CO"RNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF Professor Howard B. Adelmann UNDERGRADtfATE LIBRARY DATE DUE « i^*^^5ij«j»;j(.,^.,,^ . '©SftffiSSWiW pui -^Iffii mmigjpn N_.r— ;S ^^m ^pgpr ^^c/^ ^^ ^M2\''ir 1/ CAVL.ORO • {hxilAdbrAjiROMy (Jabitttt CbitioH. THE WORKS OF GEORGE ELIOT. AND LIFE. Edited by J. W. Cross. In 24 Volumes, printed on a New and Legiule Type. Handsomely bound in cloth, £6. Each Vol-uTne may he had separately^ price 5^. I. ROMOLA. 2 vols. 1/2. SILAS MARKER. — THE LIFTED VEIL. — BROTHER JACOB, i vol. 3. ADAM BEDE. 2 vols. s/ 4. SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 2 vols. 1/5. THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 2 vols. 1^6. FELIX HOLT. 2 vols. 7. MIDDLEMARCH. 3 'vols. 8. DANIEL DERONDA. 3 vols. 9. THE SPANISH GYPSY, i vol. 10. JUBAL ; AND OTHER POEMS, Old and New. I vol. 11. IMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRASTUS SUCH. I vol. 12. ESSAYS, AND Leaves from a Note-Book, i vol. 13. GEORGE ELIOT'S LIFE, as Related in her Letters and Journals. Edited by J. W. CROSS. 3 vols. "A deliglitful edition of George Eliot's Works In size, type, and paper, everything that could be wished." — Athenceitni. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS EDINBURGH AND LONDON THE WORKS GEOEGE ELIOT dabtnet lEtiitian "So that ye may have Clear images before your gladdened eyes Of nature's unambitious underwood And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among the flock as swerved Or fell, those only shall be singled out Upon whose lapse, or error, something more Than brotherly forgiveness may attend." — WoRDSWORTn. THE WOEKS GEOKGE ELIOT ADAM BEDE VOL, I. Cv. G WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS EDTNBURGH AND LONDON Mm Oi?0 f Y Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008065330 CONTENTS OF THE FIEST VOLUME. BOOK I. CHAP. PAGE I. THE WORKSHOP, .... 3 II. THE PREACHING, .... . 16 III. AFTER THE PREACHING, . 45 IV. HOME AND ITS SORROWS, . 54 V. THE RECTOR, .... . 77 VI. THE HALL FARM, .... . 102 VII. THE DAIRY, . . 120 VIII. A VOCATION, 128 IX. HETTY'S WORLD, . . 141 X. DINAH VISITS LISBETH, . 152 XI. IN THE COTTAGE, . . 170 XII. IN THE WOOD, 18,3 XIII. EVENING IN THE WOOD, . 200 XIV. THE RETURN HOME, . 208 XV. THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS, . 222 XVI. LINKS, . 242 vi CONTENTS. BOOK II. SVII. IN WHICH THE STOEY PAUSES A LITTLE, . 26.5 XVIII. CHUECH, 279 XIX. ADAM ON A WOEKING DAY, . . .312 XX. ADAM VISITS THE HALL PAEM, . . . 322 XXI. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTEE, 348 BOOK III. XXII. GOING TO THE BIETHDAT FEAST, . . . 373 XXIIL DINNEE-TIME, 389 XXIV. THE HEALTH-DRINKING, .... 397 XXV. THE GAMES, 409 XXVI. THE DANCE, ....... 422 BOOK I. ADAM B E D E. CHAPTER I. THE WOEKSHOP. With a single drop of ink for a mirrOr, the Egj'ptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reaching visions of the past. This is what I un- dertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799. The afternoon sun was warm on the five work- men there, busy upon doors and window-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine-wood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with the scent of the elder -bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open win- dow opposite ; the slanting sunbeams shone through 4 ADAM BEDB. the transparent shavings that flew before the steady- plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough grey shepherd- dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore -paws, occasionally wrinHing his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer singing — •• Awake, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily stage of duty run ; Shake off dull sloth . . ." Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the son- orous voice subsided into a low whistle ; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour — " Let all thy converse he sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear." Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a large -boned muscular man nearly six feet high, vsdth a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve roUed up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength ; yet the long supple liand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his THE WORKSHOP. 5 tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justi- fied his name ; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows, indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in re- pose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelligence. It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall ; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion ; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remark- able difference of expression both in form and face. Seth's broad shoulders have a slight stoop ; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother's ; and his glance, in- stead of being keen, is confiding and benignant. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow. The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth ; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. The concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said — " There ! I've finished my door to-day, anyhow." 6 ADAM BEDE. The workmen all looked up ; Jim Salt, a burly red-haired man, known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise — "What ! dost think thee'st finished the door?" " Ay, sure," said Seth, with answering surprise ; " what's awanting to't ? " A loud roar of laughter from the other three work- men made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before — " Why, thee'st forgot the panels." The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown. " Hoorray ! " shouted a small Hthe fellow, called Wiry Ban, running forward and seizing the door. " We'll hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an' write on't 'Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.' Here, Jim, lend's hould o' th' red-pot." "Nonsense!" said Adam. "Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day ; you'U laugh o' th' other side o' your mouth then." " Catch me at it, Adam. It'll be a good while afore my head's full o' th' Methodies," said Ben. " Nay, but it's often full o' drink, and that's worse." Ben, however, had now got the " red-pot " in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscrip- tion, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air. THE WOEKSHOP. 7 " Let it alone, -will you ? " Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. " Let it alone, or I'U shake the soul out o' your body." Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke. " Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right to laugh at me — I canna help laugh- ing at myself." " I shan't loose him, till he promises to let the door alone," said Adam. " Come, Ben, lad," said Seth, in a persuasive tone, " don't let's have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may's well try to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, and make an end on't." "I binna frighted at Adam," said Ben, "but I donna mind sayin' as I'll let 't alone at your askin', Seth." "Come, that's wise of you, Ben," said Adam, laughing and relaxing his grasp. They all returned to their work now ; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm. "Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth," he began — 8 ADAM BEDE. " the pretty parson's face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panels ? " "Come and hear her, Ben," said Seth, good- hnmouredly ; " she's going to preach on the Green to-night ; happen ye'd get something to think on yourself then, instead o' those wicked songs you're so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that 'ud be the best day's earnings y' ever made." "All i' good time for that, Seth; I'll think about that when I'm a-goin' to settle i' life ; bachelors doesn't want such heavy eamins. Happen I shall do the coortin' an' the religion both together, as ye do, Seth ; but ye wouldna ha' me get converted an' chop in atween ye an' the pretty preacher, an' carry heraff?" " 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'n half a mind t' ha' a look at her to- night, if there isn't good company at th' HoUy Bush. What'U she take for her text ? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come tip i' time for't. Will't be, — What come ye out for to see? A pro- phetess? Yea, I say imto you, and more than a prophetess — a uncommon pretty young woman." " Come, Ben," said Adam, rather sternly, " you let the words o' the Bible alone ; you're going too far now." " What ! are ye a-tumin' roun', Adam ? I thought ye war dead again th' women preaohin', a while agoo ? " " Nay, I'm not tumin' noway. I said nought THE WORKSHOP. 9 about the women preachin' : I said, You let the Bible alone : you've got a jest-book, han't you, as you're rare and proud on ? Keep jonr 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'U do finely t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody." "Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not a-going to turn Methodist any more nor you are — though it's like enough you'll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi' people's doing as they like in re- ligion. That's between themselves and God, as he's said to me many a time." " Ay, ay ; but he's none so fond o' your dissenters, for all that." " Maybe ; I'm none so fond o' Josh Tod's thick ale, but I don't hinder you from making a fool o' yourself wi't." There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's, but Seth said, very seriously — "Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody's religion's like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o' the matter as well as the church folks." " Nay, Seth, lad ; I'm not for laughing at no man's reKgion. Let 'em foUow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it 'ud be better if their consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the chmrch — there's a deal to be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being over- 10 ADAM BEDE. speritial ; we must have something beside Gospel i' this world. Look at the canals, an' th' aqueducs, an th' coal-pit engines, and Arkwright's miUs there at Cromford ; a man must learn summat beside Gospel to make %hem things, I reckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man must be doing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and look- ing what's a-going on inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, and the Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say ? Why, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as buUt the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o' looking at it : there's the sperrit o' God in aU things and all times — weekday as well as Sun- day — and i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as weU as with ovir souls ; and if a man does bits o' jobs out o' work- ing hours — builds a oven for 's wife to save her £fom going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doing more good, and he's just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning." " Well done, Adam ! " said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was speaking ; " that's the best sarmunt I've beared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's been a-plaguin' on me to buUd her a oven this twelvemont." " There's reason in what thee say'st, Adam," ob- THE "WORKSHOP. 11 served Seth, gravely. "But tliee know'st thyself as it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It's the preacher as empties th' alehouse ; and if a man gets religion, he'll do his work none the worse for that.'' " On'y he'll lave the panels out o' th' doors some- times, eh, Seth ? " said Wiry Ben. " Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again' me as '11 last you your life. But it isna religion as was i' fault there ; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool-gather- ing chap, and reKgion hasna cured him, the more's the pity." " Ne'er heed me, Seth,'' said Wiry Ben, " y' are a downright good-hearted chap, panels or no panels ; an' ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o' fun, like some o' your kin, as is mayhap cliverer." " Seth, lad," said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, " thee mustna take me un- kind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some 's got one way o' looking at things and some 's got another." " Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkindness," said Seth, " I know that well enough. Thee't like thy dog Gyp — thee bark'st at me sometimes, but thee allays liok'st my hand after." All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket ; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screw- driver into his tool-basket ; Mum Taft, who, true to 12 ADAM BEDE. his name, tad kept silence throughotit the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it ; and Seth, too, had straight- ened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation — " Look there, now ! I can't abide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work, and was afraid o' doing a stroke too much." Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taffc broke silence, and said — "Ay, ay, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six-an'-forty Hke me, istid o' six-an'- twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought." "Nonsense," said Adam, still wrathful; "what's age got to do with it, I wonder ? Ye arena getting stiS" yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just as if he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone 'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it." " Bodderation, Adam ! " exclaimed Wiry Ben ; "lave a chap aloon, will 'ee? Ye war a-finding faut wi' preachers a while agoo — y' are fond enough o' preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work ; that'U 'com- modate ye — it laves ye th' more to do." With this exit speech, which he considered effec- THE WORKSHOP. 13 tive, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something. " Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preach- ing ? " Adam asked, looking up. " Nay ; I've got my hat and things at Will Mas- kery's. I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from Poyser's, thee know'st.'' " Then I'll teU mother not to look for thee," said Adam. " Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself to-night ? " said Seth, rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. " Nay, I'm going to th' school." Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. " What I art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp ? " said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to 14 ADAM BEDE. say, " Of course." Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression. The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner ; and no official, walking in procession, conld look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trot- ting at his master's heels. On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for she did not recognise Adam till he said — " Here's the key, Dolly ; lay it down for me in the house, will you ? " " Ay, sure ; but wunna ye come in, Adam ? Miss Mary's i' th' house, and Mester Burge 'ull be back anon ; he'd be glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm, I'll he's warrand." " No, DoUy, thank you ; I'm off home. Good evening." Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the high- road leading away from the village and down to the THE WORKSHOP. 15 valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings. Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was ex- citing, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head : — " Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear ; For God's all-seeing eye surveys Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways." 16 CHAPTEE II THE PEEA.CHING. About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in the evening sunshine. The Donni- thorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weather-beaten sign left him as to the heraldic bear- ings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes. Mr Casson, the landlord, had been for some time stand- ing at the door with his hands in his pockets, balanc- ing himself on his heels and toes, and looking to- wards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the des- THE PREACHING. 17 tination of certain grave -looking men and women whom lie had observed passing at intervals. Mr Casson's person was by no means of that com- mon type which can be allowed to pass without de- scription. On a front view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and the moon : that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper, which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tributary. But here the resem- blance ceased, for Mr Casson's head was not at all a melancholy - looking satellite, nor was it a " spotty globe," as Milton has irreverently called the moon ; on the contrary, no head and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression, which was chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention, was one of joUy contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in a man who had been butler to "the family" for fifteen years, and who, in his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his curiosity by walking towards the Green, was the problem that Mr Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes ; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his VOL. I. B 18 ADAM BEDE. waistcoat, by throwing his head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous in- difference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithome Arms. " Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler," said the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse's hoofs. " Why, what's up in your pretty village, land- lord?" he continued, getting down. "There seems to be quite a stir." " It's a Methodis preaching, sir ; it's been gev hout as a young woman's a-going to preach on the Green," answered Mr Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. " WiU you please to step in, sir, an' tek somethink?" " No, I must be getting on to Eosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose?" " Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here ; he lives at Brox'on, over the hill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an' puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store by't. He 's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver since before I hed the Donni- thome Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They're cur'ous talkers i' THE PREACHING. 