou thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that frightful IrishChannel at this time of year?"

"No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to rejoicejust now. "

"You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stonitonabout. 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 tellyou at present. Good-night: you'll sleep now you have no longer anythingto 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'sdeath would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could goto bed now and get some needful rest, before the time came for themorning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening news to the Hall Farm andto Adam's home. 

Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank fromseeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her again. 

"It's no use, sir, " he said to the rector, "it's no use for me to goback. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I couldn't bearthe sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a roomhere, where I can see the prison walls, and perhaps I shall get, intime, to bear seeing her. "

Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of thecrime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the belief inher guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from himthe facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reasonfor thrusting the whole burden on Adam at once, and Mr. Irwine, atparting, only said, "If the evidence should tell too strongly againsther, Adam, we may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and othercircumstances will be a plea for her. "

"Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into thewrong way, " said Adam, with bitter earnestness. "It's right they shouldknow 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, andSeth, and the people at the farm, who it was as led her wrong, elsethey'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be doing her ahurt by sparing him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, let herha' 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 arecalmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say nothing now, onlythat his punishment is in other hands than ours. "

Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur'ssad part in the story of sin and sorrow--he who cared for Arthur withfatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But hesaw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart fromAdam's determination, since it was scarcely to be supposed that Hettywould persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mindto withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst atonce, 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 beheld at Stoniton the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that MartinPoyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it wasbetter he should know everything as long beforehand as possible. 

Before ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm wasa house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than death. Thesense of family dishonour was too keen even in the kind-hearted MartinPoyser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. Heand his father were simple-minded farmers, proud of their untarnishedcharacter, proud that they came of a family which had held up its headand 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 neverbe wiped out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both offather and son--the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised allother sensibility--and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to observethat Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often startledby the severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be under the yoke of traditionalimpressions. 

"I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring heroff, " said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while the oldgrandfather was crying in the opposite chair, "but I'll not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my own will. She's made our bread bitter tous for all our lives to come, an' we shall ne'er hold up our heads i'this parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it'spoor 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 turnedseventy-two last St. Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pall-bearersas I'n picked for my funeral are i' this parish and the next to't. . . . It's o' no use now. . . I mun be ta'en to the grave by strangers. "

"Don't fret so, father, " said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little, being almost overawed by her husband's unusual hardness and decision. "You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the lads and the littleun 'ull grow up in a new parish as well as i' th' old un. "

"Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now, " said Mr. Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks. "We thoughtit 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but Imust gi' notice myself now, an' see if there can anybody be got to comean' take to the crops as I'n put i' the ground; for I wonna stay upo'that man's land a day longer nor I'm forced to't. An' me, as thought himsuch a good upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to beour landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i' the samechurch wi' him. . . A man as has brought shame on respectable folks. . . An'pretended to be such a friend t' everybody. . . . Poor Adam there. . . A finefriend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine, an' allthe while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' thiscountry any more nor we can. "

"An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her, " said theold man. "Why, they'll cast it up to the little un, as isn't four 'earold, some day--they'll cast it up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the'sizes for murder. "

"It'll be their own wickedness, then, " said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob inher 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 norever to die an' leave the little uns, an' nobody to be a mother to 'em. "

"We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is, " said Mr. Poyser; "but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be at Leeds. "

"Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith, " saidMrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husbands. "I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't remember what nameshe called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's like enough to know, forshe's a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on. "

"I'll send to Seth, " said Mr. Poyser. "I'll send Alick to tell him tocome, or else to send up word o' the woman's name, an' thee canst writea letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as we can make out adirection. "

"It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i'trouble, " said Mrs. Poyser. "Happen it'll be ever so long on the road, an' never reach her at last. "

Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too hadalready flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, "Eh, there's nocomfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get DinahMorris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her tocome in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me. She'd tell me therights on't, belike--she'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an'heart-break comin' upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in'slife, but war better nor anybody else's son, pick the country round. Eh, my lad. . . Adam, my poor lad!"

"Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?" saidSeth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro. 

"Fetch her?" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, likea crying child who hears some promise of consolation. "Why, what placeis't she's at, do they say?"

"It's a good way off, mother--Leeds, a big town. But I could be back inthree days, if thee couldst spare me. "

"Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother, an'bring me word what he's a-doin'. Mester Irwine said he'd come an' tellme, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me. Theemust go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Write a letter toDinah 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 gonemyself, I could ha' found out by asking the members o' the Society. Butperhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o'th' outside, it might get to her; for most like she'd be wi' SarahWilliamson. "

Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser waswriting to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing himself; but he wentto the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the addressof the letter, and warn them that there might be some delay in thedelivery, from his not knowing an exact direction. 

On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had alsoa claim to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam away frombusiness for some time; and before six o'clock that evening there werefew 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 ofhis conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it byits terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that hisgrandfather was dead, and that he was come into the estate. For MartinPoyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbourswho ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the firstday of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all thatpassed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and found early opportunities of communicating it. 

One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by thehand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shutup his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived abouthalf-past seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour, but had somethingparticular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwinesoon joined him. 

"Well, Bartle?" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not hisusual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat allwho feel with us very much alike. "Sit down. "

"You know what I'm come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay, " saidBartle. 

"You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reachedyou. . . About Hetty Sorrel?"

"Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you lefthim at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me what's the stateof the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o'pink-and-white they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't valueher a rotten nut--not a rotten nut--only for the harm or good that maycome out of her to an honest man--a lad I've set such storeby--trusted to, that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in theworld. . . . Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in this stupid countrythat ever had the will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn'thad so much hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into thehigher branches, and then this might never have happened--might neverhave happened. "

Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frameof mind, and was not able to check himself on this first occasion ofventing his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, andprobably his moist eyes also. 

"You'll excuse me, sir, " he said, when this pause had given him time toreflect, "for running on in this way about my own feelings, like thatfoolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants tolisten to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myself--if you'lltake the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's doing. "

"Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle, " said Mr. Irwine. "Thefact is, I'm very much in the same condition as you just now; I've agreat deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to bequite silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I shareyour concern for Adam, though he is not the only one whose sufferings Icare for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after thetrial: it will come on probably a week to-morrow. He has taken a roomthere, and I encouraged him to do so, because I think it better heshould be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he stillbelieves Hetty is innocent--he wants to summon up courage to see her ifhe can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she is. "

"Do you think the creatur's guilty, then?" said Bartle. "Do you thinkthey'll hang her?"

"I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. Andone bad symptom is that she denies everything--denies that she has hada child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, andshe was obstinately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animalwhen she saw me. I was never so shocked in my life as at the change inher. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for thesake of the innocent who are involved. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whomhe was speaking. "I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it's stuff and nonsensefor the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, Ithink the sooner such women are put out o' the world the better; and themen that help 'em to do mischief had better go along with 'em for thatmatter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating thevictual that 'ud feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to careabout it, I don't want him to suffer more than's needful. . . . Is he verymuch cut up, poor fellow?" Bartle added, taking out his spectacles andputting them on, as if they would assist his imagination. 

"Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep, " said Mr. Irwine. "He looksterribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now and thenyesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But Ishall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, and I have confidence enough inthe strength of Adam's principle to trust that he will be able to endurethe worst without being driven to anything rash. "

Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts ratherthan addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his mind thepossibility that the spirit of vengeance to-wards Arthur, which wasthe form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make him seek anencounter that was likely to end more fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forwardto Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring tosuicide, and his face wore a new alarm. 

"I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir, " he said, "and I hope you'llapprove of it. I'm going to shut up my school--if the scholars come, they must go back again, that's all--and I shall go to Stoniton and lookafter Adam till this business is over. I'll pretend I'm come to lookon 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 realadvantages in that. . . And I honour you for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But. . . You must be careful what you say to him, you know. I'mafraid you have too little fellow-feeling in what you consider hisweakness about Hetty. "

"Trust to me, sir--trust to me. I know what you mean. I've been a foolmyself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shan't thrust myselfon him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, andput in a word here and there. "

"Then, " said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion, "I think you'll be doing a good deed; and it will be well for you to letAdam'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 whimperingthing--I don't like to come within earshot of her; however, she'sa straight-backed, clean woman, none of your slatterns. I wish yougood-bye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spared me. You'reeverybody's friend in this business--everybody's friend. It's a heavyweight you've got on your shoulders. "

"Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we shall. "

Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll's conversationaladvances, and saying in an exasperated tone to Vixen, whose short legspattered beside him on the gravel, "Now, I shall be obliged to take youwith me, you good-for-nothing woman. You'd go fretting yourself to deathif I left you--you know you would, and perhaps get snapped up by sometramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting yournose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you doanything disgraceful, I'll disown you--mind that, madam, mind that!"

Chapter XLI

The Eve of the Trial

AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one laidon the floor. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the dark wallopposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggledwith the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey ispretending to read, while he is really looking over his spectacles atAdam Bede, seated near the dark window. 

You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face hasgot thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the neglected beardof a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy black hair hangs over hisforehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him topush it off, that he may be more awake to what is around him. He has onearm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at hisclasped hands. He is roused by a knock at the door. 

"There he is, " said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening thedoor. It was Mr. Irwine. 

Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwineapproached him and took his hand. 

"I'm late, Adam, " he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placedfor him, "but I was later in setting off from Broxton than I intendedto be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I have doneeverything 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 wasno chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background. 

"Have you seen her, sir?" said Adam tremulously. 

"Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this evening. "

"Did you ask her, sir. . . Did you say anything about me?"

"Yes, " said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, "I spoke of you. I saidyou 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 onlyyou--some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against herfellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than 'No' eitherto me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentionedto her, when I asked her if there was any one of her family whom shewould like to see--to whom she could open her mind--she said, with aviolent shudder, 'Tell them not to come near me--I won't see any ofthem. '"

Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There wassilence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, "I don't liketo advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge youstrongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even without her consent. It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances to the contrary, thatthe interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I havescarcely any hope of that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentionedyour name; she only said 'No, ' in the same cold, obstinate way as usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, uselesssuffering to you--severe suffering, I fear. She is very much changed. . . "

Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on thetable. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as if he had aquestion to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rosequietly, 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 youhave not been out again to-day. "

"You needn't deceive me, sir, " said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine andspeaking in a tone of angry suspicion. "You needn't be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It's hiswork. . . She was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybody's heart to lookat. . . I don't care what she's done. . . It was him brought her to it. And heshall know it. . . He shall feel it. . . If there's a just God, he shall feelwhat it is t' ha' brought a child like her to sin and misery. "

"I'm not deceiving you, Adam, " said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur Donnithorne isnot come back--was not come back when I left. I have left a letter forhim: he will know all as soon as he arrives. "

"But you don't mind about it, " said Adam indignantly. "You think itdoesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he knowsnothing about it--he suffers nothing. "

"Adam, he WILL know--he WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heartand a conscience: I can't be entirely deceived in his character. I amconvinced--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 ampersuaded that this will be a shock of which he will feel the effectsall his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount oftorture that you could inflict on him could benefit her. "

"No--O God, no, " Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; "butthen, that's the deepest curse of all. . . That's what makes the blacknessof it. . . IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty. . . She can never be mysweet Hetty again. . . The prettiest thing God had made--smiling up atme. . . I thought she loved me. . . And was good. . . "

Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as ifhe were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly, looking atMr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You don't think sheis, sir? She can't ha' done it. "

"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam, " Mr. Irwineanswered gently. "In these cases we sometimes form our judgment on whatseems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some smallfact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right tosay that the guilt of her crime lies with him, and that he ought to bearthe punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moralguilt and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes even indetermining who has committed a single criminal act, and the problem howfar a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences ofhis own deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of selfishindulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken somefeeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mindthat can understand this fully, Adam, when you are calm. Don't supposeI can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this stateof revengeful hatred. But think of this: if you were to obey yourpassion--for it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling itjustice--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'dsooner do it--I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer for by myselfthan ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand by and see 'empunish her while they let me alone; and all for a bit o' pleasure, as, if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd ha' cut his hand off sooner thanhe'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresawenough; he'd no right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. Andthen he wanted to smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' thingsfolks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what hewill, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't half sobad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t' himself and knowsall the while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else. "

"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort ofwrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you can'tisolate 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 theybreathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I know, I feel theterrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others;but so does every sin cause suffering to others besides those who commitit. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply beanother evil added to those we are suffering under: you could not bearthe punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on every onewho loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that wouldleave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils tothem. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of vengeance, butthe feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and aslong as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that to fix your mindon Arthur's punishment is revenge, and not justice, you are in dangerof being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what youtold me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur inthe 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 Masseyabout old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other matters of an indifferentkind. But at length Adam turned round and said, in a more subdued tone, "I've not asked about 'em at th' Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?"

"He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise him tosee you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state, and it is besthe should not see you till you are calmer. "

"Is Dinah Morris come to 'em, sir? Seth said they'd sent for her. "

"No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They're afraidthe letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact address. "

Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, "I wonder if Dinah'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha' been sorelyagainst it, since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think shewould, for the Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons;and Seth said he thought she would. She'd a very tender way with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha' done any good. You never saw her, sir, did you?"

"Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her--she pleased me a good deal. And now you mention it, I wish she would come, for it is possible that agentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jailchaplain is rather harsh in his manner. "

"But it's o' no use if she doesn't come, " said Adam sadly. 

"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measuresfor finding her out, " said Mr. Irwine, "but it's too late now, Ifear. . . Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night. Godbless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning. "

Chapter XLII

The Morning of the Trial

AT one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper room;his watch lay before him on the table, as if he were counting thelong minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be said bythe witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particularsconnected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave active man, whowould have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from anapprehended wrong or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplateirremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility which would havebeen an impelling force where there was any possibility of action becamehelpless anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else sought anactive outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur. Energeticnatures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from ahopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It is the overmasteringsense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to thinkof seeing Hetty, if she would consent to see him, because he thought themeeting might possibly be a good to her--might help to melt away thisterrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill willfor what she had done to him, she might open her heart to him. But thisresolution had been an immense effort--he trembled at the thought ofseeing her changed face, as a timid woman trembles at the thought ofthe surgeon's knife, and he chose now to bear the long hours of suspenserather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable agony ofwitnessing her trial. 

Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The yearning memories, the bitterregret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the InvisibleRight--all the intense emotions which had filled the days and nights ofthe past week, and were compressing themselves again like an eager crowdinto the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all theprevious years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he hadonly now awaked to full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he hadalways before thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if allthat he had himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment'sstroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish may dothe work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with asoul full of new awe and new pity. 

"O God, " Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked blankly atthe face of the watch, "and men have suffered like this before. . . Andpoor helpless young things have suffered like her. . . . Such a little whileago looking so happy and so pretty. . . Kissing 'em all, her grandfatherand all of 'em, and they wishing her luck. . . . O my poor, poorHetty. . . Dost think on it now?"

Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun towhimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all over?

Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand andsaid, "I'm just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are gone outof court for a bit. "

Adam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speak--he could onlyreturn the pressure of his friend's hand--and Bartle, drawing up theother chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his hat and hisspectacles. 

"That's a thing never happened to me before, " he observed, "to go out o'the door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take 'em off. "

The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respondat all to Adam's agitation: he would gather, in an indirect way, thatthere was nothing decisive to communicate at present. 

"And now, " he said, rising again, "I must see to your having a bit ofthe loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent this morning. He'll beangry with me if you don't have it. Come, now, " he went on, bringingforward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine into a cup, "Imust have a bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop with me, my lad--drinkwith me. "

Adam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, "Tell me aboutit, Mr. Massey--tell me all about it. Was she there? Have they begun?"

"Yes, my boy, yes--it's taken all the time since I first went; butthey're slow, they're slow; and there's the counsel they've got for herputs a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do withcross-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 bigsum--it's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow, with an eye that 'ud pickthe needles out of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it'ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes on in court;but a tender heart makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures for everonly 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 whatthey've said. I must know it now--I must know what they have to bringagainst her. "

"Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but MartinPoyser--poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for him--it was like onesob, the sound they made when he came down again. The worst was whenthey told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poorfellow--it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow falls heavily on himas well as you; you must help poor Martin; you must show courage. Drinksome 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 quietobedience, took up the cup and drank a little. 