19 this country, sir ; the gentry 's hard work to hunder- stand 'em. I was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for 'hevn't you?' — the gentry, you know, says, 'hevn't you' — well, the people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared Squire Donnithome say many a time ; it's the dileck, says he." " Ay, ay," said the stranger, smiling. " I know it very well. But you've not got many Methodists about here, surely — in this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to be foimd about here. You're all farmers, aren't you ? The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on them." " Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's Mester Burge as owns the tim- ber-yard over there, he underteks a good bit o' build- ing an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There's plenty of emply i' this country-side, sir. An' there's a fine batch o' Methodisses at Treddles'on — that's the market-town about three mile off — you'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score of 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our people gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope : that's Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin'." " The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she?" "Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty 20 ADAM BEDE. nigh thirty mile off. But she's arvisitin' hereabout at Mester Peyser's at the Hall Farm — it's them bams an' big walnut-trees, right away to the left, sir. She's own niece to Peyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for making a fool of herself i' that way. But I've heared as there's no holding these Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' then- head : many of 'em goes stark starin' mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman's quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out ; I've not seen her myself." " Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've been out of my way for the last twenty minutes, to have a look at that place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose ? " " Yes, sir, that's Donnithome Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't there, sir ? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler there a-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir, sir — Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this 'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doins. He owns all the land about here, sir. Squire Donni- thome does." " Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it," said the traveller, mounting his horse ; " and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill — a car- penter, a taU broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French." " Ay, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound THE PKEACHING. 21 — Thias Bede's son — • everybody knows him here- about. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir — if you'll hexcuse me for saying so — he can walk forty mUe a-day, an' Hft a matter o' sixty ston'. He's an un- common favourite wi' the gentry, sir : Captain Donni- thorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a little lifted up an' peppery-hke.'' " Well, good evening to you, landlord ; I must get on." "Your servant, sir ; good evenin'." The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and per- haps yet more, curiosity to see the yoxmg female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused. The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate ; but on the opposite, north-western side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently-swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulat- ing district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged, Ues close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may 22 ADAM BEDE. sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother ; and in two or three hours' ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow-grass and thick corn ; and where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that Hayslope Church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant up- lands, and now from his station near the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of hiU, like giant mounds intended to fortify this region of com and grass against the keen and hungry winds of the north ; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight ; wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in themselves — left for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanging woods, divided by THE PREACHING. 23 bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in front of that man- sion, but the swelling slope of meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead a foreground which was just as lovely — the level sunlight lying like transparent gold among the gently-curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the white umbels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. He might have seen other beauties in the land- scape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge's pasture and woodyard towards the green corn-fields and walnut-trees of the Hall Farm ; but apparently there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand. Every generation in the village was there, from old " Feyther Taft " in his brown worsted night- cap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their Httle 24 ADAM BEDE. round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a new arrival ; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question. But aU. took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and identify them- selves in that way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have dis- claimed the imputation of having come out to hear the " preacher-woman," — they had only come out to see "what war a-goin' on, like." The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the black- smith's shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm : a whisper is un- known among them, and they seem almost as incap- able of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer, and walking a step or two farther off when the interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt THE PEEACHING. 25 by Mr Joshua Eann. Mr Eann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker ; the thrusting out of his chin and stomach, and the twirling of his thumbs, are more subtle indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. " Old Joshway," as he is irreverently called by his neigh- bours, is in a state of simmering indignation ; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say, in a resounding bass undertone, Uke the tuning of a violoncello, " Sehon, King of the Amorites : for His mercy endureth for ever ; and Og the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever," — a quotation which may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. Mr Eann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon. The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the Quaker-like costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the maple there was a small cart which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed. Some of the Meth- odists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, 26 ADAM BEDE. as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith's bnxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad's Bess, who wondered " why the folks war a-makin' 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 orna- ment of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks — namely, a pair of large round ear-rings with false garnets in them, ornaments contemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished " them ear - rings " might come to good. Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches, and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefuUy avoided by Chad's small terrier. This young olive-branch, no- torious under the name of Timothy's Bess's Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the milk- THE PREACHING. 27 can by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father's legs. "Ye gaUows young dog," said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, " if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I'U tek it from ye. What d'ye mane by kickin'foulks?" " Here ! gie him here to me, Jim," said Chad Cranage ; " I'll tie him up an' shoe him as I do th' bosses. Well, Mester Casson," he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, "how are ye t' naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon when they're hearkenin' to th' Methodys, as if they war bad i' th' inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the praicher 'uU 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 hke to hear as his wife's niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for aU he mayn't be fond of her taking on herself to preach." " Ay, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too," said Wiry Ben. " I'll stick up for the pretty women preachin' ; I know they'd persuade me over a deal sooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the night's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede." "Why, Seth's looking rether too high, I should 28 ADAM BEDE. think," said Mr Casson. " This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a common carpenter." " Tchu ! " said Ben, with a long treble intonation, "what's folks's kin got to do wi't? — Not a chip, Peyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget by- gones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver she was — works at a mill, an 's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war a newy o' their own." "Idle talk! idle talk!" said Mr Joshua Eann. " Adam an' Seth's two men ; you wunna fit them two wi' the same last." "Maybe," said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, "but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've been teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all a-fire arcomin' across the fields one night, an' we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' WiU Maskery's ; an' there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he couldna knock a nail o' the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher-woman ! My eye, she's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer." Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly, and in advance of her com- panions, towards the cart under the maple -tree. THE rEEACHING. 29 While she was near Seth's tall figure, she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from aU comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it— an effect which was due to the slim- ness of her figure, and the simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart — sur- prise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appearance, as at the total absence of self-consoious- ness in her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step, and a demure solemnity of countenance ; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denuncia- tory bitterness. He knew but two types of Metho- dist — the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy : there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, " I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach ; " no casting up or down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms, that said, " But you must think of me as a saint." She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes ; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observa- tions ; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her 30 ADAM BEDE. left hand towards the descending sun, and leafy- boughs screened her from its rays ; but in this sober Hght the delicate colouring of her face seemed to gather a cahn vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two, above the brow, by a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly pencilled ; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant ; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white ilowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expression ; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Eann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with himself ; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skuU-cap and scratched his head ; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her. "A sweet woman," the stranger said to himself, " but sui-ely nature never meant her for a preacher." Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical properties, and, with the considerate view of facilitating art and psychology, "makes up" THE PREACHING. 31 her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to speak. " Dear friends," she said, in a clear but not loud voice, "let us pray for a blessing." She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little, continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her : — ■ " Saviour of sinners ! when a poor woman, laden with sins, went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not ; she had not sought Thee ; her mind was dark ; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her. Thou didst teach her. Thou didst show her that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus, Thou art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest aU men : if there is any here like that poor woman — if their minds are dark, their lives unholy — if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught ; deal with them according to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them. Lord ; open their ears to my message ; bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give. " Lord, Thou art with Thy people still : they see Thee in the night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee : open their eyes that they may see Thee — see Thee weeping over them, and saying 'Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life' — see Thee 32 ADAM BEDE. hanging on the cross and saying, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do ' — see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to judge them at the last. Amen." Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. " Dear friends," she began, raising her voice a little, "you have aU of you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read these words : ' The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.' Jesus Christ spoke those words — he said he came to preach the Gospel to the poor: I don't know whether you ever thought about those words much ; but I wiU tell you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up, took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I remember his face weU : he was a very old man, and had very long white hair ; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a little girl, and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed to me such a diflferent sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen before, that I thought he had perhaps come down from the sky to preaph to us, and I said, ' Aunt, will he go back to the sky to- night, like the picture in the Bible ? ' " That man of God was Mr Wesley, who spent his life in doing what onr blessed Lord did — preaching the Gospel to the poor — and he entered into his rest THE PKEAOHING. 33 eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told ub in his sermon. He told us as ' Gospel ' meant ' good news.' The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God. " Think of that now ! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr Wesley did ; and what he came down for, was to teU good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages, and have been reared on oat-cake, and lived coarse ; and we haven't been to school much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about hearing news from distant parts ; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to teU 'em they've got a friend as wiU. help 'em. To be sure, we can't help knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know every- thing comes from God : don't you say almost every day, ' This and that will happen, please God ; ' and ' We shaU. begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a little more sunshine ' ? We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God : we didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can't keep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn, and the cows to give us VOL. I. C 34 ADAM BEDE. milk — everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls, and put love between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God ? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will : we are lost, as if we was straggling in great waters, when we try to think of him. " But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this : Can God take much notice of us poor people ? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of cloth- ing ; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? WiU God take care of us when we die ? and has he any com- fort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless ? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us ; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble ? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it ? how is it ? " Ah ! dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God ; and what does other good news signify if we haven't that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend ? " Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwell- ing on its lowliness and its acts of mercy. THE PREACHING. 35 " So you see, dear friends," she went on, " Jesus spent lus time almost all in doing good to poor people ; he preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor were more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles, to feed the hungry, because, he said, he was sorry for them ; and he was very kind to the little children, and comforted those who had lost their friends : and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins. " Ah ! wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him — if he was here in this village ? What a kind heart he must have ! What a friend he would be to go to in trouble ! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him. " Well, dear friends, who was this man ? Was he only a good man — a very good man, and no more — Hke our dear Mr Wesley, who has been taken from us ? . . . He was the Son of God — ' in the image of the Father,' the Bible says ; that means, just like God, who is the beginniag and end of all things — ^the God we want to know about. So then, aU the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours, and spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before — the God who made the world and the sky and the thun- der and lightning. We could never see him ; we 36 ADAM BEDE. could only see the things he had made ; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand ; he has showed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us. " But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, ' I came to seek and to save that which was lost ; ' and an- other time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.' " The lost ! . . . Sinners ! . . . Ah ! dear friends, does that mean you and me ? " Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will by the charm of Dinah's meUow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the uncon- scious skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister ; the quiet depth of conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her hearers. The vil- lagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often paus- ing after a question, or before any transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture ; the effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she came to the THE PEEACHING. 37 question, " Will God take care of us when we die ? " she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, " Lost ! — Sinners ! " when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler ; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they do when tears half gather without falling ; and the mild loving eyes took an ex- pression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly dis- cerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there was stiU. no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of the Eanter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions, and under the inspiration of her own simple faith. But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became less calm, her utter- ance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt, their wilful darlmess, their state of disobedience to God — as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour, by which a way had been 38 ADAM BEDE. opened for their salvatidn. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was yet time ; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their Father ; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their return. There was many a responsive sigh and groan fi:om her fellow -Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety, that might easily die out again, was the utmost effect Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and " old Feyther Taft,'' who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his ingle-nook. Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come to hear Dinah ; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment that she would fix her eyes on him, and address him in particular. She had abeady addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft - hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone- pits, and cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday. THE PKEACHING. 39 In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's. Giv- ing up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon her, and she became con- scious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been con- sidered a naughty girl ; she was conscious of it ; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She couldn't find her places at church as Sally Eann could ; she had often been tittering when she " ciircheyed " to Mr Irwine ; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped, lazy class of feminine characters with whom you may venture to " eat an egg, an apple, or a nut." All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if the constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice for some imdefined offence. She had a terrified 40 ADAM BEDE. sense that God, whom she had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that Jesus was close by looking at her, though she could not see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible mani- festations of Jesus, which is common among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers : she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts. " See ! " she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above the heads of the people — " see where our blessed Lord stands and weeps, and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says : ' How often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not ! ' . . . and ye would not," she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. " See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins that made them ! Ah ! how pale and worn he looks ! He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they nailed him up. Ah ! what pain ! His lips are parched with thirst, and they mock him still in this great agony ; yet with those parched lips he prays for them, ' Father, for- THE PREACHING. 41 give them, for they know not what they do.' Then a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last drop in the cup of bitterness. ' My God, my God 1 ' he cries, ' why hast Thou forsaken me?' " All this he bore for you ! For you — and you never think of him ; for you — and you turn your backs on him ; you don't care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you : he has risen from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God — 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon this earth, too ; he is among us ; he is there close to you now ; I see his wounded body and his look of love." Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity. "Poor child ! poor child! He is beseeching you, and you don't Ksten to him. You think of ear-rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body wiU be thin and tottering ! Then you wUl begin to feel that your soul is not saved ; then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you now, won't help you then : because you won't have him to be your Saviour, he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy, and says, 42 ADAM BEDE. ' Come to me that you may have life ; ' then he will turn away from you, and say, ' Depart from me into everlasting fire ! ' " Poor Bessy's wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a little child's before a burst of crying. " Ah ! poor blind child ! " Dinah went on, " think if it should happen to you as it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. She thought of her lace caps, and saved all her money to buy 'em ; she thought nothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit, she only wanted to have better lace than other girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now," — here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy. — " Ah ! tear off those follies ! cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They are stinging you — they are poisoning your soul — they are dragging you down into a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from Ught and God." Bessy could bear it no longer : a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her ear-rings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father, Chad, frightened lest he should be " laid hold on " too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, walked hastily away, and began to work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself. " Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, THE PEEACHING. 43 praichin' or no praiohin' : the divil canna lay liould o' me for that," he muttered to himself. But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled — how the sense of God's love turns poverty into riches, and satisfies the soul, so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it : how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. "Dear friends," she said at last, "brothers and sisters, whom I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me, I know what this great blessed- ness is ; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you : I have to get my liv- ing with my hands ; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is — not to hate anything but sin ; to be fall of love to every creature ; to be frightened at nothing ; to be sure that all things will turn to good ; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's will ; to know that nothing — ^no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown us — nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sinre that whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. " Dear friends, come and take this blessedness ; it is offered to you; it is the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like the riches 44 ADAM BEDE. of this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end ; his love is withotit end — ' Its streams the whole creation reach, So plenteous is the store ; Enough for all, enough for each, Enough for evermore.'" Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon, as if it had been the development of a drama — for there is this sort of fascination in all sincere unpre- meditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker's emotions — now turned his horse aside, and pursued his way, while Dinah said, " Let us sing a little, dear friends ; " and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of the Metho- dists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of exultation and sadness which belongs to the cadence of a hymn. 45 CHAPTEE III. AFTER THE PREACHING. In less than an hoiu- from that time Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and green corn-fields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravity — of absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her own personality : an expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging : it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly ; he said to himself, " She's too good and holy for any man, let alone me," and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But another thought gave him courage : " There's 46 ADAM BEDE. no man could love her better, and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work.'' They had been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage ; Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace was becom- ing so much quicker, that the sense of their being only a few minutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. " You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah ? " "Yes," said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was medi- tating on Sunday night, as Sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my eyes feU on were, ' And after we had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Mace- donia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing of the Lord's will I should be loath to go, for my heart yearns over my aunt and her Uttle ones, and that poor wandering lamb Hetty Sorrel. I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a token that there may be mercy in store for her." " God grant it," said Seth. "For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybody else ; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he was to marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep mystery — the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he's seen AFTER THE PEEACHING. 47 i' th.6 world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year for her, like Jacob did for Eachel, sooner than have any other woman for th' asking. I often think of them words, ' And Jacob served seven years for Kachel ; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you think a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St Paul says, ' She that's married careth for the things of the world how she may please her husband ; ' and may happen you'U think me over -bold to speak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your mind last Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires, to think what's only good for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more texts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St Paul says as plain ae can be in another place, ' I will that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproach- fully ; ' and then ' two are better than one ; ' and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are striving after the same gifts ; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim on you as could inter- fere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and out, to give you more liberty — more than you can have 48 ADAM BEDE. now, for you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong enougli to work for us both.'' When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly, and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he had poured forth aU the arguments he had prepared. His cheeks became flushed as he went on, his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes — " Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother ; but ' as God has distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of this world's good ; where the trees are few, so that a ohUd might count them, and there's very hard living for the poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there, and to call in AFTER THE PKEACHING. 49 many wanderers ; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising tip till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers ; and I spread the matter before the Lord. But when- ever I tried to fix my mind on marriage, and our liv- ing together, other thoughts always came in — the times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the Bible for direction, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work ; but I see that our marriage is not God's will — He draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my own, it has pleased. God to fill my heart so fuU. with the wants and sufferings of his poor people." Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yard- gate, he said — " Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could never joy in anything VOL. I. D 50 ADAM BEDE. any more. I think it's something passing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield, and be near you. I trusted as the strong love Grod had given me towards you was a leading for us both ; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't help saying of you what the hymn says — ' In darkest shades if she appear, My dawning is hegun ; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising sun.' That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things turned out so as I could leave this country and go to live at Snowfield?" " No, Seth ; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear bid- ding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Groshen you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot ; we must wait to be guided." "But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to tell you ? " " Yes, sure ; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually in my prayers." They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, " I won't go in, Dinah ; so farewell." He paused and hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then said, " There's no knowing but what AFTEK THE PEEACHING. 61 you may see things different after a while. There may be a new leading.'' " Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay plans ; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell." Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through which he and Dinah had already passed ; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily tomewards. He was but three -and -twenty, and had only just learned what it is to love — to love with that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love "of this sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so ? whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the in- fluence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies, all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty ; our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence, our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery. 52 ADAM BEDE. And this blessed gift of venerating love lias been given to too many humble craftsmen since the world began, for us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fel- low-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Corn- wall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. That after-glow has long faded away ; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hUls, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suffused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too pos- sible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargon — elements which are re- garded as an exhaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. That would be a pity ; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Methodists — not indeed of that modern type which reads quar- terly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes ; but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous con- AFTER THE PEEACHING. 53 versions, in revelations by dreams and visions ; they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by open- ing the Bible at hazard ; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanc- tioned by approved commentators ; and it is impos- sible for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still — if I have read religious history aright — faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a sensi- bility to the three concords ; and it is possible, thank Heaven ! to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store, that she may carry it to her neighbour's child to " stop the fits,'' may be a piteously inefficacious remedy ; but the gen- erous stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. Considering these things, we can hardly think Dinah and Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by stiU more fiery passions. Poor Seth ! he was never on horseback in his life except once, when he was a little lad, and Mr Jona- than Burge took him up behind, telling him to " hold on tight ; " and instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homeward under the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. 54- CHAPTEE IV. HOME AND ITS SORROWS. A GREEN valley with a brook running tkrough it, full almost to overflowing with the late rains ; over- hung by low stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket ; evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of timber by the side of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope. The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking out ; but she is not placidly con- templating the evening sunshine ; she has been watchiag with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the last few minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born has come late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman, clean as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turne'd neatly back under a pure liaen cap with a black band round it ; her broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below HOME AND ITS SOEKOWS. 55 this you see a sort of short bed-gown made of blue- checkered linen, tied round the waist and descend- ing to the hips, from whence there is a considerable length of linsey-wolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong like- ness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim now — perhaps from too much crying — but her broadly -marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly-upright an attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from the spring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his well-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence. Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us to- gether by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains ; blends yearning and re- pulsion; and ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise ; we see eyes — ah ! so like our mother's — averted from us in cold alienation ; and our last darling child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage — the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skiU of the modelling hand — galls us, and puts us to shame by 56 ADAM BEDE. his daily errors ; the long-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and irrational persistence. It is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says — "Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee't allays stay till the last child's bom. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth? gone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon?" " Ay, ay, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where's father ? " said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into the room on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. " Hasn't he done the cofBn for Tholer ? There's the stuff standing just as I left it this morning." " Done the coffin ? " said Lisbeth, following him, and knitting uninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously. " Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver come back. I doubt he's got to th' ' Waggin Overthrow ' again." A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said nothing, but threw off his jacket, and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again. "What art goin' to do, Adam?" said the mother, with a tone and look of alarm. " Thee wouldstna go to work again, ^vi'out ha'in thy bit o' supper ? " Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the work- shop. But his mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, and said, in a tone of plaintive remonstrance — • HOME AND ITS SOKKOWS. 