"Tell me how SHE looked, " he said presently. 

"Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it was thefirst sight of the crowd and the judge, poor creatur. And there's a loto' foolish women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all up their armsand feathers on their heads, sitting near the judge: they've dressedthemselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be scarecrows and warningsagainst any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up theirglasses, and stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a whiteimage, staring down at her hands and seeming neither to hear nor seeanything. And she's as white as a sheet. She didn't speak when theyasked her if she'd plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty, ' and they pleaded 'notguilty' for her. But when she heard her uncle's name, there seemed to goa shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at her, shehung 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 thecounsellors--who look as hard as nails mostly--I saw, spared him as muchas they could. Mr. Irwine put himself near him and went with him out o'court. Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by aneighbour and uphold him in such trouble as that. "

"God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey, " said Adam, in a low voice, laying his hand on Bartle's arm. 

"Aye, aye, he's good metal; he gives the right ring when you try him, our parson does. A man o' sense--says no more than's needful. He's notone of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as iffolks who stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble wasthan those who have to bear it. I've had to do with such folks in mytime--in the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to bea witness himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to hercharacter and bringing up. "

"But the other evidence. . . Does it go hard against her!" said Adam. "Whatdo you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth. "

"Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must come atlast. The doctors' evidence is heavy on her--is heavy. But she's goneon denying she's had a child from first to last. These poor sillywomen-things--they've not the sense to know it's no use denying what'sproved. It'll make against her with the jury, I doubt, her being soobstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if theverdict's against her. But Mr. Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned withthe 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 sharpferrety-faced man--another sort o' flesh and blood to Mr. Irwine. Theysay the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o' the clergy. "

"There's one man as ought to be there, " said Adam bitterly. Presently hedrew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window, apparently turningover some new idea in his mind. 

"Mr. Massey, " he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, "I'llgo 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. Theyoughtn't to cast her off--her own flesh and blood. We hand folks over toGod's mercy, and show none ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I'llnever be hard again. I'll go, Mr. Massey--I'll go with you. "

There was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented Bartlefrom opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only said, "Takea bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must stopand eat a morsel. Now, you take some. "

Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and dranksome wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as he had been yesterday, but hestood upright again, and looked more like the Adam Bede of former days. 

Chapter XLIII

The Verdict

THE place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the close pavementof human heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armourhung in high relief in front of the dark oaken gallery at the fartherend, and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window opposite wasspread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that throughthe rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of oldkings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all thoseshadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the presence ofany but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts. 

But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt hitherto, nowwhen Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly seen being ushered to the sideof the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight of the great hall, amongthe sleek shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his facewere startling even to Mr. Irwine, who had last seen him in the dimlight of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope who werepresent, and who told Hetty Sorrel's story by their firesides in theirold age, never forgot to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poorfellow, taller by the head than most of the people round him, came intocourt and took his place by her side. 

But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position BartleMassey had described, her hands crossed over each other and her eyesfixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was withdrawn by theproceedings he turned his face towards her with a resolution not toshrink. 

Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is thelikeness we see--it is the likeness, which makes itself felt the morekeenly because something else was and is not. There they were--the sweetface and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, therounded cheek and the pouting lips--pale and thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast ablighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, andleft only a hard despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, thatcompletest type of the life in another life which is the essence ofreal human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in thedebased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking culpritwas the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under the apple-treeboughs--she was that Hetty's corpse, which he had trembled to look atthe first time, and then was unwilling to turn away his eyes from. 

But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and madethe sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the witness-box, amiddle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct voice. She said, "Myname is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed tosell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner atthe bar is the same young woman who came, looking ill and tired, witha basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturdayevening, 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'ttake in lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tiredto go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And herprettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about herclothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me as Icouldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked her to sitdown, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was going, andwhere her friends were. She said she was going home to her friends: theywere farming folks a good way off, and she'd had a long journey that hadcost her more money than she expected, so as she'd hardly any money leftin her pocket, and was afraid of going where it would cost her much. Shehad been obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'dthankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn'ttake the young woman in for the night. I had only one room, but therewere two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I thoughtshe'd been led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to herfriends, it would be a good work to keep her out of further harm. "

The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and sheidentified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in which she hadherself dressed the child. 

"Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by meever since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble both forthe child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the little thing andbeing anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for there seemed noneed. I told the mother in the day-time she must tell me the name of herfriends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She said, byand by she would write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what spiritshe showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, andtowards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after Meeting was over, andspeak to our minister about it. I left the house about half-past eighto'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door, but at the back door, whichopens into a narrow alley. I've only got the ground-floor of thehouse, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left theprisoner sitting up by the fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night before. Ithought she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushedtowards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call andask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back withme when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the doorbehind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with a bolt inside, andwhen there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in leaving it unfastened that littlewhile. I was longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for the womanthat came back with me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak andbonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it. . . . I wasdreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't go to giveinformation, because I'd no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knewshe had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't liketo set the constable after her, for she'd a right to go from me if sheliked. "

The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him newforce. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime--her heart must have clungto her baby--else why should she have taken it with her? She might haveleft it behind. The little creature had died naturally, and then shehad hidden it. Babies were so liable to death--and there might bethe strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was sooccupied with imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that hecould not listen to the cross-examination by Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown somemovements of maternal affection towards the child. The whole time thiswitness was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: noword seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next witness'svoice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave a start and afrightened look towards him, but immediately turned away her head andlooked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a roughpeasant. He said:

"My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's Hole, twomiles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one o'clock in theafternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of amile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting undera 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 regularroad through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young womanthere, but I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. Ishould have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good clothes. Ithought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stoodand looked back after her, but she went right on while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice to look after some stakes. There's a road right through it, and bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been cut down, and some of 'em not carried away. I didn't go straight along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't gotfar out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a strangecry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't forstopping to look about just then. But it went on, and seemed so strangeto me in that place, I couldn't help stopping to look. I began to thinkI might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hardwork to tell which way it came from, and for a good while I kept lookingup at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; and therewas a lot of timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, anda trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went onabout my business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an hourafter, I couldn't help laying down my stakes to have another look. Andjust as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something oddand round and whitish lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the sideof me. And I stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw itwas a little baby's hand. "

At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visiblytrembling; now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to what awitness said. 

"There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the groundwent hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out from amongthem. But there was a hole left in one place and I could see down itand see the child's head; and I made haste and did away the turf and thechoppings, and took out the child. It had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made haste backwith it out of the wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it wasdead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And Isaid, 'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going tothe coppice. ' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I tookthe child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we went on toJustice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young woman till darkat night, and we went and gave information at Stoniton, as they mightstop her. And the next morning, another constable came to me, to go withhim to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, therewas the prisoner a-sitting against the bush where I found the child; andshe cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd gota 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 frontof 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 theevidence, and was unconscious when the case for the prosecution hadclosed--unconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witness-box, tellingof Hetty's unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtuoushabits in which she had been brought up. This testimony could have noinfluence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea formercy which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed tospeak for her--a favour not granted to criminals in those stern times. 

At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement roundhim. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were retiring. Thedecisive moment was not far off Adam felt a shuddering horror that wouldnot let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hardindifference. All eyes were strained to look at her, but she stood likea statue of dull despair. 

'There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughoutthe court during this interval. The desire to listen was suspended, andevery one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adamsat looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that wereright in front of his eyes--the counsel and attorneys talking with anair of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation withthe judge--did not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shakehis head mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward actionwas too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strongsensation roused him. 

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, beforethe knock which told that the jury had come to their decision fell as asignal for silence on every ear. It is sublime--that sudden pause of agreat multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper anddeeper the silence seemed to become, like the deepening night, while thejurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold upher hand, and the jury were asked for their verdict. 

"Guilty. "

It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sighof disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by norecommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not withthe prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshlyby the side of her hard immovability and obstinate silence. Even theverdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those whowere near saw her trembling. 

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, andthe chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him. Then it deepenedagain, before the crier had had time to command silence. If any soundwere heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judgespoke, "Hester Sorrel. . . . "

The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as shelooked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him, as iffascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was adeep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words "andthen to be hanged by the neck till you be dead, " a piercing shriek rangthrough the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet andstretched out his arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her:she had fallen down in a fainting-fit, and was carried out of court. 

Chapter XLIV

Arthur's Return

When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter fromhis Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death, his firstfeeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to bewith him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at thelast that I shall never know now. It was a lonely death. "

It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pityand softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his busythoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly alongtowards the home where he was now to be master, there was a continuallyrecurring effort to remember anything by which he could show a regardfor his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherishedaims for the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in humannature--only in human pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fineconstitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing thatothers think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to givethem more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible forsuch a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through thedeath of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything verydifferent from exultant joy. Now his real life was beginning; now hewould have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. Hewould show the Loamshire people what a fine country gentleman was; hewould not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He felthimself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking afterfavourite plans of drainage and enclosure; then admired on sombremornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken wellof on market-days as a first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches atelection dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture;the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligentlandowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must like--happyfaces greeting him everywhere on his own estate, and the neighbouringfamilies on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with himevery week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some verydelicate way that Arthur would devise, the lay-impropriator of theHayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more tothe vicar; and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go onliving at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--atleast until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinctbackground, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play thelady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman. 

These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts throughhours of travelling can be compressed into a few sentences, which areonly like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a longlong panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy facesArthur saw greeting him were not pale abstractions, but real ruddyfaces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyserfamily. 

What--Hetty?

Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about thepast, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he thoughtof the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all thenews about the old places and people, had sent him word nearly threemonths ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he hadthought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself hadboth told Mr. Irwine all about it--that Adam had been deeply in lovewith Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to bemarried in March. That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than therector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and ifit had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked todescribe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words withwhich the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would liketo hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in prospect. 

Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfyhis renovated life, when he had read that passage in the letter. Hethrew up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, andgreeted every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there hadbeen news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the first time that day sincehe had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load thathad been pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. Hethought he could conquer his bitterness towards Adam now--could offerhim his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painfulmemory which would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, and he had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do whatwe will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthurwished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his businessand his future, as he had always desired before the accursed meetingin August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he shouldotherwise have done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband hada special claim on him--Hetty herself should feel that any pain shehad suffered through Arthur in the past was compensated to her ahundredfold. For really she could not have felt much, since she had sosoon made up her mind to marry Adam. 

You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in thepanorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was March now;they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married. And nowit was actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweet--sweetlittle Hetty! The little puss hadn't cared for him half as much ashe cared for her; for he was a great fool about her still--was almostafraid of seeing her--indeed, had not cared much to look at any otherwoman since he parted from her. That little figure coming towards him inthe Grove, those dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up tokiss him--that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. Andshe would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he couldmeet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort ofinfluence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. Hehad been earnestly desiring, for months, that she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in thesemoments than the thought of their marriage. It was the exaggeratingeffect of imagination that made his heart still beat a little morequickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as shereally was, as Adam's wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past feelings. Thankheaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs andinterests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing the foolagain. 

Pleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of beinghurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like those roundhis own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a market-town--verymuch like Treddleston--where the arms of the neighbouring lord of themanor were borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields andhedges, their vicinity to a market-town carrying an agreeable suggestionof high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woodswere more frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked downfrom a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapetand chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--massesreddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: thesmall church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even among thefaded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles roundthem; nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes atthe swift post-chaise; nothing noisy and busy but the gaping curs ofmysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And itshould not be neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should goon everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers inpost-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing butadmire 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, Arthurwould put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in anotheryear or two. That was an ugly fault in Arthur's life, that affair lastsummer, but the future should make amends. Many men would have retaineda feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would not--he wouldresolutely overcome all littleness of that kind, for he had certainlybeen very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mindtowards any human being: he was happy, and would make every one elsehappy that came within his reach. 

And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like aquiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight, and oppositeto it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplishblackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the Chase, as if anxious for theheir's return. "Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He was a youngfellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the worldgoes round! Aunt Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but sheshall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido. "

The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at theChase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been deferredtwo days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all theservants in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decentwelcome, befitting a house of death. A month ago, perhaps, it would havebeen difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in theirfaces, when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts ofthe head-servants were heavy that day for another cause than the deathof the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twentymiles away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of HettySorrel--pretty Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They hadthe partisanship of household servants who like their places, andwere not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation feltagainst him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for him;nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourlyintercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling thatthe longed-for event of the young squire's coming into the estate hadbeen robbed of all its pleasantness. 

To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave andsad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all again, andfeeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort ofpathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in it--which isperhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelledagreeably as he said, "Well, Mills, how is my aunt?"

But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever sincethe death, came forward to give deferential greetings and answer allquestions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where hisAunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in thehouse who knew nothing about Hetty. Her sorrow as a maiden daughterwas unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeralarrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women, she mourned for the father who had made her life important, all the morebecause she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him inother hearts. 

But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever donein his life before. 

"Dear Aunt, " he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR loss isthe greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and make it up toyou all the rest of your life. "

"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur, " poor Miss Lydia began, pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen withimpatient patience. When a pause came, he said:

"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my ownroom, and then I shall come and give full attention to everything. "

"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrance-hall. 

"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on thewriting-table in your dressing-room. "

On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room, butwhich Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just cast hiseyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were several letters andpackets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty conditionof a man who has had a long hurried journey, and he must really refreshhimself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read hisletters. Pym was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, witha delightful freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a newday, he went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The levelrays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and asArthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant warmthupon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which perhaps youand I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth andhealth, life has opened a new vista for us, and long to-morrows ofactivity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was noneed 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 waswritten, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives. " Nothing could havebeen less surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at thatmoment: of course, there was something he wished Arthur to know earlierthan it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as thatit was quite natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing thewriter. 

"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I maythen be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful duty it hasever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know whatI have to tell you without delay. 

"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retributionthat is now falling on you: any other words that I could write at thismoment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in which I musttell you the simple fact. 

"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime ofchild-murder. ". . . 

Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a singleminute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole frame, as if thelife were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next minute hehad rushed out of the room, still clutching the letter--he was hurryingalong the corridor, and down the stairs into the hall. Mills was stillthere, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted man acrossthe hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out after himas fast as his elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where theyoung squire was going. 

When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur wasforcing himself to read the remaining words of the letter. He thrustit into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that momentcaught sight of Mills' anxious face in front of him. 

"Tell them I'm gone--gone to Stoniton, " he said in a muffled tone ofagitation--sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop. 

Chapter XLV

In the Prison

NEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his backagainst the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail, saying a few lastwords to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away, but theelderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and strokinghis chin with a ruminating air, when he was roused by a sweet clearwoman's voice, saying, "Can I get into the prison, if you please?"

He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few momentswithout answering. 

"I have seen you before, " he said at last. "Do you remember preaching onthe village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?"

"Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen onhorseback?"

"Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?"

"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemnedto death--and to stay with her, if I may be permitted. Have you power inthe prison, sir?"

"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did youknow this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?"

"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But Iwas away at Leeds, and didn't know of this great trouble in time to gethere before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenlyFather, to let me go to her and stay with her. "

"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just comefrom Leeds?"

"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his homenow, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech you to get leavefor me to be with her. "

"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is verysullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to. "

"Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don't let usdelay. "

"Come, then, " said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission, "I know you have a key to unlock hearts. "

Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they werewithin the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing them offwhen she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they enteredthe jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There wasno agitation visible in her, but a deep concentrated calmness, as if, even when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseensupport. 