57 " Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi'out thy supper; there's the taters wi' the gravy in 'em, just as thee lik'st 'em. I saved 'em o' purpose for thee. Come an' ha' thy supper, come." " Let be ! " said Adam impetuously, shaking her off, and seizing one of the planks that stood against the wall. " It's fine talking about having supper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat's too full to swallow victuals." "Why, thee canstna get the coffin ready," said Lisbeth. " Thee't work thyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do't." " What signifies how long it takes me ? Isn't the coffin promised ? Can they bury the man without a coffin ? I'd work my right hand off sooner than de- ceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me mad to think on't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've stood enough of 'em." Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she had been wise she would have gone away quietly, and said nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns, is never to talk to an angry or a drunken man. Lis- beth sat down on the chopping bench and began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make her voice very piteous, she burst out into words. "Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy mother's heart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me to tli' church- 68 ADAM BEDE. yard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my grave if I donna see thee at th' last ; an' how's they to let thee know as I'm a-dyin', if thee't gone a-work- in' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for's hand shakin', besides not knowin' where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feyther — thee mtinna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade, remember, an's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word — no, not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus — thy own feyther — an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at everythin' amost as thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a baby at the breast." Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs : a sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne, and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently. " Now, mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex me without that? What's th' use o' telling me things as I only think too much on every day ? If I didna think on 'em why should I do as I do, for the sake o' keeping things together here ? But I hate to be talking where it's no use : I like to keep my breath for doing istead o' talking." " I know thee dost things as nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But thee't allays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st nothing too much to do for Seth : thee snapp'st me up if iver I find faut wi' th' lad. But thee't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi' anybody else." HOME AND ITS SOKROWS. 59 "That's better than speaking soft, and letting things go the wrong way, I reckon, isn't it? If I wasn't sharp with him, he'd sell every bit o' stuff i' th' yard, and spend it on drink. I know there's a duty to be done by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage him in running headlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it ? The lad does no harm as I know of. But leave me alone, mother, and let me get on with the work." Lisbeth dared not say any more ; but she got up and called Gyp, thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But G-yp was watching his master with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course of things ; and though he glanced at Lisbeth when she called him, and moved his fore -paws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes anxi- ously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp's mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us than to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb? " Go, Gyp ; go, lad ! " Adam said, in a tone of en- couraging command ; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place. 60 ADAM BEDE. But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting. Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous ; and if Solomon was as vidse as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye — a fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make uncomfort- able, putting by aU. the tid-bits for them, and spend- ing nothing on herself. Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example — at once patient and complaining, self- renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what happened yesterday, and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said, " Leave me alone," she was always silenced. So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the sound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, " Thy supper stans ready for thee, when thee lik'st." " Donna thee sit up, mother," said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, vrith which at other times his speech was less deeply tinged. " I'll see to father when he HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 61 comes home ; maybe lie womia come at all to-night. I shall be easier if thee't i' bed." " Nay, I'll bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon." It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the day, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching. "Why, mother," he said, "how is it as father's working so late?" " It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin' — thee might Icnow that well anoof if thy head wama full o' chapellin' — it's thy brother as does ivery- thing, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'." Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said — " Addy, how's this ? What ! father's forgot the coffin ? " " Ay, lad, th' old tale ; but I shaU get it done," said Adam, looking up, and casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother. "Why, what's the matter with thee? Thee't in trouble." Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his mild face. 62 ADAM BEDE. "Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Why, thee'st never been to the school, then?" " School ? no ; that screw can wait," said Adam, hammering away again. "Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed," said Seth. "No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carry it to Brox'on when it's done. I'H call thee up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door, so as I mayn't hear mother's tali." Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place. " Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come," said Lisbeth. " I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks." " Nay, mother,'' said Seth, " I've had no supper yet." " Come, then," said Lisbeth, " but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam 'uU happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' taters an' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, for all I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him. An' he's been a-threatenin' to go away again," she went on, whimpering, "an' I'm fast sure he'll go some dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll niver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha' had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th' handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 63 tall an' upright like a poplar -tree, an' me to be parted from him, an' niver see 'm no more.'' "Come, mother, donna grieve thyself in vain," said Seth, in a soothing voice. " Thee'st not half so good reason to think as Adam 'uLL go away as to think he'U stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's in wrath — and he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimes — but his heart 'ud never let him go. Think how he's stood by us aU when it's been none so easy — paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an' turnin' his earnins into wood for father, when he's got plenty o' uses for his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married and settled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work, and forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by.'' " Donna talk to me about's marr'in'," said Lisbeth, crying afresh. " He's set's heart on that Hetty Sor- rel, as 'uU niver save a penny, an' 'uU toss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' Mary Burge, an' be took partners, an' be a big man wi' workmen under him, like Mester Burge — Dolly's told me so o'er and o'er again — if it warna as he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor the gillyflower on the wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' not to know no better nor that!" "But, mother, thee Imow'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud have us. There's nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could ha' wished myself as Adam could ha' made another 64 ADAM BEDE. choice, but I wouldn't reproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he tries to o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him.'' " Ay, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as thee gets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double eamins o' this side Yule. Th' Methodies '11 niver make thee half the man thy brother is, for all they're a^makin' a preacher on thee." "It's partly truth thee speak'st there, mother," said Seth, mildly ; " Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can ever do for him. God dis- tributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy — a power to keep from sin, and be content with God's wlU, whatever He may please to send. If thee wouldst pray to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things." "Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on thee what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away all thy earnins, an' niver be unaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Take no thought for the morrow — take no thought — that's what thee't allays sayin' ; an' what comes on't ? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee.'' " Those are the words o' the Bible, mother," said HOME AND ITS SOKEOWS. 65 Seth. "They don't mean as we shonld be idle. They mean we shonldn't be over anxious and wor- reting ourselves about what'll happen to-morrow, but do onr duty, and leave the rest to God's will." " Ay, ay, that's the way wi' thee : thee allays makes a peck o' thy own words out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I donna see how thee't to know as 'take no thought for the morrow' means all that. An' when the Bible's such a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an' ha' the pick o' the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n ; I can understan' the tex as he's aUays a-sayin', ' God helps them as helps theirsens.' " " Nay, mother," said Seth, " that's no text o' the Bible. It comes out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It was wrote by a know- ing man, but over-worldly, I doubt. However, that saying's partly true ; for the Bible teUs us we must be workers together with God." " Well, how'm I to know ? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi' th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no more nor that bit o' oat-cake ? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' new bacon. What's th' matter wi' thee ?" " Nothing to mind about, mother ; I'm not hungry, rn just look in at Adam again, and see if he'U let me go on with the cofBn." " Ha' a drop o' warm broth ? " said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got the better of her " natter- ing " habit. " rn set two-three sticks a-light in a minute." VOL. I- ^ G6 ADAM BEDE. " Nay, mother, thank thee ; thee't very good," said Seth, gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of tenderness, he went on : " Let me pray a bit with thee for father, and Adam, and aU of us — it'U com- fort thee, happen, more than thee thinkst." " Well, I've nothin' to say again' it." Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the nega- tive side in her conversations with Seth, had a vague sense that there was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow relieved her from the trouble of any spiritual transactions on her own behalf. So the mother and son knelt dovni together, and Seth prayed for the poor wandering father, and for those who were sorrowing for him at home. And when he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to set up his tent in a far country, but that his mother might be cheered and comforted by his presence all the days of her pilgrimage, Lis- beth's ready tears flowed again, and she wept aloud. When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again, and said, " Wilt only lie down for an hour or two, and let me go on the while ? " " No, Seth, no. Make mother go to bed, and go thyself." Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holding something in her hands. It was the brown -and -yellow platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she had cut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies to working people. She HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 67 Bet the dish down rather timidly on the bench by Adam's side, and said, " Thee canst pick a bit while thee't workin'. I'R bring thee another drop o' water." '' Ay, mother, do," said Adam, kindly ; " I'm get- ting very thirsty." In half an hour all was quiet ; no sound was to be heard in th'e house but the loud ticking of the old day-clock, and the ringing of Adam's tools. The night was very still : when Adam opened the door to look out at twelve o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling stars ; every blade of grass was asleep. Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination ; and it was so to-night with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a spectator at a diorama : scenes of the sad past, and probably sad future, floating before him, and giving place one to the other in swift succession. He saw how it would be to-morrow morning, when he had carried the coflSn to Broxton and was at home again, having his breakfast : his father per- haps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance — would sit down, looking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang down his head, examining the floor-quarries ; while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the coflSn had been got ready, that he had slinked off and left undone — for Lisbeth was always the first to utter the word of reproach, although she cried at Adam's severity towards his father. 68 ADAM BEDE. "So it will go on, worsening and worsening," thought Adam ; " there's no slipping -up-hill again, and no standing still when once you've begun to slip down." And then the day came back to him when he was a little fellow and used to run by his father's side, proud to be taken out to work, and prouder still to hear his father boasting to his fel- low-workmen how "the little chap had an uncom- mon notion o' carpentering." What a fine active fellow his father was then ! When people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of distinction as he answered, " I'm Thias Bede's lad " — he was quite sure everybody knew Thias Bede : didn't he make the wonderful pigeon-house at Brox- ton parsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who was three years the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a learner. But then came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to loiter at the public- houses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of her sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and foolish, shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the " Waggon Overthrown." He had run away once when he was only eighteen, making his escape in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle over his shoulder, and his "men- suration book " in his pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that he could bear the vexations of home no longer — ^he would go and seek his fartime, HOME AND ITS SORROWS. 69 setting tip Hs stick at the crossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got to Stoniton, the thought of his mother and Seth, left behind to endure everything without him, became too importunate, and his resolution failed him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror his mother had gone through in those two days had haunted her ever since. " No ! " Adam said to himself to-night, " that must never happen again. It 'ud make a poor balance when my doings are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My back's broad enough and strong enough ; I should be no better than a coward to go away and leave the troubles to be borne by them as aren't half so able. ' They that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not to please themselves.' There's a text wants no candle to show't ; it shines by its own light. It's plain enough you get into the wrong road i' this life if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making things easy and pleasant to your- self. A pig may poke his nose into the trough and thiok o' nothing outside it ; but if you've got a man's heart and soul in you, you can't be easy a- making your own bed an' leaving the rest to lie on the stones. Nay, nay, I'U never slip my neck out o' the yoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sore cross to me, an's likely to be for many a long year to come. What then ? I've got th' health, and the limbs, and the sperrit to bear it." At this moment a smart rap, as if with a wiUow 70 ADAM BEDE. wand, was given at the house door, and Gyp, in- stead of barking, as might have been expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the door and opened it. Nothing was there ; all was stiU, as when he opened it an hom- before ; »the leaves were motionless, and the light of the stars showed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty of visible life. Adam walked round the house, and stiU. saw nothing except a rat which darted into the woodshed as he passed. He went in again, wondering ; the sound was so pecu- liar, that the moment he heard it, it called up the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could not help a little shudder, as he remembered how often his mother had told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam was not a man to be gratuitously supersti- tious ; but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well as of the artisan, and a peasant can no more help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when he sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination which is at once humble in the region of mystery, and keen in the region of knowledge : it was the depth of his reverence quite as much as his hard common-sense, which gave him his disinclination to doctrinal re- ligion, and he often checked Seth's argumentative spiritualism by saying, " Eh, it's a big mystery ; thee know'st but little about it.'' And so it hap- pened that Adam was at once penetrating and credulous. If a new building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a divine judgment. HOME AND ITS SOKEOWS. 71 he would have said, " May be ; but the bearing o' the roof and walls wasn't right, else it wouldn't ha' come down ; " yet he believed in dreams and prog- nostics, and to his dying day he bated his breath a little when he told the story of the stroke with the wiUow wand. I tell it as he told it, not attempt- ing to reduce it to its natural elements : in our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our hold of the sympathy that comprehends them. But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessity for getting on with the cofiSn, and for the next ten minutes his hammer was ring- ing so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any, might well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, and now again came the strange rap, and again Gyp howled. Adam was at the door without the loss of a moment ; but again all was still, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dew-laden grass in front of the cottage. Adam for* a moment thought uncomfortably about his father ; but of late years he had never come home at dark hours from Treddleston, and there was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping off his drunkenness at the " Waggon Overthrown." Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was so inseparable from the painful image of his father, that the fear of any fatal accident to him was ex- cluded by the deeply-infixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought that occurred to him was one that made him sHp off his shoes and tread lightly up -stairs, to listen at the bedroom 72 ADAM BEDE. doors. But both Seth and his mother were breath- ing regularly. Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, " I won't open the door again. It's no use staring about to catch sight of a sound. Maybe there's a world about us as we can't see, but th' ear's quicker than the eye, and catches a sound from't now and then. Some people think they get a sight on't too, but they're mostly folks whose eyes are not much use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think it's better to see when your perpendicular's true, than to see a ghost." Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylight quenches the candles and the birds begin to sing. By the time the red sun- light shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the Hd of the coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in satis- faction that the work was done and the promise redeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving overhead, and presently came down-stairs. " Now, lad," said Adam, as Seth made his appear- ance, " the coffin's done, and we can take it over to Brox'on, and be back again before half after six. I'll take a mouthful o' oat-cake, and then we'U. be off." The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two brothers, and they were making their way, followed close by Gyp, out of the little wood- yard into the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a mile and a half to Broxton over the op- HOME AND ITS SOKEOWS. 73 posite slope, and their road wotmd very pleasantly along lanes and across fields, where the pale wood- bines and the dog-roses were scenting the hedge- rows, and the birds were twittering and triUing in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangely-mingled picture — the fresh youth of the summer morning, with its Eden-like peace and love- liness, the stalwart strength of the two brothers in their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the last time before a small farmhouse outside the village of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done, the coffin nailed down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorter way home- ward, which would take them across the fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had happened in the night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himself to say — " Seth, lad, if father isn't come home by the time we've had our breakfast, I think it'll be as weU for thee to go over to Treddles'on and look after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at thy work ; we can make that up. What dost say?" " I'm willing," said Seth. " But see what clouds have gathered since we set out. I'm thinking we shall have more rain. It'U be a sore time for th' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook's fine and full now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and we should have to go round by the road." 74 ADAM BEDE. They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture through which the brook ran. " Why, what's that sticking against the willow ? " continued Seth, beginning to walk faster. Adam's heart rose to his mouth : the vague anxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made no answer to Seth, but ran forward, preceded by Gyp, who began to bark uneasily ; and in two moments he was at the bridge. This was what the omen meant, then ! And the grey-haired father, of whom he had thought with a sort of hardness a few hours ago, as certam to live to be a thorn in his side, was perhaps even then struggling with that watery death ! This was the lirst thought that flashed through Adam's conscience, before he had time to seize the coat and drag out the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and when they had it on the bank, the two sons in the first moments knelt and looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting that there was need for action — forgetting everything but that their father lay dead before them. Adam was the first to speak. " I'll run to mother," he said, in a loud whisper, " I'll be back to thee in a minute." Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' break- fast, and their porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her kitchen always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on making her hearth and breakfast- table look comfortable and inviting. HOME AND ITS SOEEOWS. 75 "The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry," she said, half aloud, as she stirred the porridge. "It's a good step to Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'er the hill — wi' that hea^-y coffin too. Eh 1 it's heavier now, wi' poor Bob Tholer in't. Howiver, I've made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin'. The fey- ther 'ull happen come in arter a bit. Not as he'll ate much porridge. He swaUers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o' porridge — that's his way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many a time, an' am Hkely to tell him again afore the day's out. Eh I poor mon, he takes it quiet enough ; there's no deny- in' that." But now Lisbeth heard the heavy "thud" of a runniag footstep on the turf, and, turning quickly towards the door, she saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards him before he had time to speak. "(Hush, mother," Adam said, rather hoarsely, "don't be frightened. Father's tumbled into the water. Behke we may bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot at the fire." In reaUty Adam was convinced that his father was dead, but he knew there was no other way of repressing his mother's impetuous wailing grief than by occupying her with some active task which had hope in it. He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in heartstricken silence. The wide-open glazed eyes were grey, like Seth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whom 76 ADAM BEDE. Thias had lived to hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's soul ; but Adam's mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relent- ing and pity. When death, the great EeconoUer, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity. 77 CHAPTER V. THE KECTOE. Bkfoee twelve o'clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel-walks in the garden of Brox- ton Parsonage ; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossed by the wind and beaten by the rain, and aU the delicate-stemmed border flowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy morning — because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin, and instead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded. But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they would never think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet morning, Mr Irwine would not have been in the dining-room playing at chess with his mother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into that dining-room, and show you the Eev. Adolphus Irwine, Kector of Broxton, Vicar of Hay- slope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the 78 ADAM BEDE. severest Cturoh reformer would have found it diffi- cult to look sour. We wiU enter very softly, and stand still in the open doorway, without awaking the glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her two puppies beside her ; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black muzzle aloft, like a sleepy president. The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample muUioned oriel window at one end ; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted ; but the furniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty, and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the large dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly enough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls ; but on this cloth there is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr Irwine had a finely-cut nostril and upper lip ; but at present we can only see that he has a broad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward and tied behind with a black ribbon — a bit of con- servatism in costume which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round by-and-by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well set off by the comple:? wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about hei THE RECTOR. 79 head and neck. She is as erect in her comely em- bonpoint as a statue of Ceres ; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline nose, firm proud mouth, and small intense black eye, is so keen and sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively substitute a pack of cards for the chess-men, and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown hand with which she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and turquoises ; and a large black veil is very carefully adjusted over the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the -white folds about her neck. It must take a long time to dress that old lady in the morning ! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so : she is clearly one of those children of royalty who have never doubted their right divine, and never met with any one so absurd as to question it. " There, Dauphin, tell me what that is ! " says this magnificent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly and folds her arms. "I should be sorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings." " Ah ! you witch-mother, you sorceress ! How is a Christian man to win a game off you ? I should have sprinkled the board with holy water before we began. You've not won that game by fair means, now, so don't pretend it." "Yes, yes, that's what the beaten have always said of great conquerors. But see, there's the sun- shine falling on the board, to show you more clearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give you another chance?" " No, mother, I shall leave you to your own con- 80 ADAM BEDB. science, now it's clearing up. We must go and plash up the mud a little, musn't we, Juno ? " This was addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of the voices and laid her nose in an insinuating way on her master's leg. "But I must go up-stairs first and see Anne. I was called away to Tholer's funeral just when I was going before." "It's of no use, child; she can't speak to you. Kate says she has one of her worst headaches this morning.'' " Oh, she likes me to go and see her just the same ; she's never too ill to care about that." If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse or habit, you wiU not wonder when I tell you that this identical objection had been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many hundred times in the course of the iifteen years that Mr Irwine's sister Anne had been an invalid. Splendid old ladies, who take a long time to dress in the morning, have often slight sym- pathy with sickly daughters^ But whUe Mr Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and stroking Juno's head, the servant came to the door and said, " If you please, sir, Joshua Eann wishes to speak with you, if you are at liberty." " Let him be shown in here," said Mrs Irwine, taking up her knitting. " I always like to hear what Mr Eann has got to say. His shoes wiU be dirty, but see that he wipes them, Carroll." In two minutes Mx Eann appeared at the door THE EECTOK. 81 with very deferential bows, which, however, were far from conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp bark, and ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger's legs ; while the two puppies, regarding Mr Eann's prominent calf and ribbed worsted stockings from a more sensuous point of view, plunged and growled over them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr Irwine turned round his chair and said — "Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you've come over this damp morning? Sit down, sit down. Never mind the dogs ; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal ! " It is very pleasant to see some men turn round : pleasant as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of firelight in the chUl dusk. Mr Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance to his mother that our loving memory of a friend's face often bears to the face itself : the lines were all more generous, the smile brighter, the expression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his face might have been called joUy ; but that was not the right word for its mix- ture of bonhommie and distinction. "Thank your reverence," answered Mr Eann, endeavouring to look unconcerned about his legs, but shaking them alternately to keep off the pup- pies ; "I'll stand, if you please, as more becom- ing. I hope I see you an' Mrs Irwine well, an' Miss Irwine — an' Miss Anne, I hope's as well as usual." " Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming VOL. I. F 82 ADAM BEDE. my mother looks. She beats us younger people hoUow. But what's the matter ? " " Why, sir, I had to come to Brox'on to deliver some work, and I thought it but right to caU and let you know the goins-on as there's been i' the village, such as I hanna seen i' my time, and I've lived in it man and boy sixty year come St Thomas, and collected th' Easter dues for Mr Bliok before your reverence come into the parish, and been at the ringin' o' every bell, and the diggin' o' every grave, and sung i' the quire long afore Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi' his counter- singin' and fine anthems, as puts everybody Out but himseK — one takin' it up after another like sheep a-bleatin' i' th' fold. I know what belongs to bein' a parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin' i' respect to your reverence, an' church, an' king, if I was t' allow such goins-on wi'out speakin'. I was took by smrprise, an' knowed nothin' on it beforehand, an' I was so flustered, I was clean as if I'd lost my tools. I hanna slep' more nor fom: hour this night as is past an' gone ; an' then it was nothin' but night- mare, as tired me worse nor wakin'." " Why, what in the world is the matter, Joshua ? Have the thieves been at the church lead again ? " " Thieves ! no, sir, — an' yet, as I may say, it is thieveSj an' a-thievin' the church, too. It's the Methodisses as is like to get th' upper hand i' th' parish, if your reverence an' his honour, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think well to say the word an' forbid it. Not as I'm a-dictatin' to you, sir ; I'm not forgettin' myself so far as to be wise above THE RECTOR. 83 my betters. Howiver, whether I'm wise or no, that's neither here nor there, but what I've got to say I say — as the young Methodis woman, as is at Mester Poyser's, was a-preachin' an' a-prayin' on the Green last night, as sure as I'm a-stannin' afore your rever- ence now." " Preaching on the Green ! " said Mr Irwine, look- ing surprised but quite serene. "What, that pale pretty young woman I've seen at Poyser's ? I saw she was a Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress, but I didn't know she was a preacher." " It's a true word as I say, sir," rejoined Mr Eann, compressing his mouth into a semicircular form, and pausing long enough to indicate three notes of ex- clamation. " She preached on the Green last night ; an' she's laid hold of Chad's Bess, as the girl's been i' fits welly iver sin'." " Well, Bessy Cranage is a hearty-looking lass ; I daresay she'll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody else go into fits?" "No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there's no knowin' what'll come, if we're t' have such preachins as that a-goin' on ivery week — there'll be no livin' i' th' village. For them Methodisses make folks believe as if they take a mug o' drink extry, an' make theirselves a bit comfortable, they'll have to go to hell for't as sure as they're born. I'm not a tipplin' man nor a drunkard — nobody can say it on me — but I like a extry quart at Easter or Christ- mas time, as is nat'ral when we're goin' the rounds a-singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin' ; or when 84 ADAM BEDE. I'm a-colleotin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' a neighbotirly chat at Master Casson's now an' then, for I was brought up i' the Church, thank God, an' ha' been a parish clerk this two-an'-thirty year : I should know what the church religion is." "WeU, what's your advice, Joshua? What do you think should be done?" "Well, your reverence, I'm not for takin' any measures again' the young woman. She's weU enough if she'd let alone preachin'; an' I hear as she's a-goin' away back to her own country soon. She's Mr Peyser's own niece, an' I donna wish to say what's anyways disrespectful o' th' family at th' HaU Farm, as I've measured for shoes, little an' big, welly iver sin' I've been a shoemaker. But there's that WiU Maskery, sir, as is the rampageousest Methodis as can be, an' I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th' young woman to preach last night, an' he'U be a-briugin' other folks to preach from Treddles'on, if his comb isn't cut a bit ; an' I think as he should be let know as he isna t' have the makin' an' mendin' o' church carts an' imple- mens, let alone stayin' i' that house an' yard as is Squire Donnithorne's.'' "Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come to preach on the Green before; why should you think they'll come again? The Methodists don't come to preach in little vil- lages like Hayslope, where there's only a handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They might almost as well go and preach on the Binton Hills. WiU Maskery is no preacher himself, I think." THE KECTOE. 85 " Nay, sir, he's no gift at stringin' the words to- gether wi'out book ; he'd be stuck fast Hke a cow i' wet clay. But he's got tongue enough to speak dis- respectful about's neebors, for he said as I was a blind Pharisee ; — a-usia' the Bible i' that way to find nick- names for folks as are his elders an' betters ! — and what's worse, he's been heard to say very unbecomin' words about your reverence ; for I could bring them as 'ud swear as he called you a ' dumb dog,' an' a 'idle shepherd.' You'U. forgi'e me for sayin' such things over again." "Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they're spoken. Will Maskery might be a great deal worse fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating his wife, they told me ; now he's thrifty and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable to- gether. If you can bring me any proof that he interferes with his neighbours, and creates any dis- turbance, I shall think it my duty as a clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But it wouldn't be- come wise people, like you and me, to be making a fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather foolishly, or a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must 'live and let live,' Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as well as you've always done it, and making those capital thick boots for your neigh- bours, and things won't go far ^vrong in Hayslope, depend upon it." 86 ADAM BEDE. "Your reverence is very good to say so; an' I'm sensable as, you not livin' i' the parish, there's more upo' my shoulders." " To be sure ; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people's eyes by seeming to be fright- ened about it for a little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now, to take no notice at all of what WiU. Maskery says, either about you or me. You and your neighbours can go on taking your pot of beer soberly, when you've done your day's work, like good churchmen ; and if Will Mask- ery doesn't like to join you, but to go to a prayer- meeting at Treddleston instead, let him ; that's no business of yours, so long as he doesn't hinder you from doing what you like. An.d as to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that, any more than the old church- steeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will Maskerj' comes to church every Sunday afternoon, and does his wheel- wright's business steadily in the week-days, and as long as he does that he must be let alone." "Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an' shakes his head, an' looks as soiir an' as coxy when we're a - singin', as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowl — God forgi'e me — an' Mrs Irwine, an' your reverence, too, for speakin' so afore you. An' he said as our Christmas singin' was no better nor the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot." "Well, he's got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have wooden heads, you know, it can't be helped. He won't bring the other people in THE RECTOR. 87 Hayslope round to his opinion, while you go on sing- ing as well as you do." " Yes, sir, but it turns a man's stomach t' hear the Scripture misused i' that way. I know as much o' the words o' the Bible as he does, an' could say the Psalms right through i' my sleep if you was to pinch me ; but I know better nor to take 'em to say my own say wi'. I might as well take the Saoriment- cup home and use it at meals." " That's a very sensible remark of yours, Joshua ; but, as I said before " WhUe Mr Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step, and the cUnk of a spur, were heard on the stone floor of the entrance-hall, and Joshua Eann moved hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some one who paused there, and said, in a ring- ing tenor voice, " Godson Arthur ; — may he come in ? " " Come in, come in, godson ! " Mrs Irwine answered, in the deep half-masculine tone which belongs to the vigorous old woman, and there entered a young gentleman in a riding-dress, with his right arm in a sling ; whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of laughing interjections, and hand - shakings, and " How are you's ? " mingled with joyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the canine mem- bers of the family, which teUs that the visitor is on the best terms with the visited. The young gentle- man was Arthur Donnithorne, known in Hayslope, variously, as "the young squire,'' "the heir," and " the captain." He was only a captain in -ftie Loam- shire Militia; but to the Hayslope tenants he was 88 ADAM BEDE. more intensely a captain than all the young gentle- men of the same rank in his Majesty's regulars — he outshone them as the planet Jupiter outshines the Milky Way. If you want to know more particularly how he looked, call to your remembrance some tawny- whiskered, brown-locked, clear -complexioned young Englishman whom you have met with in a foreign town, and been proud of as a fellow-country- man — well-washed, high-bred, white-handed, yet looking as if he could deliver well jErom the left shoulder, and floor his man : I wiU not be so much of a tailor as to trouble your imagination with the difference of costume, and insist on the striped waist- coat, long-tailed coat, and low top-boots. Turning round to take a chair. Captain Donni- thorne said, "But don't let me interrupt Joshua's business — he has something to say.'' "Humbly begging your honour's pardon," said Joshua, bowing low, " there was one thing I had to say to his reverence as other things had drove out o' my head." " Out with it, Joshua, quickly ! " said Mr Irwine. "Belike, sir, you liavena heared as Thias Bede's dead^ — -drownded this morning, or more like over- night, i' the Willow Brook, again' the bridge right i' front o' the house." " Ah ! " exclaimed both the gentlemen at once, as if they were a good deal interested in the informa- tion. " An' Seth Bede's been to me this morning to say he wished me to tell your reverence as his brother Adam begged of you particular t' allow his father's THE EECTOK. 89 grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother's set her heart on it, on account of a dream as she had ; an' they'd ha' come theirselves to ask you, but they've so much to see after with the crowner, an' that ; an' their mother's took on so, an' wants 'em to make sure o' the spot for fear somebody else should take it. An' if your reverence sees well a,nd good, I'll send my boy to teU 'em as soon as I get home ; an' that's why I make bold to trouble you wi' it, his honour being present.'' " To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. m ride round to Adam myself, and see him. Send your boy, however, to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, good morning, Joshua ; go into the kitchen and have some ale." " Poor old Thias ! " said Mr Irwine, when Joshua was gone. " I'm afraid the drink helped the brook to drown him. I should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my friend Adam's shoulders in a less painful way. That fine fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the last five or six years." "He's a regular trump, is Adam," said Captain Donnithorne. "When I was a little feUow, and Adam was a strapping lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make Adam my grand-vizier. And I believe now, he would bear the exaltation as well as any poor vnse man in an Eastern story. If ever I live to be a large-acred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged allowance of pocket-money, I'll 90 ADAM BBDE. have Adam for my right-hand. He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems to have a better notion of those things than any man I ever met with ; and I know he would make twice the money of them that my grandfather does, with that miser- able old Satchell to manage, who understands no more about timber than an old carp. I've mentioned the subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or other he has a dislike to Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, your reverence, are you for a ride with me ? It's splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam's together, if you like ; but I want to call at the Hall Farm on my way, to look at the whelps Poyser is keeping for me." "You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur," said Mrs Irwine. "It's nearly two. Carroll will bring it in directly." " I want to go to the Hall Farm too," said Mr Irwine, " to have another look at the little Methodist who is staying there. Joshua teUs me she was preaching on the Grreen last night." " Oh, by Jove ! " said Captain Donnithome, laugh- ing. " Why, she looks as quiet as a mouse. There's something rather striking about her, though. I posi- tively felt quite bashful the first time I saw her : she was sitting stooping over her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up and called out, without noticing that she was a stranger, ' Is Martin Poyser at home ? ' I declare, when she got up and looked at me, and just said, ' He's in the house, I believe : I'll go and call him,' I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to her. She looked THK KECTOR. 91 like St Catherine in a Quaker dress. It's a type of face one rarely sees among onr common people." " I should like to see the young woman, Dauphin," said Mrs Irwine. "Make her come here on some pretext or other." "I don't know how I can manage that, mother; it will hardly do for me to patronise a Methodist preacher, even if she would consent to be patronised by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You should have come in a httle sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua's denunciation of his neighbour WiU Maskery. The old fellow wants me to excommunicate the wheel- wright, and then deliver him over to the civil arm — that is to say, to your grandfather — to be turned out of house and yard. J£ I chose to interfere in this business, now, I might get up as pretty a story of hatred and persecution as the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number of their maga- zine. It wouldn't take me much trouble to persuade Chad Cranage and half-a-dozen other bull -headed fellows, that they would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting WiU Maskery out of the village with rope-ends and pitchforks ; and then, when I had furnished them with half a sover- eign to get gloriously drunk after their exertions, I should have put the climax to as pretty a farce as any of my brother clergy have set going in their parishes for the last thirty years." " It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an ' idle shepherd,' and a ' dumb dog,' " said Mrs Irwine : " I should be inclined to check him a Httle there. You are too easy-tempered, Dauphin." 92 ADAM BEDE, " Why, mother, you don't think it would be a good way of sustaining my dignity to set about vindicat- ing myself from the aspersions of Will Maskery ? Besides, I'm not so sure that they are aspersions. I am a lazy feUow, and get terribly heavy in my saddle ; not to mention that I'm always spending more than I can afford in bricks and mortar, so that I get savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those poor lean cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate mankind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight before they begin their day's work, may weU have a poor opinion of me. But come, let us have our luncheon. Isn't Kate coming to lunch?" " Miss Irwine told Bridget to take her lunch up- stairs," said Carroll ; " she can't leave Miss Anne." " Oh, very well. TeU Bridget to say I'U go up and see Miss Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite weU, now, Arthur," Mr Irwine con- tinued, observing that Captain Donnithome had taken his arm out of the sling. " Yes, pretty well ; but Godwin insists on my keep- ing it up constantly for some time to come. I hope I shall be able to get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August. It's a desperately dull busiaess being shut up at the Chase in the summei' months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so as to make one's self pleasantly sleepy in the evening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My grandfather has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you the entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion. The world will not see THE EECTOK. 93 the grand epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall have a lofty throne for you, godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another in the ball- room, that you may sit and look down upon us Kke an Olympian goddess." " I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christening twenty years ago," said Mrs Ir- wine. "Ah, I think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost Kke a shroud that very day ; and it was her shroud only three months after ; and your little cap and christening dress were buried with her too. She had set her heart on that, sweet soul ! Thank God you take after your mother's family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, yellow baby, I wouldn't have stood godmother to you. I should have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broad-faced, broad-chested, loud-screaming rascal, I knew you were every inch of you a Trad- gett." " But you might have been a little too hasty there, mother," said Mr Irwine, smiling. "Don't you re- member how it was with Juno's last pups ? One of them was the very image of its mother, but it had two or three of its father's tricks notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, mother." " Nonsense, child ! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You'll never persuade me that I can't teU what men are by their outsides. If I don't like a man's looks, depend upon it I shall never like Mm. I don't want to know people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want 94 ADAM BBDE. to taste dishes that look disagreeable. If they make me shudder at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly, piggish, or fishy eye, now, makes me feel quite iU ; it's like a bad smell." "Talking of eyes," said Captain Donnithorne, " that reminds me that I've got a book I meant to bring you, godmamma.. It came down in a parcel from London the other day. I know you are fond of queer, wizard-like stories. It's a volume of poems, ' Lyrical Ballads : ' most of them seem to be twad- dling stuff; but the first is in a different style — ' The Ancient Mariner' is the title. I can hardly make head or tail of it as a story, but it's a strange, strik- ing thing, rn send it over to you ; and there are some other books that you may like to see, Irwine — pamphlets about Antinomianism and Evangelicalisln, whatever they may be. I can't think what the fellow means by sending such things to me. - I've written to him, to desire that from henceforth he will send me no book or pamphlet on anything that ends in hmP "Well, I don't know that I'm very fond of istns myself; but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let one see what is going on. I've a little matter to attend to, Arthur," continued Mr Irwine, rising to leave the room, " and then I shall be ready to set out with you." The little matter that Mr Irwine had to attend to took him up the old stone staircase (part of the house was very old), and made him pause before a door at which he knocked gently. " Come in," said a woman's voice, and he entered a room so dark- THE EECTOK. 95 ened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin middle-aged lady standing by the bedside, would not have had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting which lay on the little table near her. But at present she was doing what required only the dimmest light — sponging the aching head that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poor sufferer ; perhaps it had once been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, " Don't speak to her ; she can't bear to be spoken to to-day." Anne's eyes were closed, and her brow contracted as if from intense paiu. Mr Irwine went to the bedside, and took up one of the delicate hands and kissed it ; a slight pressure from the small fin- gers told him that it was worth while to have come up-stairs for the sake of doing that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, and then turned away and left the room, treading very gently- — he had taken off his boots and put on slippers before he came up-stairs. Whoever remembers how many things he has declined to do even for himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off his boots, will not think this last detail insignificant. And Mr Irwine's sisters, as any person of family within ten miles of Broxton could have testified, were such stupid, uninteresting women ! It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs Irwine should have had such commonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, any day; her beauty, her weU-preserved faculties, and her old-fashioned dignity, made her a graceful 96 ADAM BEDE. subject for conversation in turn with the King's health, the sweet new patterns in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Daoey's lawsuit, which was fretting poor Lady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss Irwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who re- garded them as deep in the science of medicine, and spoke of them vaguely as " the gentlefolks.'' If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his flannel jacket, he would have answered, " the gentle- folks, last winter ; " and widow Steene dwelt much on the virtues of the " stuff" the gentlefolks gave her for her cough. Under this nailie, too, they were used with great effect as a means of taming refrac- tory children, so that at the sight of poor Miss Anne's sallow face, several small urchins had a ter- rified sense that she was cognisant of all their worst misdemeanours, and knew the precise number of stones with which they had intended to hit farmer Britton's ducks. But for all who saw them through a less mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous existences ; inartistic figures crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have been accounted for by a pathetic story of disap- pointed love, might have had some romantic in- terest attached to her ; but no such story had either been known or invented concerning her, and the general impression was quite in accordance with the fact, that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason that they had never received an eligible offer. THE RECTOE. 97 Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the exists ence of insignificant people has very important con- sequences in the world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many evil tempers from the selfish, and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the tragedy of life. And if that handsome, generous-blooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwiae, had not had these two hope- lessly-maiden sisters, his lot would have been shaped quite differently : he would very likely have taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, would have had tall sons and blooming daughters — such possessions, in short, as men commonly think vsrill repay them for all the labour they take under the sun. As it was — having with all his three livings no more than seven hundred a-year, and seeing no way of keep- ing his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a second sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such lady-like ease as be- came their birth and habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his own — he remained, you see, at the age of eight -and -forty, a bachelor, not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one alluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him. And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sis- ters uninteresting and superfluous ; for his was one of those large-hearted, sweet-blooded natures that never know a narrow or a grudging thought ; epi- VOL. I. G 98 ADAM BEDE. ourean, if you will, with no enthiisiasm, no self- scourging sense of duty ; but yet, as you have seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an un- wearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous suffering. It was his large-hearted indulgence that made him ignore his mother's hardness towards her daughters, which was the more striking from its con- trast with her doting fondness towards himself: he held it no virtue to frown at irremediable faults. See the difference between the impression a man makes on you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or look at him in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in the eyes of a critical neighbour who thiaks of him as an embodied system or opinion rather than as a man. Mr Eoe, the " travelling preacher " stationed at Treddleston, had included Mr Irwine in a general statement concerning the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom he described as men given up to the lusts of the flesh and the pride of life ; hunting and shooting, and adorning their own houses ; asking what shall we eat, and what shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed ? — careless of dispensing the bread of life to their flocks, preaching at best but a carnal and soul- benumbing morality, and trafficking in the souls of men by receiving money for discharging the pas- toral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on the faces of the people more than once a- year. The ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that period, finds honour- able members zealous for the Church, and untainted THE RECTOR. 