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 therefor the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a light during thenight--it is contrary to rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I canhelp you in anything, ask the jailer for my address and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that finefellow, Adam Bede. I happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening Iheard you preach, and recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked. "

"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me wherehe lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with trouble toremember. "

"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges overa tinman's shop, in the street on the right hand as you entered theprison. There is an old school-master with him. Now, good-bye: I wishyou success. "

"Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you. "

As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn eveninglight seemed to make the walls higher than they were by day, and thesweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a white flower onthis background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all thewhile, but never spoke. He somehow felt that the sound of his own rudevoice would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered thedark corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his mostcivil tone, "It'll be pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I canstop with my light a bit, if you like. "

"Nay, friend, thank you, " said Dinah. "I wish to go in alone. "

"As you like, " said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock andopening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light from hislantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sittingon her straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as ifshe were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock would have been likelyto waken her. 

The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of theevening sky, through the small high grating--enough to discern humanfaces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak becauseHetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with ayearning heart. Then she said, softly, "Hetty!"

There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's frame--a start suchas might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock--but she didnot look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressibleemotion, "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 iflistening. 

"Hetty. . . Dinah is come to you. "

After a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly fromher knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were looking ateach other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sadyearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her arms and stretched themout. 

"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you think Iwouldn't come to you in trouble?"

Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's face--at first like an animal thatgazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof. 

"I'm come to be with you, Hetty--not to leave you--to stay with you--tobe your sister to the last. "

Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, andwas clasped in Dinah's arms. 

They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to moveapart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it, hung on thissomething that was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking helplessin a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that herlove was welcomed by the wretched lost one. The light got fainter asthey stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet together, their faces had become indistinct. 

Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word fromHetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only clutching the handthat held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah's. It was the humancontact she clung to, but she was not the less sinking into the darkgulf. 

Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that satbeside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven the poorsinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwardssaid, that she must not hurry God's work: we are overhasty to speak--asif God did not manifest himself by our silent feeling, and make his lovefelt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way, butit got darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light onthe opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divinepresence more and more--nay, as if she herself were a part of it, andit was the Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was willing therescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak and findout how far Hetty was conscious of the present. 

"Hetty, " she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by yourside?"

"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 introuble?"

"Yes, " said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, "But you can donothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. They'll hang me o'Monday--it's Friday now. "

As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah, shuddering. 

"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the sufferingless hard when you have somebody with you, that feels for you--that youcan speak to, and say what's in your heart?. . . Yes, Hetty: you lean onme: you are glad to have me with you. "

"You won't leave me, Dinah? You'll keep close to me?"

"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the last. . . . But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides me, some one close toyou. "

Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?"

"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin andtrouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where youwent, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you havetried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow you--whenmy arms can't reach you--when death has parted us--He who is withus now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes nodifference--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 forcertain?. . . 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 thatother world--some one whose love is greater than mine--who can doeverything?. . . If God our Father was your friend, and was willing tosave you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither know wickedfeelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and wouldhelp you, as you believe I love you and will help you, it wouldn't be sohard to die on Monday, would it?"

"But I can't know anything about it, " Hetty said, with sullen sadness. 

"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by tryingto hide the truth. God's love and mercy can overcome all things--ourignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our past wickedness--allthings 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 letme come near you, if you wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me, you'd have shut me out from helping you. I couldn't have made you feelmy love; I couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God'slove out in that way, by clinging to sin. . . . He can't bless you whileyou have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't reachyou until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have done this greatwickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin. ' While you cling toone sin and will not part with it, it must drag you down to misery afterdeath, as it has dragged you to misery here in this world, my poor, poorHetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there islight and blessedness for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters oursouls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast itoff now, Hetty--now: confess the wickedness you have done--the sin youhave been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel downtogether, for we are in the presence of God. "

Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still heldeach other's hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah said, "Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth. "

Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of beseeching--

"Dinah. . . Help me. . . I can't feel anything like you. . . My heart is hard. "

Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her voice:

"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow:thou hast entered that black darkness where God is not, and hast utteredthe cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of thytravail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mightyto save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost one. She is clothed roundwith thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannotstir to come to thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she ishelpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature. . . . Saviour! It is a blindcry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy faceof love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied thee, and melther 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 beforethee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles onlyat the pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her thy life-givingSpirit, and put a new fear within her--the fear of her sin. Make herdread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel thepresence of the living God, who beholds all the past, to whom thedarkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, forher to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercy--now, beforethe night of death comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday that returneth not. 

"Saviour! It is yet time--time to snatch this poor soul from everlastingdarkness. I believe--I believe in thy infinite love. What is my love ormy pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my weakarms and urge her with my weak pity. Thou--thou wilt breathe on the deadsoul, and it shall arise from the unanswering sleep of death. 

"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like themorning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony are uponthee--I see, I see thou art able and willing to save--thou wilt not lether 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 encompassesher. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off fromhim. Melt the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with herwhole soul, 'Father, I have sinned. '. . . "

"Dinah, " Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, "I willspeak. . . I will tell. . . I won't hide it any more. "

But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently fromher knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by her side. It was a long time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and eventhen they sat some time in stillness and darkness, holding each other'shands. At last Hetty whispered, "I did do it, Dinah. . . I buried it in thewood. . . The little baby. . . And it cried. . . I heard it cry. . . Ever such a wayoff. . . All night. . . And I went back because it cried. "

She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone. 

"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die--there might somebody find it. Ididn't kill it--I didn't kill it myself. I put it down there and coveredit up, and when I came back it was gone. . . . It was because I was sovery miserable, Dinah. . . I didn't know where to go. . . And I tried to killmyself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I tried so to drown myself in thepool, and I couldn't. I went to Windsor--I ran away--did you know? Iwent to find him, as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and thenI didn't know what to do. I daredn't go back home again--I couldn't bearit. 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'tthink you'd be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I thought I couldtell you. But then the other folks 'ud come to know it at last, and Icouldn't bear that. It was partly thinking o' you made me come towardStoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going wandering abouttill I was a beggar-woman, and had nothing; and sometimes it seemed asif I must go back to the farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah. . . I was so miserable. . . I wished I'd never been born into thisworld. I should never like to go into the green fields again--I hated'em so in my misery. "

Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon herfor 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 Ididn't expect it; and the thought came into my mind that I might getrid of it and go home again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I waslying in the bed, and it got stronger and stronger. . . I longed so to goback 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. Ifelt I must do it. . . I didn't know how. . . I thought I'd find a pool, ifI could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to doanything. . . I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go backhome, and never let 'em know why I ran away I put on my bonnet andshawl, 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 therewas a public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. AndI walked on and on, and I hardly felt the ground I trod on; and it gotlighter, for there came the moon--oh, Dinah, it frightened me when itfirst looked at me out o' the clouds--it never looked so before; andI turned out of the road into the fields, for I was afraid o' meetinganybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, whereI thought I could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was aplace 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 agood while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light, and thebaby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off. . . I thought there'dperhaps be a ditch or a pond there. . . And it was so early I thought Icould 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 andtell 'em I'd been to try and see for a place, and couldn't get one. Ilonged so for it, Dinah, I longed so to be safe at home. I don't knowhow I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate it--it was like a heavyweight hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and Idaredn'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 beganagain, it was in a whisper. 

"I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I satdown on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And all of asudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little grave. And itdarted into me like lightning--I'd lay the baby there and cover it withthe grass and the chips. I couldn't kill it any other way. And I'd doneit in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, Dinah--I couldn't cover it quiteup--I thought perhaps somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and thenit wouldn't die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear itcrying all the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if Iwas held fast--I couldn't go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I satagainst the haystack to watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very hungry, and I'd only a bit of bread left, but I couldn't go away. And after eversuch a while--hours and hours--the man came--him in a smock-frock, andhe looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste and went on. Ithought he was going to the wood and would perhaps find the baby. And Iwent 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 eatthere, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the babycrying, and thought the other folks heard it too--and I went on. ButI was so tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by theroadside there was a barn--ever such a way off any house--like the barnin Abbot's Close, and I thought I could go in there and hide myselfamong the hay and straw, and nobody 'ud be likely to come. I went in, and it was half full o' trusses of straw, and there was some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where nobody could findme; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep. . . . But oh, the baby'scrying kept waking me, and I thought that man as looked at me so wascome and laying hold of me. But I must have slept a long while at last, though I didn't know, for when I got up and went out of the barn, Ididn't know whether it was night or morning. But it was morning, forit kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I couldn'thelp it, Dinah; it was the baby's crying made me go--and yet I wasfrightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock 'ud see meand know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that. I'd left offthinking about going home--it had gone out o' my mind. I saw nothingbut that place in the wood where I'd buried the baby. . . I see it now. OhDinah! shall I allays see it?"

Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed longbefore she went on. 

"I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood. . . . I knewthe way to the place. . . The place against the nut-tree; and I couldhear it crying at every step. . . . I thought it was alive. . . . I don't knowwhether I was frightened or glad. . . I don't know what I felt. I only knowI was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't know what I felt till I sawthe baby was gone. And when I'd put it there, I thought I should likesomebody to find it and save it from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o' stirring, Ifelt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'udknow about the baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or tryfor anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, andnothing 'ud ever change. But they came and took me away. "

Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was stillsomething behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that tearsmust come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob, "Dinah, doyou think God will take away that crying and the place in the wood, nowI've told everything?"

"Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray tothe God of all mercy. "

Chapter XLVI

The Hours of Suspense

ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing formorning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a shortabsence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you. "

Adam was seated with is back towards the door, but he started up andturned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His facewas even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he waswashed and shaven this Sunday morning. 

"Is it any news?" he said. 

"Keep yourself quiet, my lad, " said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not whatyou're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from the prison. She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you thinkwell to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poorcastaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, she said. Shethought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preachingwomen are not so back'ard commonly, " Bartle muttered to himself. 

"Ask her to come in, " said Adam. 

He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the greatchange that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tallman in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she puther hand into his and said, "Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has notforsaken her. "

"Bless you for coming to her, " Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me wordyesterday as you was come. "

They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before eachother in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himselffirst, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit down, " placing the chairfor her and retiring to his old seat on the bed. 

"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down, " said Dinah, "for I must hastenback. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, AdamBede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid herfarewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you shouldsee her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time will beshort. "

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 apardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite give itup. "

"That's a blessed thought to me, " said Dinah, her eyes filling withtears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast. "

"But let what will be, " she added presently. "You will surely come, andlet her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul isvery dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is nolonger hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride ofher heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires tobe taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that thebrethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner'sknowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the HallFarm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you werehere, she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him toforgive me. ' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come backwith me. "

"I can't, " Adam said. "I can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'mlistening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but that. It can't beas she'll die that shameful death--I can't bring my mind to it. "

He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, whileDinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turnedround 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, Iforgive her; tell her I will come--at the very last. "

"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart, " said Dinah. "I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, andwas not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make anyreturn to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen youto bear all things. " Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it insilence. 

Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door forher, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, "Farewell, friend, " and was gone, with her light step down the stairs. 

"Well, " said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into hispocket, "if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it'sbut fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she'sone--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting awoman 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 promisesthat he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too. 

"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep moreor less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keepthee company in trouble while I can. "

It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam wouldsometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short spacefrom wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and nosound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, orthe falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefullytended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, "If I couldha' done anything to save her--if my bearing anything would ha' done anygood. . . But t' have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing. . . It'shard for a man to bear. . . And to think o' what might ha' been now, ifit hadn't been for HIM. . . . O God, it's the very day we should ha' beenmarried. "

"Aye, my lad, " said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavy--it's heavy. But youmust remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notionshe'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think shecould have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done. "

"I know--I know that, " said Adam. "I thought she was loving andtender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could Ithink any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd marriedher, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might neverha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--my having a bit o'trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this. "

"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have come. The smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--you must havetime. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and bea man again, and there may good come out of this that we don't see. "

"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't alter th'evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if therewas a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be broughtto see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiledhis fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself withthinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter hershame and misery. "

"Well, lad, well, " said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrastwith his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, "it'slikely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a goodmany years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons whyother folks should be patient. "

"Mr. Massey, " said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I owe yousomething different; but you mustn't take it ill of me. "

"Not I, lad--not I. "

So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growinglight 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 thehand of his watch at six. "If there's any news come, we shall hear aboutit. "

The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, throughthe streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as theyhurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prisongates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing thoseeager people. 

No; there was no news come--no pardon--no reprieve. 

Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himselfto send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: hecould not shut out the words. 

"The cart is to set off at half-past seven. "

It must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help. 

In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinahhad sent him word that she could not come to him; she could not leaveHetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting. 

He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after thedoor closed behind him, trembling and stupefied. 

But he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes lifted upto him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked!The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with hisheart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearfulsmile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; thesweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were allgone--all but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of allwas the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes lookingat him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from thedead to tell him of her misery. 

She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. Itseemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, andthe pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visiblepledge of the Invisible Mercy. 

When the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--shefelt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with freshfear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed toreflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful pastand the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him. 

"Speak to him, Hetty, " Dinah said; "tell him what is in your heart. "

Hetty obeyed her, like a little child. 

"Adam. . . I'm very sorry. . . I behaved very wrong to you. . . Will you forgiveme. . . Before I die?"

Adam answered with a half-sob, "Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgavethee long ago. "

It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish ofmeeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voiceuttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been lessstrained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears came--they had never come before, since he had hungon Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow. 

Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love thatshe had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kepthold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, "Willyou kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked?"

Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gaveeach other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting. 

"And tell him, " Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell him. . . Forthere's nobody else to tell him. . . As I went after him and couldn't findhim. . . And I hated him and cursed him once. . . But Dinah says I shouldforgive him. . . And I try. . . For else God won't forgive me. "

There was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being turnedin the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that therewere several faces there. He was too agitated to see more--even tosee that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the lastpreparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Roomwas silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber inloneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end. 

Chapter XLVII

The Last Moment

IT was a sight that some people remembered better even than their ownsorrows--the sight in that grey clear morning, when the fatal cartwith the two young women in it was descried by the waiting watchingmultitude, cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberatelyinflicted sudden death. 

All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman whohad brought the obstinate criminal to confess, and there was as mucheagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hetty. 

But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty hadcaught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she had clutched Dinahconvulsively. 

"Close your eyes, Hetty, " Dinah said, "and let us pray without ceasingto God. "

And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the midst ofthe gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with the wrestling intensityof a last pleading, for the trembling creature that clung to her andclutched her as the only visible sign of love and pity. 

Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a sortof awe--she did not even know how near they were to the fatal spot, whenthe cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud shout hideous to herear, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty's shriek mingled with the sound, and they clasped each other in mutual horror. 

But it was not a shout of execration--not a yell of exultant cruelty. 

It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a horsemancleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and distressed, butanswers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks as if his eyes wereglazed by madness, and he saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has something in his hand--he is holding it up as if it were asignal. 

The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand ahard-won release from death. 

Chapter XLVIII

Another Meeting in the Wood

THE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite pointstowards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory. The scene wasthe Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were. 

The old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will had beenread, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur Donnithorne had comeout for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new futurebefore him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he coulddo that best in the Grove. 

Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he hadnot left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and tellthem everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with thePoysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, whereverthat 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 withJonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home withinreach of the friends to whom he felt bound by a mutual sorrow. 

"Seth and me are sure to find work, " he said. "A man that's got ourtrade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must make a newstart. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's told me, since I camehome, she'd made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if Iwished it, and if I'd be more comfortable elsewhere. It's wonderfulhow quiet she's been ever since I came back. It seems as if the verygreatness o' the trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all bebetter in a new country, though there's some I shall be loath to leavebehind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble's made us kin. "

"Aye, lad, " said Martin. "We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's name. But I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough for folks not to find out aswe've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er the seas, andwere like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in our faces, andour children's after us. "

That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam'senergies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering on his oldoccupations till the morrow. "But to-morrow, " he said to himself, "I'llgo to work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; andit'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 resolvednot 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 hisown feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what hehad felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remainedwith him. 

These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged withstrong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always called upthe image of the Grove--of that spot under the overarching boughs wherehe had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessedby sudden rage. 

"I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time, " he said; "it'lldo me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when I'd knockedhim 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 thesame spot at the same time. 

Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off theother with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if he had hadthe basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, withhis pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered theGrove on that August evening eight months ago. But he had no basket oftools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenlyround him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyesrested chiefly on the ground. He had not long entered the Grove, and nowhe paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundarymark of his youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of hisearliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would neverreturn. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affectionat the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed inbefore he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It was affectionfor the dead: THAT Arthur existed no longer. 

He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beechstood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was cominguntil the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him atonly two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each otherin silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam had imagined himselfas close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be asharrowing as the voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in themisery he had caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such ameeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had alwaysseen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched him withthe signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering was--he could not laya cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no impulse that he needed toresist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first tospeak. 

"Adam, " he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met here, for I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you to-morrow. "

He paused, but Adam said nothing. 

"I know it is painful to you to meet me, " Arthur went on, "but it is notlikely to happen again for years to come. "

"No, sir, " said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to youto-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an endbetween us, and somebody else put in my place. "

Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that hespoke again. 

"It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't wantto lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do anything formy sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen theevil consequences of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't meanconsequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do, Iknow. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may bedone, and you can help me. Will you listen to me patiently?"

"Yes, sir, " said Adam, after some hesitation; "I'll hear what it is. IfI can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend nothing, I know. We've had enough o' that. "

"I was going to the Hermitage, " said Arthur. "Will you go there with meand sit down? We can talk better there. "

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, forArthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he opened thedoor, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was thechair in the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was thewaste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep down in it, Arthur felt inan instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would havebeen painful to enter this place if their previous thoughts had beenless painful. 

They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said, "I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army. "

Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by thisannouncement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him. ButAdam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his faceunchanged. 

"What I want to say to you, " Arthur continued, "is this: one of myreasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may leavetheir home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrificeI would not make, to prevent any further injury to others throughmy--through what has happened. "

Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he hadanticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion ofcompensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt tomake evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all roused hisindignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful facts right inthe face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, hehad the wakeful suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a richman. He felt his old severity returning as he said, "The time's past forthat, 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 gota deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours. "

"Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I meantthat? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean to leave theplace where they have lived so many years--for generations. Don't yousee, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome thefeeling that drives them away, it would be much better for them in theend to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who knowthem?"

"That's true, " said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings arenot so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go to astrange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the HallFarm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a manwith his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's to be made anyother than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made upfor. "

Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant inhim 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 mostcherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months ago--Adam wasforcing Arthur to feel more intensely the irrevocableness of his ownwrong-doing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the mostirritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subduedby the same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confrontedeach other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face. Themomentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great dealfrom Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing so much; butthere was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he said, "But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conduct--by givingway to anger and satisfying that for the moment, instead of thinkingwhat will be the effect in the future. 

"If I were going to stay here and act as landlord, " he added presently, with still more eagerness--"if I were careless about what I'vedone--what I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, forgoing away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse thenfor trying to make the evil worse. But when I tell you I'm going awayfor years--when you know what that means for me, how it cuts off everyplan of happiness I've ever formed--it is impossible for a sensibleman like you to believe that there is any real ground for the Poysersrefusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine hastold me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out ofthis idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours, and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in hisefforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old woods. "

Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know that's agood work to do for the sake of other people, besides the owner. Andyou don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you willlike to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate andtake my name. He is a good fellow. "

Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feelthat this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur whom he hadloved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not bethrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face thatinduced him to go on, with growing earnestness. 

"And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk thematter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and then ifyou would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go. . . . Iknow, of course, that they would not accept any favour from me--I meannothing 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 authorityon the estate--he has consented to undertake that. They will really beunder no man but one whom they respect and like. It would be the samewith you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worsepain that could incline you to go. "

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with someagitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so towards you, I know. If youwere in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do thebest. "

Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthurwent on, "Perhaps you've never done anything you've had bitterly torepent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous. You would know then that it's worse for me than for you. "

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of thewindows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday?Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? Anddon't you think you would suffer more if you'd been in fault?"

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mindwas not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have littlepermanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcamebefore he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard themovement, and turning round, met the sad but softened look with whichAdam said, "It's true what you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature. I was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t'everybody but her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her sufferingcut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hardwith her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feelingovermuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you. I've known whatit is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been tooharsh to my father when he was gone from me--I feel it now, when I thinkof him. I've no right to be hard towards them as have done wrong andrepent. "

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who isresolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he went onwith more hesitation. 

"I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but ifyou'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 withthat action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the old, boyishaffection. 

"Adam, " Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would neverhave happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have helped to saveme from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceivedyou afterwards--and that led on to worse; but I thought it was forcedupon me, I thought it was the best thing I could do. And in that letterI told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think Iwould not have done everything I could. But I was all wrong from thevery first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give mylife if I could undo it. "

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, "How did she seem when you left her, sir?"

"Don't ask me, Adam, " Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I should gomad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me, and then, that Icouldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save her from that wretchedfate of being transported--that I can do nothing for her all thoseyears; 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 insympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll often be thinking o' the same thing, when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as Ipray him to help me. "

"But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris, " Arthur said, pursuinghis own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense of Adam'swords, "she says she shall stay with her to the very last moment--tillshe goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfortin her. I could worship that woman; I don't know what I should do if shewere not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could saynothing 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 whichhe spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked youto give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she is theone source of comfort, when he thinks of. . . I know she doesn't care aboutsuch things--or anything else I can give her for its own sake. But shewill use the watch--I shall like to think of her using it. "

"I'll give it to her, sir, " Adam said, "and tell her your words. Shetold me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm. "

"And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur, remindedof the subject which both of them had forgotten in the first interchangeof revived friendship. "You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine tocarry out the repairs and improvements on the estate?"

"There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of, " saidAdam, with hesitating gentleness, "and that was what made me hang backlonger. 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 withanything for the sake o' that. I know that's what they'll feel, andI can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got anhonourable independent spirit, they don't like to do anything that mightmake 'em seem base-minded. "

"But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reasonstrong enough against a course that is really more generous, moreunselfish than the other. And it will be known--it shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try tomake things worse for me; I'm punished enough without that. "

"No, sir, no, " Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection. "God forbid I should make things worse for you. I used to wish I coulddo it, in my passion--but that was when I thought you didn't feelenough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got tothink of now--to do my work well and make the world a bit better placefor them as can enjoy it. "

"Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow, andconsult with him about everything. "

"Are you going soon, sir?" said Adam. 

"As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements. Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place. "

"Good-bye, sir. God bless you. "

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feelingthat sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone. 

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to thewaste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief. 

Book Six

Chapter XLIX

At the Hall Farm

THE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801--more than eighteen monthsafter that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage--was on theyard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his most excitedmoments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being driveninto the yard for their afternoon milking. No wonder the patient beastsran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of thebull-dog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid femininecreatures, with pardonable superstition, imagined also to have somerelation to their own movements--with the tremendous crack of thewaggoner's whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of thewaggon, as it left the rick-yard empty of its golden load. 

The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at thishour on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with herknitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to akeener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over apailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the preventive punishmentof having her hinder-legs strapped. 

To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to thearrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who wasstitching Mr. Poyser's shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to haveher thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a suddeninsistence that she should look at "Baby, " that is, at a large woodendoll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in hersmall chair at Dinah's side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheekwith much fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years' growth thanwhen you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore. Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the familylikeness between her and Dinah. In other respects there is littleoutward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasanthouse-place, bright with polished oak and pewter. 

"I never saw the like to you, Dinah, " Mrs. Poyser was saying, "whenyou've once took anything into your head: there's no more moving youthan the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don't believethat's religion; for what's the Sermon on the Mount about, as you're sofond o' reading to the boys, but doing what other folks 'ud have you do?But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like takingyour cloak off and giving it to 'em, or letting 'em slap you i' theface, I daresay you'd be ready enough. It's only when one 'ud have youdo what's plain common sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinateth' other way. "

"Nay, dear Aunt, " said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with herwork, "I'm sure your wish 'ud be a reason for me to do anything that Ididn't feel it was wrong to do. "

"Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should liketo know, i' staying along wi' your own friends, as are th' happier forhaving you with 'em an' are willing to provide for you, even if yourwork didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o' sparrow's victual y' eatand the bit o' rag you put on? An' who is it, I should like to know, asyou're bound t' help and comfort i' the world more nor your own fleshand blood--an' me th' only aunt you've got above-ground, an' am broughtto the brink o' the grave welly every winter as comes, an' there's thechild as sits beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an'the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull missyou so as never was--a-lighting his pipe an' waiting on him, an' now Ican trust you wi' the butter, an' have had all the trouble o' teachingyou, and there's all the sewing to be done, an' I must have a strangegell out o' Treddles'on to do it--an' all because you must go back tothat bare heap o' stones as the very crows fly over an' won't stop at. "

"Dear Aunt Rachel, " said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face, "it'syour kindness makes you say I'm useful to you. You don't really want menow, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you're in goodhealth now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerfulcountenance again, and you have neighbours and friends not a few--someof them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will notmiss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts you have around you. I feel that I amcalled back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawnagain towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the wordof life to the sinful and desolate. "

"You feel! Yes, " said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glanceat the cows, "that's allays the reason I'm to sit down wi', when you'vea mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching formore than you're preaching now? Don't you go off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday a-preaching and praying? An' haven't you got Methodistsenow at Treddles'on to go and look at, if church-folks's faces are toohandsome to please you? An' isn't there them i' this parish as you'vegot under hand, and they're like enough to make friends wi' Old Harryagain as soon as your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranage--she'llbe flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be bound. She'll no more go on in her new ways without you than a dog 'ull standon its hind-legs when there's nobody looking. But I suppose it doesnamatter so much about folks's souls i' this country, else you'd be forstaying with your own aunt, for she's none so good but what you mighthelp her to be better. "

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser's voice just then, whichshe did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily to look atthe clock, and said: "See there! It's tea-time; an' if Martin's i' therick-yard, he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother putyour bonnet on, and then you go out into the rick-yard and see ifFather'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 thebright oak table and reached down the tea-cups. 

"You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' their work, "she began again; "it's fine talking. They're all the same, clever orstupid--one can't trust 'em out o' one's sight a minute. They wantsomebody's eye on 'em constant if they're to be kept to their work. An' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the winter before last?Who's to look after 'em then, if you're gone? An' there's that blessedchild--something's sure t' happen to her--they'll let her tumble intothe fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard in't, or somemischief as 'ull lame her for life; an' it'll be all your fault, Dinah. "

"Aunt, " said Dinah, "I promise to come back to you in the winter ifyou're ill. Don't think I will ever stay away from you if you're in realwant of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should goaway from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all things toorichly to enjoy--at least that I should go away for a short space. Noone can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the besetments Iam most in danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call of dutywhich I refuse to hearken to because it is against my own desires; itis a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature shouldbecome like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly light. "

"It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury, " saidMrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. "It's true there's goodvictual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I don't provideenough and to spare, but if there's ever a bit o' odds an' ends asnobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it out. . . But look there!There's Adam Bede a-carrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he'scome so early. "

Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at herdarling in a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof on hertongue. 

"Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should be ashamed tobe carried. Why, Adam, she'll break your arm, such a big gell as that;set her down--for shame!"

"Nay, nay, " said Adam, "I can lift her with my hand--I've no need totake my arm to it. "

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her reproof witha shower of kisses. 

"You're surprised to see me at this hour o' the day, " said Adam. 

"Yes, but come in, " said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; "there's nobad news, I hope?"

"No, nothing bad, " Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out hishand to her. She had laid down her work and stood up, instinctively, ashe approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as sheput her hand in his and looked up at him timidly. 

"It's an errand to you brought me, Dinah, " said Adam, apparentlyunconscious that he was holding her hand all the while; "mother's a bitailing, and she's set her heart on your coming to stay the night withher, if you'll be so kind. I told her I'd call and ask you as I camefrom the village. She overworks herself, and I can't persuade her tohave a little girl t' help her. I don't know what's to be done. "

Adam released Dinah's hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting ananswer, but before she had opened her lips Mrs. Poyser said, "Look therenow! I told you there was folks enow t' help i' this parish, wi'outgoing further off. There's Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas'alty as canbe, and she won't let anybody but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks atSnowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi'out you nor she can. "

"I'll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don't want anythingdone first, Aunt, " said Dinah, folding up her work. 

"Yes, I do want something done. I want you t' have your tea, child; it'sall ready--and you'll have a cup, Adam, if y' arena in too big a hurry. "

"Yes, I'll have a cup, please; and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm goingstraight home, for I've got a lot o' timber valuations to write out. "

"Why, Adam, lad, are you here?" said Mr. Poyser, entering warm andcoatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking as muchlike him as two small elephants are like a large one. "How is it we'vegot sight o' you so long before foddering-time?"

"I came on an errand for Mother, " said Adam. "She's got a touch of herold complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her a bit. "

"Well, we'll spare her for your mother a little while, " said Mr. Poyser. "But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on'y her husband. "

"Husband!" said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period ofthe boyish mind. "Why, Dinah hasn't got a husband. "

"Spare her?" said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table and thenseating herself to pour out the tea. "But we must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what areyou doing to your little sister's doll? Making the child naughty, whenshe'd be good if you'd let her. You shanna have a morsel o' cake if youbehave so. "

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turningDolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her truncated body tothe general scorn--an indignity which cut Totty to the heart. 

"What do you think Dinah's been a-telling me since dinner-time?" Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her husband. 

"Eh! I'm a poor un at guessing, " said Mr. Poyser. 

"Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i' the mill, and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has got nofriends. "

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasantastonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now seatedherself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, andwas busying herself with the children's tea. If he had been given tomaking general reflections, it would have occurred to him that there wascertainly 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 thatmoment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it wasa flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it camebecause her uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is noknowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, "Why, Ihoped Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up thenotion o' going back to her old country. "

"Thought! Yes, " said Mrs. Poyser, "and so would anybody else ha'thought, as had got their right end up'ards. But I suppose you must bea Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's ill guessing what thebats are flying after. "

"Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from us?"said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. "It's like breakingyour word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but you'd make thisyour home. "

"Nay, Uncle, " said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. "When I first came, Isaid it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any comfort to myaunt. "

"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?" saidMrs. 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. "Theemustna say so; we should ha' been ill off wi'out her, Lady day was atwelvemont'. We mun be thankful for that, whether she stays or no. ButI canna think what she mun leave a good home for, to go back int' acountry 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 areason, " said Mrs. Poyser. "She says this country's too comfortable, an' there's too much t' eat, an' folks arena miserable enough. And she'sgoing next week. I canna turn her, say what I will. It's allays the waywi' them meek-faced people; you may's well pelt a bag o' feathers astalk to 'em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinate--is it now, Adam?"

Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her by anymatter relating to herself, and, anxious to relieve her, if possible, he said, looking at her affectionately, "Nay, I can't find fault withanything 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 stayamong us, but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn't cross her, or make ithard to her by objecting. We owe her something different to that. "

As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just toomuch for Dinah's susceptible feelings at this moment. The tears cameinto 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 naughtydell. "

"Thee'st gone a bit too fur, " said Mr. Poyser. "We've no right t'interfere with her doing as she likes. An' thee'dst be as angry as couldbe wi' me, if I said a word against anything she did. "

"Because you'd very like be finding fault wi'out reason, " said Mrs. Poyser. "But there's reason i' what I say, else I shouldna say it. It'seasy 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 sheepwhen she's gone from me. An' to think of her leaving a parish whereshe's so looked on. There's Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as ifshe was a lady, for all her being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggot o'preaching in her head--God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to call itso. "

"Aye, " said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; "but thee dostna tell Adam whathe said to thee about it one day. The missis was saying, Adam, as thepreaching was the only fault to be found wi' Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says, 'But you mustn't find fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forgetshe's got no husband to preach to. I'll answer for it, you give Poysermany a good sermon. ' The parson had thee there, " Mr. Poyser added, laughing unctuously. "I told Bartle Massey on it, an' he laughed too. "

"Yes, it's a small joke sets men laughing when they sit a-staring atone another with a pipe i' their mouths, " said Mrs. Poyser. "GiveBartle Massey his way and he'd have all the sharpness to himself. Ifthe chaff-cutter had the making of us, we should all be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin Dinah, and see what she'sdoing, and give her a pretty kiss. "

This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certainthreatening symptoms about the corners of the mouth; for Tommy, no longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with hisforefingers and turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that shefelt to be disagreeably personal. 

"You're rare and busy now--eh, Adam?" said Mr. Poyser. "Burge's gettingso bad wi' his asthmy, it's well if he'll ever do much riding aboutagain. "

"Yes, we've got a pretty bit o' building on hand now, " said Adam, "whatwith the repairs on th' estate, and the new houses at Treddles'on. "

"I'll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit o'land is for him and Mary to go to, " said Mr. Poyser. "He'll be forlaying by business soon, I'll warrant, and be wanting you to take to itall and pay him so much by th' 'ear. We shall see you living on th' hillbefore another twelvemont's over. "

"Well, " said Adam, "I should like t' have the business in my own hands. It isn't as I mind much about getting any more money. We've enough andto spare now, with only our two selves and mother; but I should liket' have my own way about things--I could try plans then, as I can't donow. "

"You get on pretty well wi' the new steward, I reckon?" said Mr. Poyser. 

"Yes, yes; he's a sensible man enough; understands farming--he'scarrying on the draining, and all that, capital. You must go some daytowards the Stonyshire side and see what alterations they're making. Buthe's got no notion about buildings. You can so seldom get hold of a manas can turn his brains to more nor one thing; it's just as if they woreblinkers 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 mostof 'em don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrellingwith a door. My notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit o'taste makes the best architect for common things; and I've ten times thepleasure i' seeing after the work when I've made the plan myself. "

Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam's discourse onbuilding, but perhaps it suggested to him that the building of hiscorn-rick had been proceeding a little too long without the control ofthe 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-yardagain. "

Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and alittle basket in her hand, preceded by Totty. 

"You're ready, I see, Dinah, " Adam said; "so we'll set off, for thesooner I'm at home the better. "

"Mother, " said Totty, with her treble pipe, "Dinah was saying herprayers and crying ever so. "

"Hush, hush, " said the mother, "little gells mustn't chatter. "

Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on thewhite deal table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. And Mrs. Poyser, youperceive, had no correct principles of education. 

"Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn't want you, Dinah, " said Mrs. Poyser: "but you can stay, you know, if she's ill. "

So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farmtogether. 

Chapter L

In the Cottage

ADAM did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane. He had never yet done so, often as they had walked together, for he hadobserved that she never walked arm-in-arm with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walkedapart, though side by side, and the close poke of her little blackbonnet hid her face from him. 

"You can't be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?"Adam said, with the quiet interest of a brother, who has no anxiety forhimself in the matter. "It's a pity, seeing they're so fond of you. "

"You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for themand care for their welfare goes, but they are in no present need. Theirsorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, inwhich I found a blessing that I have missed of late in the midst of tooabundant worldly good. I know it is a vain thought to flee from the workthat God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to ourown souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall find thefulness of the Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where alone itis to be found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I have a clearshowing that my work lies elsewhere--at least for a time. In the yearsto come, if my aunt's health should fail, or she should otherwise needme, I shall return. "

"You know best, Dinah, " said Adam. "I don't believe you'd go against thewishes of them that love you, and are akin to you, without a good andsufficient reason in your own conscience. I've no right to say anythingabout my being sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put youabove every other friend I've got; and if it had been ordered so thatyou could ha' been my sister, and lived with us all our lives, I shouldha' counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to us now. ButSeth tells me there's no hope o' that: your feelings are different, andperhaps I'm taking too much upon me to speak about it. "

Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards, tillthey came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had passed through firstand turned round to give her his hand while she mounted the unusuallyhigh step, she could not prevent him from seeing her face. It struckhim with surprise, for the grey eyes, usually so mild and grave, hadthe bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation, andthe slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, washeightened to a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only sisterto Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some moments, and then he said, "I hope I've not hurt or displeased you by what I'vesaid, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I've no wish different fromwhat you see to be best, and I'm satisfied for you to live thirty mileoff, if you think it right. I shall think of you just as much as I donow, for you're bound up with what I can no more help remembering than Ican help my heart beating. "

Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presentlysaid, "Have you heard any news from that poor young man, since we lastspoke of him?"

Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him asshe had seen him in the prison. 

"Yes, " said Adam. "Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from himyesterday. It's pretty certain, they say, that there'll be a peace soon, though nobody believes it'll last long; but he says he doesn't mean tocome home. He's no heart for it yet, and it's better for others that heshould keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks he's in the right not to come. It'sa sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he alwaysdoes. There's one thing in the letter cut me a good deal: 'You can'tthink what an old fellow I feel, ' he says; 'I make no schemes now. I'mthe 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 alwaysfelt great pity, " said Dinah. "That meeting between the brothers, whereEsau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, has always touched megreatly. Truly, I have been tempted sometimes to say that Jacob was of amean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the good in themidst of much that is unlovely. "

"Ah, " said Adam, "I like to read about Moses best, in th' Old Testament. He carried a hard business well through, and died when other folks weregoing to reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at his lifeso, and think what'll come of it after he's dead and gone. A good solidbit o' work lasts: if it's only laying a floor down, somebody's thebetter for it being done well, besides the man as does it. "

They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, andin this way they went on till they passed the bridge across the WillowBrook, when Adam turned round and said, "Ah, here's Seth. I thought he'dbe home soon. Does he know of you're going, Dinah?"

"Yes, I told him last Sabbath. "

Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on Sundayevening, a circumstance which had been very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to haveoutweighed the pain of knowing she would never marry him. This eveninghe had his habitual air of dreamy benignant contentment, until he camequite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate eyelidsand eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam wasevidently quite outside the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: hewore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let Dinahsee that he had noticed her face, and only said, "I'm thankful you'recome, Dinah, for Mother's been hungering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the morning. "

When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm-chair, tootired with setting out the evening meal, a task she always performed along time beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when sheheard the approaching footsteps. 

"Coom, child, thee't coom at last, " she said, when Dinah went towardsher. "What dost mane by lavin' me a week an' ne'er coomin' a-nigh me?"

"Dear friend, " said Dinah, taking her hand, "you're not well. If I'dknown it sooner, I'd have come. "

"An' how's thee t' know if thee dostna coom? Th' lads on'y know whatI tell 'em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men think ye'rehearty. But I'm none so bad, on'y a bit of a cold sets me achin'. An'th' lads tease me so t' ha' somebody wi' me t' do the work--they make meache worse wi' talkin'. If thee'dst come and stay wi' me, they'd let mealone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnetoff, an' let me look at thee. "

Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was takingoff her bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a newlygathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity andgentleness. 

"What's the matter wi' thee?" said Lisbeth, in astonishment; "thee'stbeen a-cryin'. "

"It's only a grief that'll pass away, " said Dinah, who did not wish justnow to call forth Lisbeth's remonstrances by disclosing her intentionto leave Hayslope. "You shall know about it shortly--we'll talk of itto-night. I shall stay with you to-night. "

Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole eveningto 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 newinmate; and here Adam always sat when he had writing to do or plans tomake. Seth sat there too this evening, for he knew his mother would liketo have Dinah all to herself. 

There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in thecottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, large-featured, hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her dim-eyedanxious looks turned continually on the lily face and the slight formin the black dress that were either moving lightly about in helpfulactivity, or seated close by the old woman's arm-chair, holding herwithered hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language whichLisbeth understood far better than the Bible or the hymn-book. She wouldscarcely 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. Hastgot troubles o' thy own, like other folks?"

On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like eachother in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows, shaggyhair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his "figuring"; Seth, withlarge rugged features, the close copy of his brother's, but with thin, wavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as not looking vaguelyout of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly boughtbook--Wesley's abridgment of Madame Guyon's life, which was full ofwonder and interest for him. Seth had said to Adam, "Can I help theewith anything in here to-night? I don't want to make a noise in theshop. "

"No, lad, " Adam answered, "there's nothing but what I must do myself. Thee'st got thy new book to read. "

And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused afterdrawing a line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a kind smiledawning in his eyes. He knew "th' lad liked to sit full o' thoughts hecould give no account of; they'd never come t' anything, but they madehim happy, " and in the last year or so, Adam had been getting more andmore indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tenderness whichcame from the sorrow at work within him. 

For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard anddelighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature, had notoutlived his sorrow--had not felt it slip from him as a temporaryburden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. Itwould be a poor result of all our anguish and our wrestling if we wonnothing but our old selves at the end of it--if we could return to thesame blind loves, the same self-confident blame, the same light thoughtsof human suffering, the same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forthirrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful thatour sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only changing itsform, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathy--the one poorword which includes all our best insight and our best love. Not thatthis transformation of pain into sympathy had completely taken placein Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of pain, and this he feltwould subsist as long as her pain was not a memory, but an existingthing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of everynew morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our sensibility to it. It becomes a habitof our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect easeas possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission, and we arecontented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief insilence and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periodsthat the sense of our lives having visible and invisible relations, beyond any of which either our present or prospective self is thecentre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to lean on and exert. 

That was Adam's state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow. Hiswork, as you know, had always been part of his religion, and from veryearly days he saw clearly that good carpentry was God's will--was thatform of God's will that most immediately concerned him. But now therewas no margin of dreams for him beyond this daylight reality, noholiday-time in the working-day world, no moment in the distance whenduty would take off her iron glove and breast-plate and clasp him gentlyinto rest. He conceived no picture of the future but one made up ofhard-working days such as he lived through, with growing contentment andintensity of interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could neverbe anything to him but a living memory--a limb lopped off, but not gonefrom consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving was all thewhile gaining new force within him; that the new sensibilities bought bya deep experience were so many new fibres by which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, that his nature should intertwine with another. Yet hewas aware that common affection and friendship were more precious to himthan they used to be--that he clung more to his mother and Seth, andhad an unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any smalladdition to their happiness. The Poysers, too--hardly three or four dayspassed but he felt the need of seeing them and interchanging words andlooks of friendliness with them. He would have felt this, probably, evenif Dinah had not been with them, but he had only said the simplest truthin 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 thethought of her always came as the first ray of returning comfort. Theearly days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually turned into softmoonlight by her presence; and in the cottage, too, for she had comeat every spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had beenstricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousness at the sight ofher darling Adam's grief-worn face. He had become used to watching herlight quiet movements, her pretty loving ways to the children, when hewent 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 havebeen better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with herfor her overindulgence of the children, who had managed to convert Dinahthe preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had often trembled alittle, into a convenient household slave--though Dinah herself wasrather ashamed of this weakness, and had some inward conflict as to herdeparture from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was one thing thatmight have been better; she might have loved Seth and consented to marryhim. He felt a little vexed, for his brother's sake, and he could nothelp thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Seth's wife, would have madetheir home as happy as it could be for them all--how she was the onebeing that would have soothed their mother's last days into peacefulnessand rest. 

"It's wonderful she doesn't love th' lad, " Adam had said sometimes tohimself, "for anybody 'ud think he was just cut out for her. But herheart's so taken up with other things. She's one o' those women thatfeel no drawing towards having a husband and children o' their own. Shethinks she should be filled up with her own life then, and she's beenused so to living in other folks's cares, she can't bear the thought ofher heart being shut up from 'em. I see how it is, well enough. She'scut out o' different stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She'snever easy but when she's helping somebody, and marriage 'ud interferewith her ways--that's true. I've no right to be contriving and thinkingit 'ud be better if she'd have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is--orthan God either, for He made her what she is, and that's one o' thegreatest blessings I've ever had from His hands, and others besides me. "

This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam's mind when he gatheredfrom Dinah's face that he had wounded her by referring to his wishthat she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into thestrongest words his confidence in her decision as right--his resignationeven to her going away from them and ceasing to make part of their lifeotherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation werechosen by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough how muchhe cared to see her continually--to talk to her with the silentconsciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible sheshould hear anything but self-renouncing affection and respect inhis assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet thereremained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite theright thing--that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him. 

Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for shewas downstairs about five o'clock. So was Seth, for, through Lisbeth'sobstinate refusal to have any woman-helper in the house, he had learnedto make himself, as Adam said, "very handy in the housework, " that hemight save his mother from too great weariness; on which ground I hopeyou will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have thought thegallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his invalidsister. 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 asDinah had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had neverslept in the cottage since that night after Thias's death, when, youremember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a modifiedapproval to her porridge. But in that long interval Dinah had made greatadvances in household cleverness, and this morning, since Seth was thereto help, she was bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanlinessand order that would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was farfrom that standard at present, for Lisbeth's rheumatism had forced herto give up her old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. When thekitchen was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam hadbeen writing the night before, to see what sweeping and dusting wereneeded there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting rays ofthe early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and pale auburnhair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a verylow tone--like a sweet summer murmur that you have to listen for veryclosely--one of Charles Wesley's hymns:

 Eternal Beam of Light Divine, Fountain of unexhausted love, In whom the Father's glories shine, Through earth beneath and heaven above;

 Jesus! the weary wanderer's rest, Give me thy easy yoke to bear; With steadfast patience arm my breast, With spotless love and holy fear. 

 Speak to my warring passions, "Peace!" Say to my trembling heart, "Be still!" Thy power my strength and fortress is, For all things serve thy sovereign will. 

She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever livedin Mrs. Poyser's household, you would know how the duster behaved inDinah's hand--how it went into every small corner, and on every ledgein and out of sight--how it went again and again round every bar of thechairs, and every leg, and under and over everything that lay on thetable, till it came to Adam's papers and rulers and the open desk nearthem. 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 seehow much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this way, sheheard Seth's step just outside the open door, towards which her backwas turned, and said, raising her clear treble, "Seth, is your brotherwrathful when his papers are stirred?"

"Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places, " said a deepstrong voice, not Seth's. 

It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant felt nothingelse; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round, but stood still, distressed because she could not say good-morning in afriendly way. Adam, finding that she did not look round so as to seethe smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about hiswrathfulness, and went up to her, so that she was obliged to look athim. 

"What! You think I'm a cross fellow at home, Dinah?" he said, smilingly. 

"Nay, " said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, "not so. But you mightbe put about by finding things meddled with; and even the man Moses, themeekest of men, was wrathful sometimes. "

"Come, then, " said Adam, looking at her affectionately, "I'll help youmove the things, and put 'em back again, and then they can't get wrong. You're getting to be your aunt's own niece, I see, for particularness. "

They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recoveredherself sufficiently to think of any remark, and Adam looked at heruneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him somehowlately; 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 withdoing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at him--it waseasy for her to avoid looking at the tall man--and when at last therewas no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him to lingernear her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleadingtone, "Dinah, you're not displeased with me for anything, are you? I'venot said or done anything to make you think ill of me?"

The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course toher feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly, almost with thetears coming, and said, "Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?"

"I couldn't bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you, "said Adam. "And you don't know the value I set on the very thought ofyou, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I'd be contentfor you to go, if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you wasworth so much to me, I should feel I ought to be thankful, and notgrumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind parting withyou, Dinah?"

"Yes, dear friend, " said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, "I know you have a brother's heart towards me, and we shall often bewith one another in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness throughmanifold temptations. You must not mark me. I feel called to leave mykindred for a while; but it is a trial--the flesh is weak. "

Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer. 

"I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah, " he said. "I'll say no more. Let's see if Seth's ready with breakfast now. "

That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too, have been in love--perhaps, even, more than once, though you may notchoose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no morethink the slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by whichtwo human souls approach each other gradually, like two little quiveringrain-streams, before they mingle into one--you will no more think thesethings trivial than you will think the first-detected signs of comingspring trivial, though they be but a faint indescribable somethingin the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptiblebudding on the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks andtouches are part of the soul's language; and the finest language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as "light, ""sound, " "stars, " "music"--words really not worth looking at, orhearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust. " It is onlythat they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great andbeautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips andsawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words, "light" and"music, " stirring the long-winding fibres of your memory and enrichingyour present with your most precious past. 

Chapter LI

Sunday Morning

LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enoughto detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she had made upher mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends mustpart. "For a long while, " Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth ofher resolve. 

"Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again, " saidLisbeth. "Long while! I'n got no long while t' live. An' I shall betook bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come a-nigh me, an' I shall diea-longing for thee. "

That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was notin the house, and so she put no restraint on her complaining. She hadtried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, whyshe must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to hernothing but whim and "contrairiness"; and still more, by regretting thatshe "couldna' ha' one o' the lads" and be her daughter. 

"Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth, " she said. "He isna cliver enough forthee, happen, but he'd ha' been very good t' thee--he's as handy as canbe at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's as fond o' the Biblean' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen, thee'dst like a husbandbetter as isna just the cut o' thysen: the runnin' brook isna athirstfor th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for thee--I know he would--an' he mightcome t' like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubbornas th' iron bar--there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'd bea fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' socliver as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y alook o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me. "

Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions byfinding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about, and assoon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. Ittouched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and still more to lookround on her way across the fields and see the old woman still standingat the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speckin 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 gladaccording to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the yearswherein they have seen evil. It is thy will that I should part fromthem; let me have no will but thine. "

Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop nearSeth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of turnedwood he had brought from the village into a small work-box, which hemeant to give to Dinah before she went away. 

"Thee't see her again o' Sunday afore she goes, " were her first words. "If thee wast good for anything, thee'dst make her come in again o'Sunday night wi' thee, and see me once more. "

"Nay, Mother, " said Seth. "Dinah 'ud be sure to come again if she sawright 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 overagain. "

"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'sface. "What! Has she said anything o' that sort to thee, Mother?" hesaid, in a lower tone. 

"Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to wait tillfolks say things afore they find 'em out. "

"Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What's put it into thyhead?"

"It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so hollow asit must get in, an' nought to put it there. I know she's fond on him, asI know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an' that's anoof. An' he mightbe willin' to marry her if he know'd she's fond on him, but he'll ne'erthink on't if somebody doesna put it into's head. "

His mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not quitea new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest she shouldherself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure about Dinah'sfeeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's. 

"Nay, Mother, nay, " he said, earnestly, "thee mustna think o' speakingo' such things to Adam. Thee'st no right to say what Dinah's feelingsare if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing but mischief to saysuch things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate towardDinah, but he's no thoughts towards her that 'ud incline him to make herhis wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't thinkshe'll marry at all. "

"Eh, " said Lisbeth, impatiently. "Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldnaha' thee. She'll ne'er marry thee; thee mightst as well like her t' ha'thy brother. "

Seth was hurt. "Mother, " he said, in a remonstrating tone, "don't thinkthat of me. I should be as thankful t' have her for a sister as theewouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more thoughts about myselfin 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 Isay they are. "

"But, Mother, " said Seth, "thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by tellingAdam what thee think'st about her. It 'ud do nothing but mischief, for it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I'mpretty sure he feels nothing o' the sort. "

"Eh, donna tell me what thee't sure on; thee know'st nought about it. What's he allays goin' to the Poysers' for, if he didna want t' see her?He goes twice where he used t' go once. Happen he knowsna as he wantst' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's broth, but he'd miss it prettyquick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o' marrying if it isna putinto's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put himup to't an' not let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her tomake a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under thewhite thorn. "

"Nay, Mother, " said Seth, "thee mustna think me unkind, but I shouldbe going against my conscience if I took upon me to say what Dinah'sfeelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam byspeaking 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, bywords she said to me last Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry. "

"Eh, thee't as contrairy as the rest on 'em. If it war summat I didnawant, it 'ud be done fast enough. "

Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam's mind aboutDinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, sinceAdam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him onmatters of feeling, and that she would hardly dare to approach thistenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not takemuch notice of what she said. 

Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint bytimidity, and during the next three days, the intervals in which she hadan opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause herany strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded overher regretful thoughts about Dinah, till they had grown very near thatpoint of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing outof their secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, whenSeth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came. 

Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, foras there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon, Adam wasalways at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which shecould venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinnerthan usual to prepare for her sons--very frequently for Adam and herselfalone, Seth being often away the entire day--and the smell of the roastmeat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking ina peaceful Sunday manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his bestclothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and strokeher hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her andsmile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between them--allthese things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise. 

The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large picturedBible, and this morning it lay open before him on the round white dealtable in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because heknew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day inthe week when he could indulge her in that way. You would have liked tosee Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so hecame to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, andpoetry. He held one hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and theother ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning youwould have seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved insemi-articulation--it was when he came to a speech that he could fancyhimself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people; then hiseyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver alittle with sad sympathy--something, perhaps old Isaac's meeting withhis son, touched him closely; at other times, over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his face, and he would every now andthen shake his head in serious assent, or just lift up his hand and letit fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, ofwhich he was very fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words would bringa delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionallydiffering from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quitewell, as became a good churchman. 

Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat oppositeto him and watched him, till she could rest no longer without goingup to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. Thismorning he was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbethhad been standing close by him for some minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at thelarge page with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She wasencouraged to continue this caress, because when she first went upto him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at heraffectionately and say, "Why, Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty thismorning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I lovethee the best. " Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so manythings. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over, and it wasa picture--that of the angel seated on the great stone that has beenrolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong associationin Lisbeth's memory, for she had been reminded of it when she firstsaw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the booksideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, "That'sher--that's Dinah. "

Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said, "Itis 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 storeby Dinah?"

"Nay, " said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling thatshe had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever mischief theymight do. "What's th' use o' settin' store by things as are thirty mileoff? If thee wast fond enough on her, thee wouldstna let her go away. "

"But I've no right t' hinder her, if she thinks well, " said Adam, looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw aseries of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in thechair opposite to him, as she said:

"But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy. " Lisbeth darednot venture beyond a vague phrase yet. 

"Contrairy, mother?" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. "Whathave I done? What dost mean?"

"Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thyfigurin, an' thy work, " said Lisbeth, half-crying. "An' dost think theecanst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber?An' what wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody to take care on theeas thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i' the mornin'?"

"What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?" said Adam, vexed at thiswhimpering. "I canna see what thee't driving at. Is there anything Icould do for thee as I don't do?"

"Aye, an' that there is. Thee might'st do as I should ha' somebody wi'me to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me when I'm bad, an' be good to me. "

"Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th' houset' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o' work to do. Wecan afford it--I've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better forus. "

"Eh, what's the use o' talking o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o'th' wenches out o' th' village, or somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'erset eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my owncoffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me in. "

Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmostseverity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. ButLisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely aminute's quietness she began again. 

"Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isnamany folks I send for t' come an' see me. I reckon. An' thee'st had thefetchin' on her times enow. "

"Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know, " said Adam. "But it's no usesetting thy mind on what can't be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to stay atHayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her aunt's house, wherethey hold her like a daughter, and where she's more bound than she is tous. If it had been so that she could ha' married Seth, that 'ud ha' beena great blessing to us, but we can't have things just as we like in thislife. Thee must try and make up thy mind to do without her. "

"Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an'nought shall ma' me believe as God didna make her an' send her there o'purpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her bein' a Methody! It 'udhappen wear out on her wi' marryin'. "

Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. Heunderstood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of theconversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she hadever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new anidea. The chief point, however, was to chase away the notion from hismother's mind as quickly as possible. 

"Mother, " he said, gravely, "thee't talking wild. Don't let me hearthee say such things again. It's no good talking o' what can never be. Dinah's not for marrying; she's fixed her heart on a different sort o'life. "

"Very like, " said Lisbeth, impatiently, "very like she's none formarr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t' marry wonna ax her. Ishouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther if he'd ne'er axed me; an'she's as fond o' thee as e'er I war o' Thias, poor fellow. "

The blood rushed to Adam's face, and for a few moments he was not quiteconscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up towards his. It seemedas if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up veryspeedily from that dream (the waking was chill and sad), for it wouldhave been very foolish in him to believe his mother's words--she couldhave no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief verystrongly--perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were anyto be offered. 

"What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no foundationfor 'em? Thee know'st nothing as gives thee a right to say that. "

"Then I knowna nought as gi'es me a right to say as the year's turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i' th' morning. She isna fondo' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry HIM? But I can seeas she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt Seth. She makes nomore o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if he war Gyp, but she's all of atremble when thee't a-sittin' down by her at breakfast an' a-looking ather. Thee think'st thy mother knows nought, but she war alive afore theewast born. "

"But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?" said Adamanxiously. 

"Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what shouldshe do but love thee? Thee't made to be loved--for where's there astraighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein' a Methody? It'son'y the marigold i' th' parridge. "

Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at thebook on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was tremblinglike a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in thesame moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust hismother's insight; she had seen what she wished to see. And yet--and yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things, very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptiblebreeze, which seemed to him some confirmation of his mother's words. 

Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, "An' thee't find outas thee't poorly aff when she's gone. Thee't fonder on her nor theeknow'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 outinto the fields. 

The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we shouldknow was not summer's, even if there were not the touches of yellowon the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more thanautumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which stillleaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer webs in the shadow of thebushy hedgerows. 

Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in whichthis new thought of Dinah's love had taken possession of him, with anovermastering power that made all other feelings give way before theimpetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that tillthat moment the possibility of their ever being lovers had never crossedhis mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards thatpossibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishesthan the bird that flies towards the opening through which the daylightgleams and the breath of heaven enters. 

The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him withresignation to the disappointment if his mother--if he himself--provedto be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement ofhis hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed tomake one presence to him, and he believed in them both alike. And Dinahwas so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he wasnot forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by lovingher. Nay, his love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noonof that morning. 

But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quitecontented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he hadnever been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had he seenanything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he thought he could trust Seth's observation better than hismother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, withthis intention in his mind, he walked back to the cottage and said tohis mother, "Did Seth say anything to thee about when he was cominghome? Will he be back to dinner?"

"Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He'sgone somewhere else a-preachin' and a-prayin'. "

"Hast any notion which way he's gone?" said Adam. 

"Nay, but he aften goes to th' Common. Thee know'st more o's goings norI do. "

Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself withwalking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon aspossible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Sethwould scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time, which wastwelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his reading again, and hesauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, witheager intense eyes, which looked as if they saw something very vividly;but it was not the brook or the willows, not the fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength ofhis own feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love--almostlike the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself foran art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poetshave said so many fine things about our first love, so few about ourlater love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the bestwhich come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, theirdeeper-rooted affections? The boy's flutelike voice has its own springcharm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music. 

At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adamhastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something unusualmust have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enoughthat it was nothing alarming. 

"Where hast been?" said Adam, when they were side by side. 

"I've been to the Common, " said Seth. "Dinah's been speaking the Wordto a little company of hearers at Brimstone's, as they call him. They'refolks as never go to church hardly--them on the Common--but they'll goand hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking with power this forenoonfrom the words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners torepentance. ' 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 onestout curly headed fellow about three or four year old, that I never sawthere before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I waspraying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinahbegan to speak, th' young un stood stock still all at once, and began tolook at her with's mouth open, and presently he ran away from's motherand went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to takenotice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th' lad on her lap, whileshe went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went tosleep--and the mother cried to see him. "

"It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself, " said Adam, "so fond asthe 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 Sethsteal a glance at his face before he answered. 

"It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her, " he answered. "Butif thee mean'st it about myself, I've given up all thoughts as she canever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's enough. "

"But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to bewilling to marry 'em?" said Adam rather shyly. 

"Well, " said Seth, after some hesitation, "it's crossed my mindsometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for thecreature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had marked out forher. If she thought the leading was not from Him, she's not one tobe brought under the power of it. And she's allays seemed clear aboutthat--as her work was to minister t' others, and make no home forherself i' this world. "

"But suppose, " said Adam, earnestly, "suppose there was a man as 'udlet her do just the same and not interfere with her--she might do a gooddeal o' what she does now, just as well when she was married as whenshe was single. Other women of her sort have married--that's to say, notjust like her, but women as preached and attended on the sick and needy. There's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of. "

A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying hishand on Adam's shoulder, said, "Why, wouldst like her to marry THEE, Brother?"

Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, "Wouldst behurt if she was to be fonder o' me than o' thee?"

"Nay, " said Seth warmly, "how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble solittle that I shouldna feel thy joy?"

There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said, "I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think of her for a wife. "

"But is it o' any use to think of her?" said Adam. "What dost say?Mother's made me as I hardly know where I am, with what she's beensaying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah feels for me morethan common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But I'm afraid she speakswithout 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' beingwrong; besides, we've no right t' intermeddle with people's feelingswhen they wouldn't tell 'em themselves. "

Seth paused. 

"But thee mightst ask her, " he said presently. "She took no offence atme for asking, and thee'st more right than I had, only thee't not in theSociety. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are for keeping the Societyso strict to themselves. She doesn't mind about making folks enter theSociety, so as they're fit t' enter the kingdom o' God. Some o' thebrethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her for that. "

"Where will she be the rest o' the day?" said Adam. 

"She said she shouldn't leave the farm again to-day, " said Seth, "because it's her last Sabbath there, and she's going t' read out o' thebig Bible wi' the children. "

Adam thought--but did not say--"Then I'll go this afternoon; for if Igo to church, my thoughts 'ull be with her all the while. They must singth' anthem without me to-day. "

Chapter LII

Adam and Dinah

IT was about three o'clock when Adam entered the farmyard and rousedAlick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing. Alick said everybody wasgone to church "but th' young missis"--so he called Dinah--but thisdid not disappoint Adam, although the "everybody" was so liberal asto include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of necessity were notunfrequently incompatible with church-going. 

There was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quieter than usual. Adam heard thewater gently dripping from the pump--that was the only sound--andhe knocked at the house door rather softly, as was suitable in thatstillness. 

The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with thegreat surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, when she knew it was hisregular practice to be at church. Yesterday he would have said to herwithout any difficulty, "I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest werenot at home. " But to-day something prevented him from saying that, andhe put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, and yetboth wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat down. Dinahtook the chair she had just left; it was at the corner of the tablenear the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it was notopen. She had been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bitof clear fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr. Poyser's three-cornered chair. 

"Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?" Dinah said, recoveringherself. "Seth said she was well this morning. "

"No, she's very hearty to-day, " said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah'sfeeling at the sight of him, but shy. 

"There's nobody at home, you see, " Dinah said; "but you'll wait. You'vebeen hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless. "

"Yes, " Adam said, and then paused, before he added, "I was thinkingabout you: that was the reason. "

This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he thoughtDinah must understand all he meant. But the frankness of the wordscaused her immediately to interpret them into a renewal of his brotherlyregrets that she was going away, and she answered calmly, "Do not becareful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all things and abound atSnowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am not seeking my own will ingoing. "

"But if things were different, Dinah, " said Adam, hesitatingly. "If youknew things that perhaps you don't know now. . . . "

Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he reached achair and brought it near the corner of the table where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid--and the next moment her thoughts flew tothe past: was it something about those distant unhappy ones that shedidn't know?

Adam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which had nowa self-forgetful questioning in them--for a moment he forgot that hewanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to tell her what hemeant. 

"Dinah, " he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, "I loveyou 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 violentlyunder the shock of painful joy. Her hands were cold as death betweenAdam'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 andpass our lives away from one another. "

The tears were trembling in Dinah's eyes, and they fell before she couldanswer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice. 

"Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part. "

"Not if you love me, Dinah--not if you love me, " Adam said passionately. "Tell me--tell me if you can love me better than a brother?"

Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt toachieve any end by a deceptive concealment. She was recovering now fromthe first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam with simple sincereeyes as she said, "Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you;and of my own will, if I had no clear showing to the contrary, I couldfind my happiness in being near you and ministering to you continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear Ishould forget the Divine presence, and seek no love but yours. "

Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other indelicious silence--for the first sense of mutual love excludes otherfeelings; it will have the soul all to itself. 

"Then, Dinah, " Adam said at last, "how can there be anything contraryto what's right in our belonging to one another and spending our livestogether? Who put this great love into our hearts? Can anything beholier 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 yououghtn't to do this and you oughtn't to do that. You'd follow yourconscience as much as you do now. "

"Yes, Adam, " Dinah said, "I know marriage is a holy state for those whoare truly called to it, and have no other drawing; but from my childhoodupwards I have been led towards another path; all my peace and my joyhave come from having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in God and those of his creatures whose sorrows and joyshe has given me to know. Those have been very blessed years to me, and Ifeel that if I was to listen to any voice that would draw me aside fromthat path, I should be turning my back on the light that has shone uponme, and darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not blesseach 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 givenme and I had put away from me. "

"But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and if you love meso as to be willing to be nearer to me than to other people, isn't thata sign that it's right for you to change your life? Doesn't the lovemake it right when nothing else would?"

"Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for now, since youtell me of your strong love towards me, what was clear to me has becomedark again. I felt before that my heart was too strongly drawn towardsyou, and that your heart was not as mine; and the thought of you hadtaken hold of me, so that my soul had lost its freedom, and was becomingenslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and carefulabout what should befall myself. For in all other affection I had beencontent with any small return, or with none; but my heart was beginningto hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt that I mustwrestle against that as a great temptation, and the command was clearthat I must go away. "

"But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better than you loveme. . . It's all different now. You won't think o' going. You'll stay, andbe my dear wife, and I shall thank God for giving me my life as I neverthanked him before. "

"Adam, it's hard to me to turn a deaf ear. . . You know it's hard; but agreat fear is upon me. It seems to me as if you were stretching out yourarms to me, and beckoning me to come and take my ease and live for myown delight, and Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towardsme, and pointing to the sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. I haveseen that again and again when I have been sitting in stillness anddarkness, and a great terror has come upon me lest I should become hard, and a lover of self, and no more bear willingly the Redeemer's cross. "

Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through her. "Adam, "she went on, "you wouldn't desire that we should seek a good throughany unfaithfulness to the light that is in us; you wouldn't believe thatcould be a good. We are of one mind in that. "

"Yes, Dinah, " said Adam sadly, "I'll never be the man t' urge youagainst your conscience. But I can't give up the hope that you may cometo see different. I don't believe your loving me could shut up yourheart--it's only adding to what you've been before, not taking away fromit. For it seems to me it's the same with love and happiness as withsorrow--the more we know of it the better we can feel what otherpeople'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 betterhe'll do's work; and feeling's a sort o' knowledge. "

Dinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of somethingvisible only to herself. Adam went on presently with his pleading, "Andyou can do almost as much as you do now. I won't ask you to go to churchwith me of a Sunday. You shall go where you like among the people, andteach 'em; for though I like church best, I don't put my soul aboveyours, as if my words was better for you to follow than your ownconscience. And you can help the sick just as much, and you'll have moremeans o' making 'em a bit comfortable; and you'll be among all yourown friends as love you, and can help 'em and be a blessing to 'em tilltheir dying day. Surely, Dinah, you'd be as near to God as if you wasliving lonely and away from me. "

Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still holding her hands andlooking at her with almost trembling anxiety, when she turned her graveloving eyes on his and said, in rather a sad voice, "Adam there is truthin what you say, and there's many of the brethren and sisters who havegreater strength than I have, and find their hearts enlarged by thecares of husband and kindred. But I have not faith that it would be sowith me, for since my affections have been set above measure on you, Ihave had less peace and joy in God. I have felt as it were a divisionin my heart. And think how it is with me, Adam. That life I have led islike a land I have trodden in blessedness since my childhood; and ifI long for a moment to follow the voice which calls me to another landthat I know not, I cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearnfor that early blessedness which I had forsaken; and where doubt entersthere is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer guidance. I must gofrom you, and we must submit ourselves entirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes required to lay our natural lawful affections on thealtar. "

Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah's was not the voice of caprice orinsincerity. But it was very hard for him; his eyes got dim as he lookedat her. 

"But you may come to feel satisfied. . . To feel that you may come to meagain, and we may never part, Dinah?"

"We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty will be made clear. It may be when I have entered on my former life, I shall find all thesenew thoughts and wishes vanish, and become as things that were not. ThenI 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 notso good as you. I can't doubt it's right for me to love the best thingGod's ever given me to know. "

"Nay, Adam. It seems to me that my love for you is not weak, for myheart waits on your words and looks, almost as a little child waits onthe help and tenderness of the strong on whom it depends. If the thoughtof you took slight hold of me, I should not fear that it would be anidol in the temple. But you will strengthen me--you will not hinder mein seeking to obey to the uttermost. "

"Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I'll speakno word to disturb you. "

They went out and walked towards the fields, where they would meet thefamily coming from church. Adam said, "Take my arm, Dinah, " and she tookit. That was the only change in their manner to each other since theywere last walking together. But no sadness in the prospect of her goingaway--in the uncertainty of the issue--could rob the sweetness fromAdam's sense that Dinah loved him. He thought he would stay at the HallFarm 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 openedthe far gate into the Home Close. "I couldna think how he happened awayfrom church. Why, " added good Martin, after a moment's pause, "what dostthink has just jumped into my head?"

"Summat as hadna far to jump, for it's just under our nose. You mean asAdam's fond o' Dinah. "

"Aye! hast ever had any notion of it before?"

"To be sure I have, " said Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if possible, to be taken by surprise. "I'm not one o' those as can see the cat i' thedairy 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 thewind blows on me. I can keep my own counsel when there's no good i'speaking. "

"But Dinah 'll ha' none o' him. Dost think she will?"

"Nay, " said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard against apossible surprise, "she'll never marry anybody, if he isn't a Methodistand a cripple. "

"It 'ud ha' been a pretty thing though for 'em t' marry, " said Martin, turning his head on one side, as if in pleased contemplation of his newidea. "Thee'dst ha' liked it too, wouldstna?"

"Ah! I should. I should ha' been sure of her then, as she wouldn'tgo away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile off, and me not got acreatur to look to, only neighbours, as are no kin to me, an' most of'em women as I'd be ashamed to show my face, if my dairy things war liketheir'n. There may well be streaky butter i' the market. An' I should beglad to see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, with ahouse of her own over her head; and we'd stock her well wi' linen andfeathers, for I love her next to my own children. An' she makes one feelsafer when she's i' the house, for she's like the driven snow: anybodymight sin for two as had her at their elbow. "

"Dinah, " said Tommy, running forward to meet her, "mother says you'llnever marry anybody but a Methodist cripple. What a silly you must be!"a comment which Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with both arms, anddancing along by her side with incommodious fondness. 

"Why, Adam, we missed you i' the singing to-day, " said Mr. Poyser. "Howwas it?"

"I wanted to see Dinah--she's going away so soon, " said Adam. 

"Ah, lad! Can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find her a good husbandsomewhere i' the parish. If you'll do that, we'll forgive you formissing church. But, anyway, she isna going before the harvest suppero' Wednesday, and you must come then. There's Bartle Massey comin', an'happen Craig. You'll be sure an' come, now, at seven? The missis wunnahave it a bit later. "

"Aye, " said Adam, "I'll come if I can. But I can't often say what I'lldo beforehand, for the work often holds me longer than I expect. You'llstay till the end o' the week, Dinah?"

"Yes, yes!" said Mr. Poyser. "We'll have no nay. "

"She's no call to be in a hurry, " observed Mrs. Poyser. "Scarcenesso' victual 'ull keep: there's no need to be hasty wi' the cooking. An'scarceness is what there's the biggest stock of i' that country. "

Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked of otherthings through the rest of the walk, lingering in the sunshine to lookat the great flock of geese grazing, at the new corn-ricks, and at thesurprising abundance of fruit on the old pear-tree; Nancy and Mollyhaving already hastened home, side by side, each holding, carefullywrapped in her pocket-handkerchief, a prayer-book, in which she couldread little beyond the large letters and the Amens. 

Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through thefields from "afternoon church"--as such walks used to be in those oldleisurely times, when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, wasthe newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday books had most of them oldbrown-leather covers, and opened with remarkable precision always in oneplace. Leisure is gone--gone where the spinning-wheels are gone, and thepack-horses, and the slow waggons, and the pedlars, who brought bargainsto the door on sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisurefor mankind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for eagerthought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now--eager for amusement;prone to excursion-trains, art museums, periodical literature, andexciting novels; prone even to scientific theorizing and cursory peepsthrough microscopes. Old Leisure was quite a different personage. Heonly read one newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was free fromthat periodicity of sensations which we call post-time. He was acontemplative, rather stout gentleman, of excellent digestion; of quietperceptions, undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his inability to knowthe causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chieflyin the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and was fond ofsauntering by the fruit-tree wall and scenting the apricots when theywere warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself underthe orchard boughs at noon, when the summer pears were falling. He knewnothing of weekday services, and thought none the worse of the Sundaysermon if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing; likingthe afternoon service best, because the prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broad-backed like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer orport-wine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and loftyaspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered theguineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept the sleep of theirresponsible, for had he not kept up his character by going to churchon the Sunday afternoons?

Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modernstandard. He never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, orread Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus. 

Chapter LIII

The Harvest Supper

As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clocksunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley winding its waytowards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of "HarvestHome!" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and moremusical through the growing distance, the falling dying sound stillreached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shoneright on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscioussheep into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the cottagetoo, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber oramethyst. 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 almostlike a funeral bell, for all it tells one o' the joyfullest time o' theyear, and the time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it'sa bit hard to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives; andthere's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like what I feelabout Dinah. I should never ha' come to know that her love 'ud be thegreatest o' blessings to me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't beenwrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need, so as Icould crave and hunger for a greater and a better comfort. "

He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompanyher as far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to fix some time whenhe might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that hadbeen born to him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to doat home, besides putting on his best clothes, made it seven before hewas 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 evenfor the roast beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser'ssupper would be punctual. 

Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adamentered the house, but there was no hum of voices to this accompaniment:the eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was tooserious a business to those good farm-labourers to be performed witha divided attention, even if they had had anything to say to eachother--which they had not. And Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, wastoo busy with his carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr. Craig'sready talk. 

"Here, Adam, " said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to seethat Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, "here's a place kept foryou between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't cometo see the pudding when it was whole. "

Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinahwas not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides, hisattention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope thatDinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on theeve of her departure. 

It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's roundgood-humoured face and large person at the head of it helping hisservants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty platescame again. Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, reallyforgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so pleasant to him tolook on in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed theirsupper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year exceptChristmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles--withrelish certainly, but with their mouths towards the zenith, after afashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser hadsome faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roastbeef and fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwedup his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted TomTholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft, " receiving his second plateful ofbeef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set downbefore him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as ifthey had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continuesmouldering in a grin--it burst out the next instant in a long-drawn"haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as theknife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large personshook with his silent unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser tosee if she too had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband andwife met in a glance of good-natured amusement. 

"Tom Saft" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the partof the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by hissuccess in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, whichfalls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were much quoted at sheep-shearing and haymaking times, but Irefrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to belike that of many other bygone jesters eminent in their day--rather of atemporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and more lasting relationsof things. 

Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants andlabourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worththeir pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example(Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, andwas not conscious of any claim to a fifth letter), the old man with theclose leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was there any man in Loamshire who knew better the "natur" of allfarming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who can not onlyturn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn theirhand 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 mostreverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that theobject of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he performedsome rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the ricks--forif anything were his forte more than another, it was thatching--and whenthe last touch had been put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose homelay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yardin his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a duedistance, to contemplate his own thatching walking about to get eachrick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his eyesupturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summitsof the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold of the best sort, you mighthave imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration. Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin, concerning which his master cracked a joke with him every pay-night:not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been triedmany times before and had worn well. "Th' young measter's a merry mon, "Kester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by frighteningaway the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could nevercease to account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamedof commemorating old Kester. You and I are indebted to the hard hands ofsuch men--hands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled sofaithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits, and receiving the smallest share as their own wages. 

Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, theshepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad shoulders, not onthe best terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confinedto an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed littleconcerning hedging and ditching and the treatment of ewes, there was aprofound difference of opinion between them as to their own respectivemerits. When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, theyare not sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not byany means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarlin it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dogexpression--"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with you. " Buthe was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain rather than hewould take beyond his acknowledged share, and as "close-fisted" withhis master's property as if it had been his own--throwing very smallhandfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handfulaffected his imagination painfully with a sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudgeagainst Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other, and never looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes;but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fitsof unfriendliness. The bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of that entirely genial, merry, broad-grinning sort, apparentlyobserved in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of asmile was a rare sight on a field-labourer's face, and there was seldomany gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourerso honest as our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser'smen, there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, butdetected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in hispockets--an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly beascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had forgiven him, andcontinued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the Common timeout of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, Idaresay, society was not much the worse because Ben had not six monthsof it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were narrow, andthe House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate hisroast beef to-night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing morethan a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last harvestsupper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, forever upon him, was an injury to his innocence. 

But NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leavinga fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and the foamingbrown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. NOW, the great ceremony of the evening was to begin--the harvest-song, in which every man must join. He might be in tune, if he liked to besingular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obligedto be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum. 

As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state fromthe brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a schoolor succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp ofunity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the formerhypothesis, though I am not blind to the consideration that this unitymay rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was acondition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrainan indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing inimaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration. Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is anoriginal felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can beinsensible. 

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (Thatis perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform ourforefathers. ) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedlyforte, no can was filled. 

 Here's a health unto our master, The founder of the feast; Here's a health unto our master And to our mistress!

 And may his doings prosper, Whate'er he takes in hand, For we are all his servants, And are at his command. 

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sungfortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect ofcymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound toempty it before the chorus ceased. 

 Then drink, boys, drink! And see ye do not spill, For if ye do, ye shall drink two, For 'tis our master's will. 

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handedmanliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right hand--and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of thechorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care to spill a little by accident;but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom thought) interfered to prevent theexaction of the penalty. 

To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse ofobvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an immediate andoften-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that allfaces were at present sober, and most of them serious--it was theregular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over theirwine-glasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, hadgone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in theceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence offive minutes declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely tobegin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boysand Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that gloriousthumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist. 

When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general desirefor solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim the waggonerknew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable, "whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hearit. " Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn'tsing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed allround the table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody couldsay, "Come, Tim, " except Alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity ofunnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, beganto give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rathersavage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon yewonna like. " A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim wasnot to be urged further. 

"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing, " said Ben, willing to showthat he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's a rooswi'out a thorn. '"

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstractedexpression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensityrather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent toBen's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over hismouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding. And for sometime the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hearDavid's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellarat present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet. 

Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken apolitical turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specificinformation. He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that reallyit was superfluous to know them. 

"I'm no reader o' the paper myself, " he observed to-night, as he filledhis pipe, "though I might read it fast enough if I liked, for there'sMiss 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 nighfrom morning to night, and when he's got to th' end on't he's moreaddle-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 tothe bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills, ' says I, 'you see no moreinto this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tellyou what it is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'mnot again' it--mark my words--I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion asthere's them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies to usnor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back; for as for themounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'em at once as if they warfrogs. '"

"Aye, aye, " said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of muchintelligence and edification, "they ne'er ate a bit o' beef i' theirlives. Mostly sallet, I reckon. "

"And says I to Mills, " continued Mr. Craig, "'Will you try to make mebelieve as furriners like them can do us half th' harm them ministersdo with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn 'em all away andgovern by himself, he'd see everything righted. He might take on BillyPitt again if he liked; but I don't see myself what we want wi' anybodybesides King and Parliament. It's that nest o' ministers does themischief, I tell you. '"

"Ah, it's fine talking, " observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated nearher husband, with Totty on her lap--"it's fine talking. It's hard workto tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots on. "

"As for this peace, " said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side ina dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe betweeneach 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 wickedsort o' folks, by what I can make out. What can you do better nor fight'em?"

"Ye're partly right there, Poyser, " said Mr. Craig, "but I'm not again'the peace--to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it when we like, an' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so much o' his cliverness. That's what I says to Mills this morning. Lor' bless you, he sees nomore through Bony!. . . Why, I put him up to more in three minutes than hegets from's paper all the year round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knowshis 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, butweak i' the head. 'Well, ' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; wouldit be any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but aquagmire to work on?' 'No, ' says he. 'Well, ' I says, 'that's justwhat it is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit cliver--he'sno Frenchman born, as I understand--but what's he got at's back butmounseers?'"

Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphantspecimen of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping the table ratherfiercely, "Why, it's a sure thing--and there's them 'ull bear witnessto't--as i' one regiment where there was one man a-missing, they putthe regimentals on a big monkey, and they fit him as the shell fits thewalnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounseers!"

"Ah! Think o' that, now!" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with thepolitical bearings of the fact and with its striking interest as ananecdote in natural history. 

"Come, Craig, " said Adam, "that's a little too strong. You don't believethat. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor sticks. Mr. Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says they've plenty o'fine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge, and contrivances, andmanufactures, 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 therest of 'em 'ud have no merit i' beating 'em, if they were such offal asfolks pretend. "

Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition ofauthorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony was not to be disputed; but, on theother 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 longdraught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the proportions of hisown leg, which he turned a little outward for that purpose, when BartleMassey returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking hisfirst pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust hisforefinger into the canister, "Why, Adam, how happened you not to be atchurch on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem went limpingwithout you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his oldage?"

"No, Mr. Massey, " said Adam. "Mr. And Mrs. Poyser can tell you where Iwas. I was in no bad company. "

"She's gone, Adam--gone to Snowfield, " said Mr. Poyser, reminded ofDinah for the first time this evening. "I thought you'd ha' persuadedher better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. Themissis has hardly got over it. I thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th'harvest supper. "

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in, but she had had "no heart" to mention the bad news. 

"What!" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. "Was there a womanconcerned? Then I give you up, Adam. "

"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle, " said Mr. Poyser. "Comenow, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha' been a badinvention 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. Asfor other things, I daresay she's like the rest o' the women--thinkstwo and two 'll come to make five, if she cries and bothers enough aboutit. "

"Aye, aye!" said Mrs. Poyser; "one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk, as the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o' wheat wi'only smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door, they can. Perhapsthat's the reason THEY can see so little o' this side on't. "

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as muchas to say the schoolmaster was in for it now. 

"Ah!" said Bartle sneeringly, "the women are quick enough--they're quickenough. They know the rights of a story before they hear it, and cantell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself. "

"Like enough, " said Mrs. Poyser, "for the men are mostly so slow, theirthoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the tail. I cancount a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue ready an' when heouts wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It'syour dead chicks take the longest hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' thewomen are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men. "

"Match!" said Bartle. "Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a mansays a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction; if he's amind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs, she'll match him with whimpering. She's such a match as the horse-flyis to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him with--the rightvenom to sting him with. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Poyser, "I know what the men like--a poor soft, as 'udsimper at 'em like the picture o' the sun, whether they did right orwrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know whichend she stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That's what a manwants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure o' one fool as 'ull tellhim he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out that--they think somuch o' themselves a'ready. An' that's how it is there's old bachelors. "

"Come, Craig, " said Mr. Poyser jocosely, "you mun get married prettyquick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you see what thewomen 'ull think on you. "

"Well, " said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting ahigh value on his own compliments, "I like a cleverish woman--a woman o'sperrit--a managing woman. "

"You're out there, Craig, " said Bartle, dryly; "you're out there. Youjudge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You pick thethings for what they can excel in--for what they can excel in. You don'tvalue your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now, that's the way you should choose women. Their cleverness 'll never cometo much--never come to much--but they make excellent simpletons, ripeand strong-flavoured. "

"What dost say to that?" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back andlooking merrily at his wife. 

"Say!" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in hereye. "Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as runon strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there'ssummat wrong i' their own inside. . . "

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a furtherclimax, if every one's attention had not at this moment been called tothe other end of the table, where the lyricism, which had at first onlymanifested itself by David's sotto voce performance of "My love's a rosewithout a thorn, " had gradually assumed a rather deafening and complexcharacter. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelledto supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of "Three MerryMowers, " but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed himselfcapable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful whetherthe rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, withan entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quaveringtreble--as if he had been an alarum, and the time was come for him to gooff. 

The company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocalentertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from musicalprejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers inhis ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever since he had heardDinah was not in the house, rose and said he must bid good-night. 

"I'll go with you, lad, " said Bartle; "I'll go with you before my earsare split. "

"I'll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. Massey, "said Adam. 

"Aye, aye!" said Bartle; "then we can have a bit o' talk together. Inever get hold of you now. "

"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out, " said Martin Poyser. "They'll allgo soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay past ten. "

But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two friendsturned out on their starlight walk together. 

"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home, " said Bartle. "I can never bring her here with me for fear she should be struck withMrs. 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 alwaysturns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming here. "

"Aye, aye, " said Bartle. "A terrible woman!--made of needles, made ofneedles. But I stick to Martin--I shall always stick to Martin. Andhe likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion made on purpose for'em. "

"But she's a downright good-natur'd woman, for all that, " said Adam, "and as true as the daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the dogs when theyoffer to come in th' house, but if they depended on her, she'd take careand have 'em well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I'veseen that in times o' trouble. She's one o' those women as are betterthan their word. "

"Well, well, " said Bartle, "I don't say th' apple isn't sound at thecore; but it sets my teeth on edge--it sets my teeth on edge. "

Chapter LIV

The Meeting on the Hill

ADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather thandiscouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of her feelingtowards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully forthe ultimate guiding voice from within. 

"I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though, " he thought. "And yet eventhat might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be quite quietin her old way for a while. And I've no right to be impatient andinterrupting 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 waitpatiently. "

That was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the firsttwo or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the remembrance ofDinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amountof sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards the middleof October the resolution began to dwindle perceptibly, and showeddangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinahmust surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let awoman say what she will after she has once told a man that she loveshim, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught sheoffers him to care much about the taste of the second. He treads theearth with a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makeslight of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory getssadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us. Adamwas no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that perhapsDinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any newfeeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she would surely havewritten to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she heldit right to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patiencewaned with it, and he thought he must write himself. He must ask Dinahnot to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat uplate one night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answerby letter than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to herwill. 

You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, andwhen that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a lover is likely tostill it though he may have to put his future in pawn. 

But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not bedispleased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go. She mustsurely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday inOctober this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he wasalready on his way to Snowfield, on horseback this time, for his hourswere precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for thejourney. 

What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been toOakbourne and back since that first journey to Snowfield, but beyondOakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees, seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which heknew so well by heart. But no story is the same to us after a lapse oftime--or rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpreters--andAdam this morning brought with him new thoughts through that greycountry, thoughts which gave an altered significance to its story of thepast. 

That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoicesand is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or crushed another, because it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adamcould never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which hadbeen brought so close to him; he could never thank God for another'smisery. And if I were capable of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam'sbehalf, I should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself. He would have shaken his head at such a sentiment and said, "Evil'sevil, and sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrappingit up in other words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that Ishould think all square when things turn out well for me. "

But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sadexperience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain. Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it would bepossible for a man with cataract to regret the painful process by whichhis dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had been exchanged forclear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling withinus is like the growth of faculty, bringing with it a sense of addedstrength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy thana painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or aphilosopher to his less complete formula. 

Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind thisSunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the past. Hisfeeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had beenthe distant unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfieldeighteen months ago had been leading him. Tender and deep as his lovefor Hetty had been--so deep that the roots of it would never be tornaway--his love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for itwas the outgrowth of that fuller life which had come to him from hisacquaintance with deep sorrow. "It's like as if it was a new strength tome, " he said to himself, "to love her and know as she loves me. I shalllook t' her to help me to see things right. For she's better than Iam--there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as givesyou a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless, when you'vemore trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've always beenthinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poorsort o' life, when you can't look to them nearest to you t' help youwith 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 ofthe grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly towards the greenvalley below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near theugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshinethan it had in the eager time of early spring, and the one grand charmit possessed in common with all wide-stretching woodless regions--thatit filled you with a new consciousness of the overarching sky--had amilder, more soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudlessday. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicateweblike clouds had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him, with its looks alone, of all he longed to know. 

He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down fromhis horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might ask where shewas gone to-day. He had set his mind on following her and bringing herhome. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about three miles off, overthe hill, the old woman told him--had set off directly after morningchapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at thetown would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horseagain and rode to the town, putting up at the old inn and taking ahasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whosefriendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon aspossible and set out towards Sloman's End. With all his haste it wasnearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought that asDinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning. The little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened by shelteringtrees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near hecould hear the sound of voices singing a hymn. "Perhaps that's the lasthymn before they come away, " Adam thought. "I'll walk back a bit andturn again to meet her, farther off the village. " He walked back till hegot nearly to the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loosestone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the littleblack figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chosethis spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from alleyes--no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near--no presencebut the still lights and shadows and the great embracing sky. 

She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour atleast watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon shadowslengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little blackfigure coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching thefoot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought, but Dinah was really walking ather usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to windalong the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would notmeet her too soon; he had set his heart on meeting her in this assuredloneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should startle her toomuch. "Yet, " he thought, "she's not one to be overstartled; she's alwaysso calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything. "

What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had foundcomplete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any need of hislove. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses withfluttering 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 turnedround to look back at the village--who does not pause and look back inmounting 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 shesaw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, "Dinah!" Shestarted without looking round, as if she connected the sound with noplace. "Dinah!" Adam said again. He knew quite well what was in hermind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritualmonitions that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of thevoice. 

But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love itwas that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed man! She didnot start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towardshim so that his arm could clasp her round. 

And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam wascontent, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first. 

"Adam, " she said, "it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yoursthat it is but a divided life I live without you. And this moment, nowyou are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the samelove. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father'sWill that I had lost before. "

Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes. 

"Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us. "

And they kissed each other with a deep joy. 

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that theyare joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest oneach other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to beone with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of thelast parting?

Chapter LV

Marriage Bells

IN little more than a month after that meeting on the hill--on a rimymorning in departing November--Adam and Dinah were married. 

It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's men hada holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and most of those who had a holidayappeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think there was hardlyan inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in this history and stillresident in the parish on this November morning who was not either inchurch to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church door to greetthem as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting atthe churchyard gates in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) toshake hands with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in theabsence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, andMr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent "the family" at theChase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was quite lined with familiarfaces, many of them faces that had first looked at Dinah when shepreached on the Green. And no wonder they showed this eager interest onher marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history which hadbrought her and Adam Bede together had been known at Hayslope within thememory of man. 

Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though she didnot exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away, and if Bessy was in lowspirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Dinah's example andmarry an honest fellow who was ready to have her. Next to Bessy, justwithin the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping roundthe 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 seeingcousin Dinah come back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience nomarried people were young. 

I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly endedand Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this morning, for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk of incurring badluck, and had herself made a present of the wedding dress, made all ofgrey, though in the usual Quaker form, for on this point Dinah could notgive way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from undera grey Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but with lipstrembling a little under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as hepressed her arm to his side, walked with his old erectness and his headthrown rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it wasnot because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont ofbridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little referenceto men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in his deep joy;Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved. 

There were three other couples, following the bride and bridegroom:first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright fire on this rimymorning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; then came Seth serenelyhappy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, withLisbeth--Lisbeth in a new gown and bonnet, too busy with her pride inher son and her delight in possessing the one daughter she had desiredto devise a single pretext for complaint. 

Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's earnestrequest, under protest against marriage in general and the marriage of asensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke againsthim after the wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he hadgiven the bride one more kiss than was necessary. 

Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this goodmorning's work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen Adam in theworst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest from that painfulseed-time could there be than this? The love that had brought hope andcomfort in the hour of despair, the love that had found its way to thedark prison cell and to poor Hetty's darker soul--this strong gentlelove was to be Adam's companion and helper till death. 

There was much shaking of hands mingled with "God bless you's" and othergood wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr. Poyseranswering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue, for he hadall the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his command. And the women, heobserved, could never do anything but put finger in eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the neighboursshook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to cry in the face of the veryfirst person who told her she was getting young again. 

Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not joinin the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with somecontempt at these informal greetings which required no officialco-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical bass, "Oh whata joyful thing it is, " by way of preluding a little to the effect heintended to produce in the wedding psalm next Sunday. 

"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur, " said Mr. Irwine to hismother, as they drove off. "I shall write to him the first thing when weget home. "

Epilogue

IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shutup half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used tobe Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on thepleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very muchas it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that June eveningnine years ago. 

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shadingher eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the distance, forthe rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hairare very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and lookstowards the door. 

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at allaltered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more matronlyfigure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain blackdress. 

"I see him, Seth, " Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let us goand meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother. "

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature withpale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years old, who ranout silently and put her hand into her mother's. 

"Come, Uncle Seth, " said Dinah. 

"Aye, aye, we're coming, " Seth answered from within, and presentlyappeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by theblack head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay bydemanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder. 

"Better take him on thy arm, Seth, " said Dinah, looking fondly at thestout black-eyed fellow. "He's troublesome to thee so. "

"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for abit. " A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heelswith promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by Dinah'sside, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's children, was UncleSeth's earthly happiness. 

"Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoiningfield. "I can't catch sight of him anywhere. "

"Between the hedges by the roadside, " said Dinah. "I saw his hat and hisshoulder. There he is again. "

"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen, " saidSeth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother used to be. She was always onthe look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, forall her eyes got dim. "

"He's been longer than he expected, " said Dinah, taking Arthur's watchfrom 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 themeeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting on towardseight years since they parted. "

"Yes, " said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thoughtof the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness hehas undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And thedeath of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has beensorrow upon sorrow. "

"See, Addy, " said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now andpointing, "there's Father coming--at the far stile. "

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speedtill she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and lifted herup to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his faceas she approached him, and he put her arm within his in silence. 

"Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when Addystretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of infancy, togive up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage athand. 

"It's cut me a good deal, Dinah, " Adam said at last, when they werewalking on. 

"Didst find him greatly altered?" said Dinah. 

"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However, the doctors sayhe'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 thesame, and smiles at me just as he did when he was a lad. It's wonderfulhow 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 afterthee the first thing when he began to come round, and we could talk toone another. 'I hope she isn't altered, ' he said, 'I remember her faceso well. ' I told him 'no, '" Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyesthat were turned towards his, "only a bit plumper, as thee'dst a rightto be after seven year. 'I may come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' hesaid; 'I long to tell her how I've thought of her all these years. '"

"Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?" said Dinah. 

"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a womana bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day, ' he said, 'when shepreaches out of doors, and go to hear her. ' And I said, 'Nay, sir, youcan't do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she'sgiven it up, all but talking to the people a bit in their houses. '"

"Ah, " said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, "and asore 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 Christianliberty. "

"Nay, lad, nay, " said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong. There'sno 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 gotDinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's seen that, and she thought itright to set th' example o' submitting, for she's not held from othersorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o' what she did. "

Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarelyalluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, "Didstremember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle andaunt entrusted to thee?"

"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day afterto-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about it, and hewould have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee to-morrow. Hesaid--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad for him t' have hisfeelings stirred with seeing many people one after another. 'We mustget you strong and hearty, ' he said, 'that's the first thing to be doneArthur, and then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep youunder your old tutor's thumb till then. ' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful athaving him home again. "

Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very cutting whenwe first saw one another. He'd never heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one another's handswas, 'I could never do anything for her, Adam--she lived long enoughfor all the suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might dosomething for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once, "There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for. "'"

"Why, there's Mr. And Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate, " saidSeth. 

"So there is, " said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Comein, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee. "

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

Other Works by George Eliot

Scenes of Clerical Life 1857 StoriesAdam Bede 1859 NovelThe Mill on the Floss 1860 NovelSilas Marner 1861 NovelRomola 1863 NovelFelix Holt the Radical 1866 NovelHow Lisa Loved the King 1867 PoemsThe Spanish Gypsy 1868 PoemMiddlemarch 1872 NovelThe Legend of Jubal 1874 PoemDaniel Deronda 1876 NovelImpressions of Theophrastus Such 1879 Essays