99 with any sympathy for the " tribe of canting Method- ists," making statements scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr Eoe. And it is impossible for me to say that Mr Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification assigned him. He reaUy had no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm : if I were closely questioned, I should be obliged to con- fess that he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have thought it a mere loss of time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening manner to old "Feyther Taffc," or even to Chad Cranage the blacksmith. If he had been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said that the only healthy form religion could take in such minds was that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing themselves as a hallow- ing influence over the family affections and neigh- bourly duties. He thought the custom of baptism more important than its doctrine, and that the reli- gious benefits the peasant drew from the church where his fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buried, were but slightly dependent on a clear understanding of the Liturgy or the sermon. Clearly the Eector was not what is called in these days an " earnest " man : he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and had much more insight into men's characters than in- terest in their opinions ; he was neither laborious, nor obviously self-denying, nor very copious in alms- giving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental palate, indeed, was rather pagan, and found a savouriness in a quotation from Sophocles or Theo- 100 ADAM BEDE. critus that was quite absent from any text in Isaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its retaining a relish for uncooked partridge in after-life? and Mr Irwine's recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition were aU associated with poetry and ethics that lay aloof from the Bible. On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partiality towards the Eeotor's memory, that he was not vindictive — and some philanthro- pists have been so ; that he was not intolerant — and there is a rumour that some zealous theologians have not been altogether free from that blemish ; that although he would probably have declined to give his body to be burned in any pubHc cause, and was far from bestowing all his goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimes been lacking to very illustrious virtue — ^he was tender to other men's failings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was one of those men, and they are not the commonest, of whom we can know the best only by following them away from the market-place, the platform, and the pulpit, entering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice with which they speak to the young and aged about their own hearth- stone, and witnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants of everyday companions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and not as a subject for panegyric. Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, and have sometimes even been the living representatives of the abuses. That is a THE KECTOK. 101 thought which might comfort us a little under the opposite fact — that it is better sometimes not to foUow great reformers of abuses beyond the thresh- old of their homes. But whatever you may think of Mr Irwine now, if you had met him that June afternoon riding on his grey cob, with his dogs running beside him — portly, upright, manly, with a good-natured smile on his finely-turned lips as he taUced to his dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have felt that, however ill he harmonised with sound theories of the clerical ofSce, he somehow harmon- ised extremely well with that peaceful landscape. See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then by roUing masses of cloud, ascending the slope from the Broxton side, where the tail gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tiny white -washed church. They wUl soon be in the parish of Hayslope ; the grey church-tower and vil- lage roofs lie before them to the left, and farther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall Farm. 102 CHAPTEE VI. THE HALL FARM. Evidently that gate is never opened. : for the long grass and the great hemlocks grow close against it ; and if it were opened, it is so rusty, that the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely to puU down the square stone-built pillars, to the detri- ment of the two stone lionesses which grin with a doubtftd carnivorous affability above a coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by the aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick waU with its smooth stone coping ; but by putting our eyes close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and aU. but the very corners of the grassy enclosure. It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with happy irregularity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with the lime- stone ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and the door-place. But the windows are patched with wooden panes, and the door, I think, is THE HALL FARM. 103 like the gate — it is never opened : how it would groan and grate against the stone floor if it were ! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the habit of shutting with a sonor- ous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen his master and mistress off the grounds in a carriage and pair. But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that grand double row of walnut-trees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and rot among the grass, if it were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back. And now the half-weaned calves that have been sheltering themselves in a gorse-buUt hovel against the left-hand wall, come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of milk. Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom ; for imagination is a licensed trespasser : it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your face to one of the glass panes in the right-hand window : what do you see ? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a bare boarded-floor ; at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked up ; in the middle of the floor, some empty corn-bags. That is the furni- tin-e of the dining-room. And what through the left- hand window? Several clothes-horses, a piUion, a spinning-wheel, and an old box wide open, and stuffed fuU. of coloured rags. At the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doU, which, so far as 104 ADAM BEDE. mutilation is concerned, bears a strong resemblance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it there is a little chair, and the butt-end of a boy's leather long-lashed whip. The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence of a country squire, whose family, probably dwindling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It was once the Hall ; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in some coast -town that was once a watering-place, and is now a port, where the gen- teel streets are silent and grass-grown, and the docks and warehouses busy and resonant, the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the farm- yard. Plenty of life there ! though this is the drowsiest time of the year, just before hay-harvest ; and it is the drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half-past three by Mrs Poyser's handsome eight-day clock. But there is always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after rain ; and now he is pouring down his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cow-shed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying along the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellow-billed ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of getting a drink with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a concert of noises ; the great bull - dog, chained against the stables, is thrown into furious exaspera- THE HALL FARM. 105 tion by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth of his kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by two fox-hounds shut up in the opposite cow-house ; the old top-knotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cook joins them ; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs, and curled as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes ; our friends the calves are bleat- ing from the home croft ; and, under all, a fine ear discerns the continuous hiun of human voices. For the great barn-doors are thrown wide open, and men are busy there mending the harness, under the superintendence of Mr Goby the " whittaw," otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latest Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for having the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet ; and Mrs Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to the dirt which the extra num- ber of men's shoes brought into the house at dinner- time. Indeed, she has not yet recovered her equa- nimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner, and the house-floor is perfectly clean again ; as clean as everything else in that wonderful house -place, where the only chance of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the salt-coffer, and put your finger on the high man- tel-shelf on which the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure ; for at this time of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the out- 106 ADAM BEDE. line of objects after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could an oak clock-case and an oak table have got to such a polish by the hand : genuine " elbow polish," as Mrs Poyser called it, for she thanked God she never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking at the pleasing reflection of her- self in those polished surfaces, for the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more for ornament than for use ; and she could see herself sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on, the shelves above the long deal dinner - table, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone like jasper. Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright brass ; — and on a still pleasanter object than these ; for some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely-moulded cheek, and lit up her pale red hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene could have been more peaceful, if Mrs Poyser, who was ironing a few things that still remained from the Monday's wash, had not been making a frequent clinking with her iron, and moving to and fro whenever she wanted it to cool ; carrying the keen glance of her blue-grey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the back-kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out THE HALL FARM. 107 of the oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance ; she was a good-looking woman, not more than eight- and-thirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair, weU- shapen, light-footed : the most conspicuous article in her attu-e was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost covered her skirt ; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and gown, for there was no weakness of which she was less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The family likeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and Dinah's seraphic gentle- ness of expression, might have served a painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and Mary. Their eyes were just of the same colour, but a striking test of the difference in their operation was seen in the demeanour of Trip, the black-and-tan terrier, whenever that much-suspected dog unwarily exposed himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs Poyser's glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and, whenever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrel-organ takes up a tune, precisely at the point where it had left off. The fact that it was churning -day was another reason why it was inconvenient to have the whit- taws, and why, consequently, Mrs Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual severity. To all appearance Molly had got through her after- dinner work in an exemplary manner, had " cleaned herself" with great despatch, and now came to ask. 108 ADAM BEDE. submissively, if she should sit down to her spinning tiU milking - time. But this blameless conduct, ac- cording to Mrs Poyser, shrouded a secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she now dragged forth and held up to Molly's view with cutting eloquence. " Spinning, indeed ! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew your equals for gallowsness. To thint 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 Hps if I'd been you. And you, as have been here ever since last Michaelmas, and I hired you at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' character — as I say, you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place ; and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. Who taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know? Why, you'd leave the dirt in heaps i' the corners — anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought up among Christians. And as for spin- ning, why, you've wasted as much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin. And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to no- body. Comb the wool for the whittaws, indeed ! That's what you'd like to be doing, is it? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy tiU you've got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself : you think you'll be finely off when you're married. THE HALL FAEM. 109 I daresay, and have got a three-legged stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover yon, and a bit o' oat-cake for your dinner, as three children are a- snatching at." " I'm sure I donna want t' go wi' the whittaws," said Molly, whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her future, " on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's ; an' so I just axed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the whit- taws again ; I wish I may never stir if I do.'' " Mr Ottley's, indeed ! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirted wi' whittaws for what I know. There's no knowing what people wonna like — such ways as I've heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was ; I think people live like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' left the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come down-stairs after my iUness, as the doctor said it was inflammation — it was a mercy I got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, MoUy, and been here a-going i' nine months, and not for want o' talking to, neither — and what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sitting down to yom- work a little while after it's time to put by." " Munny, my iron's twite told ; pease put it down to warm." no ADAM BEDE. The small chirruping voice that uttered this re- quest came from a little sunny-haired girl between three and foxir, who, seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing -table, was arduously clutching the handle of a miaiature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow. " Cold, is it, my darling ? Bless your sweet face ! " said Mrs Peyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. " Never mind ! Mother's done her iron- iag now. She's going to put the ironing things away." "Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd." " No, no, no ; Totty 'ud get her feet wet," said Mrs Poyser, carrying away her iron. "Eun into the dairy and see cousin Hetty make the butter." " I tould 'ike a bit o' pum-take," rejoined Totty, who seemed to be provided with several relays of requests ; at the same time, takiag the opportunity of her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it down, so as to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the iron- ing-sheet. " Did ever anybody see the like ? " screamed Mrs Poyser, running towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. "The child's allays i' mischief if your back's turned a minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell ? " THE HALL FAEM. Ill Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, and was aheady in retreat to- wards the dairy with a sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck, which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white sucMng- Pig- The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the ironing apparatus put by, Mrs Poyser took up her knitting, which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked best, because she could carry it on automatically as she walked to and fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her grey worsted stocking. " You look th' image o' your aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty years back, and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd done the house up ; only it was a little cottage, father's was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you clean it in an- other; but for aU that, I could fancy you was your aunt Judith, only her hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and broader i' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she had such queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah ! yotu- mother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after the very pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, and bring up with a spoon when she was in the graveyard at Stoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound 112 ADAM BEDE. weight any day, to save anybody else carrying a ounce. And she was just the same from the first o' my remembering her ; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she talked a bit different, and wore a dififerent sort o' cap ; but she'd never in her life spent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent." " She was a blessed woman," said Dinah ; " God had given her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and He perfected it by grace. And she was very fond of you too, aunt Rachel. I've often heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she used to say, ' You'll have a friend on earth in your aunt Rachel, if I'm taken from you ; for she has a kind heart ; ' and I'm sure I've found it so." " I don't know how, child ; anybody 'ud be cun- ning to do anything for you, I think ; you're like the birds o' th' air, and live nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a mother's sister, if you'd come and live i' this country, where there's some shelter and victual for man and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hiUs, like poultry a-scratch- ing on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to some decent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave off that preach- ing, as is ten times worse than anything your aunt Judith ever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodist, and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your uncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very Uke a cow, for he's allays been good-natur'd to my kin, for all THE HALL FARM. 113 they're poor, and made 'em welcome to the house ; and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the house as I could weU spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting and table-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o' sheet- ing I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun — she was a rare girl to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her ; and, you know, the spinning's going on constant, and there's new linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the use o' talking, if ye wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in her senses, istead o' wearing yourself out with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness ; and all the things you've got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And aU because you've got notions i' your head about religion more nor what's i' the Catechism and the Prayer-book." "But not more than what's in the Bible, aunt," said Dinah. "Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter," Mrs Poyser rejoined, rather sharply ; " else why shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible — the parsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do? But, for the matter o' that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to a standstill ; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was allays talking as we must despise VOL. 1. H 114 ADAM BEDE. the things o' the world, as you say, I should like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the com, and the best new-milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Every- body 'ud be wanting bread made o' tail ends, and everybody 'ud be running after everybody else to preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying by against a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the right religion." " Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that aU people are called to forsake their work and their families. It's quite right the land should be ploughed and sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them, so that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while they are caring for the body. We can all be ser- vants of God wherever our lot is cast, but He gives us dififerent sorts of work, according as He fits us for it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying to do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help running if you heard little Totty c'rying at the other end of the house ; the voice would go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't rest without running to help her and comfort her.'' "Ah," said Mrs Poyser, rising and walking to- wards the door, " I know it 'ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for hours. You'd make me the same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brook, and teH it to stan' stiU." The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry THE HALL FAEM. 115 enoTigli now for Mrs Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all the while. But she had not been standing there more than five minutes before she came in again, and said to Dinah, ia rather a flurried, awe-stricken tone — " If there isn't Captain Donnithome and Mr Irwine a -coming into the yard ! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preaching on the Green, Dinah ; it's you must answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've said enough a'ready about your bring- ing such disgrace upo' your uncle's family. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr Peyser's own niece — folks must put up wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their own noses — it's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o' my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savins " "Nay, dear aunt Eachel," said Dinah gently, " you've no cause for such fears. I've strong assur- ance that no evil will happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach without direction." " Direction ! I know very well what you mean by direction," said Mrs Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. " When there's a bigger maggot than usial in your head you call it ' direction ; ' and then nothing can stir you — you look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether it's fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with you." 116 ADAM BEDE. By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings, and had got down from their horses : it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low, and trem- bling between anger with Dinah and anxiety to con- duct herself with perfect propriety on the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a whispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of old men felt when they stood on tip-toe 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 cor- diality. " Our feet are quite dry ; we shall not soil your beautiful floor." " Oh, sir, don't mention it," said MrsPoyser. " Will you and the Captain please to walk into the parlour?" "No, indeed, thank you, Mrs Poyser," said the Captain, looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could not find. " I delight in your kitchen. I think it is the most charming room I know. I should like every farmer's wife to come and look at it for a pattern." " Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat," said Mrs Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and the Captain's evident good-humour, but stiU glancing anxiously at Mr Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at Dinah and advancing towards her. . " Poyser is not at home, is he ? " said Captain Donnithorne, seating himself where he could see along the short passage to the open dairy-door. " No, sir, he isn't ; he's gone to Eosseter to see THE HALL FAKM. 117 Mr West, the factor, about the wool. But there's father i' the barn, sir, if he'd be of any use." " No, thank you ; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a message about them with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband ; I want to have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he's likely to be at liberty ? " " Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'on market-day — that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's anywhere on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got rid o' the Scantlands we should have no outlying fields ; and I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance ; and it's an unnat'ral thing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest in another." " Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especially as he wants dairy-land and you've got plenty. I think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though ; and do you know, Mrs Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle, I shoidd be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself." " Oh, sir," said Mrs Poyser, rather alarmed, " you wouldn't like it at all. As for farming, it's putting money into your pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it's raising victual for other folks, and just getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along. Not as you'd be Hke a poor man as wants to get his bread ! you could afford to lose as much 118 ADAM BEDE. money as you liked i' farming ; but it's poor fun losing money, I should think, though I understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more than anything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son had lost thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they said my lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But j'ou know more about that than I do, sir. But, as for farming, sir, I canna think as you'd like it ; and this house — the draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and it's my opinion the floors up-stairs are very rotten, and the rats i' the cellar are beyond anything." "Why, that's a terrible picture, Mrs Poyser. I think I should be doing you a service to turn you out of such a place. But there's no chance of that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm a stout gentleman of forty ; and my grand- father would never consent to part with such good tenants as you." " Well, sir, if he thinks so well o' Mr Poyser for a tenant, I wish you could put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Five closes, for my husband's been asking and asking tiE. he's tired, and to think o' what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad or good. And as I've said to my husband often and often, I'm sure if the Captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn't be so. Not as I wish to speak disrespect- ful o' them as have got the power i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'uU bear sometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, THE HALL FARM. 119 and liardly sleeping a wint when you He down for thinlving as the cheese may swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow green again i' the sheaf — and after all, at th' end o' the year, it's like as if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your pains." Mrs Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed along without any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force that overcame all resistance. "I'm afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speak about the gates, Mrs Poyser,'' said the Captain, "though I assure you there's no man on the estate I would sooner say a word for than your husband. I know his farm is in better order than any other within ten miles of us ; and as for the kitchen," he added, smiling, " I don't believe there's one in the kingdom to beat it. By the by, I've never seen your dairy : I must see your dairy, Mrs Poyser." "Indeed, sir, it's not fit for you to go in, for Hetty's in the middle o' making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I'm quite ashamed." This Mrs Poyser said blushing, and believing that the Captain was really interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the appearance of her dairy. " Oh, I've no doubt it's in capital order. Take me in," said the Captain, himself leading the way, while Mrs Poyser followed. 120 CHAPTEE 711. THE DAIRY. The dairy was certainly worth looking at : it was a scene to sicken for with a sort of calentiire in hot and dusty streets — such coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water ; such soft colouring of red earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey lime- stone and rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details when they surround a distract- ingly pretty girl of seventeen, standing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of the scale. Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donnithorne entered the dairy and spoke to her ; but it was not at all a distressed blush, for it was in- wreathed with smiles and dimples, and with sparkles from under long curled dark eyelashes ; and while her aunt was discoursing to him about the limited amount of milk that was to be spared for butter and THE DAIRY. 121 t cheese so long as the calves were not aU weaned, and a large quantity but inferior quality of milk yielded by the short-horn, which had been bought on experiment, together with other matters which must be interesting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and patted her pound of butter with quite a self-possessed, coquettish air, slily conscious that no turn of her head was lost. There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish ; but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelHgent mam- mals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief — a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush fOr inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sort of beauty. Her aunt, Mrs Poyser, who professed to despise all per- sonal attractions, and intended to be the severest of mentors, continually gazed at Hetty's charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; and after ad- ministering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety to do weU by her husband's niece — who had no mother of her own to scold her, poor thing ! — she would often confess to her husband, when they were safe out of hearing, that she firmly believed, " the naughtier the little huzzy behaved, the prettier she looked." 122 ADAM BEDE. It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty's cheek was like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about her white shell-like ears ; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of her pink-and-white necker- chief, tucked into her low plum-coloured stuff boddice, or how the linen butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, since it fell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and ankle ; — of little use, unless you have seen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she would not in the least resemble that distracting kitten-like maiden. I might mention all the divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting lark, or in wander- ing through the still lanes when the fresh -opened blossoms £Q1 them with a sacred silent beauty like that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descriptive catalogue? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright spring day. Hetty's was a spring-tide beauty ; it was the beauty of young frisking things, round-Hmbed, gambolling, circum- venting you by a false air of innocence — the inno- THE DAIRY. 123 cence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a severe steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the middle of a bog. And they are the prettiest attitudes and move- ments into which a pretty girl is thrown in making up butter — ^tossing movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white neck ; little patting and rolling move- ments with the pahn of the hand, and nice adapta- tions and finishings which cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charm — it is so pure, so sweet- scented ; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light ! Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever at making up the butter ; it was the one performance of hers that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism ; so she handled it with aU the grace that belongs to mastery. "I hope you wUl be ready for a great holiday on the thirtieth of July, Mrs Poyser," said Captain Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admired the dairy, and given several improvised opinions on Swede turnips and short-horns. "You know what is to happen then,' and I shall expect you to be one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. WiU you promise me your hand for two dances. Miss Hetty ? If I don't get your promise now, I know I shall hardly have a chance, for aU the smart young farmers wUl take care to secm-e you." 124 ADAM BEDB. Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs Poyser interposed, scandalised at the mere suggestion that the young squire could be excluded by any meaner partners. " Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. And I'm sure, whenever you're pleased to dance with her, she'U be proud and thankful, if she stood stiU all the rest o' th' evening." " Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows who can dance. But you will promise me two dances, won't you ? " the Captain continued, determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him. Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half- shy, half- coquettish glance at him as she said — " Yes, thank you, sir." " And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs Poyser ; your little Totty, as weU as the boys. I want aU the youngest children on the estate to be there — aU those who will be fine young men and women when I'm a bald old fellow." " Oh dear, sir, that 'ull be a long time first," said Mrs Poyser, quite overcome at the young squire's speaking so lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen of high-bom humour. The Captain was thought to be " very fuU of his jokes," and was a great favourite throughout the estate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was quite sure things would be different when the reins got into his hands — there was to be a millennial abun- THE DAIRY. 125 dance of new gates, allowances of lime, and returns of ten per cent. " But where is Totty to-day ? " he said. " I want to see her.'' "Where is the little un, Hetty?" said Mrs Poyser. " She came in here not long ago." "I don't know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think." The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back- kitchen, in search of her, not, however, without mis- givings lest something should have happened to render her person and attire unfit for presentation. "And do you carry the butter to market when you've made it ? " said the Captain to Hetty, mean- while. " Oh no, sir; not when it's so heavy: I'm not strong enough to cany it. Alick takes it on horseback.'' " No, I'm sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evenings, don't you ? Why don't you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it's so green and pleasant ? I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church." "Aunt doesn't Kke me to go a -walking only when I'm going somewhere,'' said Hetty. "But I go through the Chase sometimes." "And don't you ever go to see Mrs Best, the housekeeper ? I think I saw you once in the house- keeper's room." "It isn't Mrs Best, it's Mrs Pomiret, the lady's- maid, as I go to see. She's teaching me tent-stitch 126 ADAM BEDE. and the lace-mending. I'm going to tea with her to-morrow afternoon." The reason why there had been space for this tete-d-tite can only be known by looking into the back - kitchen, where Totty had been discovered rubbing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same moment allowiag some liberar indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she ap- peared holding her mother's hand — the end of her round nose rather shiny from a recent and hurried apphcation of soap and water. " Here she is ! " said the Captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low stone shelf. "Here's Totty! By the by, what's her other name? She wasn't christened Totty.'' " Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Char- lotte's her christened name. It's a name i' Mr Peyser's family : his grandmother was named Char- lotte. But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it's got to Totty. To be sure it's more like a name for a dog than a Christian child." " Totty's a capital name. Why, she looks like a Totty. Has she got a pocket on ? " said the Captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets. Totty immediately with great gravity lifted up her frock, and showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. " It dot notin in it,'' she said, as she looked down at it very earnestly. " No ! what a pity ! such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I've got some things in mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. Yes ! I declare I've got five THE DAIRY. 127 little round silver things, and hear what a pretty noise they make in Totty's pink pocket." Here he shook the pocket with the five sixpences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in great glee ; but, divining that there was nothing more to be got by staying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket in the heariag of Nancy, whUe her mother called after her, " Oh for shame, you naughty gell ! not to thank the Captain for what he's given you. I'm sure, sir, it's very kind of you ; but she's spoiled shameful ; her father won't have her said nay in anything, and there's no managing her. It's being the youngest, and th' only gell." " Oh, she's a funny little fatty; I wouldn't have her different. But I must be going now, for I suppose the Eector is waiting for me." With a "good-by,'' a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty, Arthur left the dairy. But he was mis- taken in imagining himself waited for. The Eector had been so much interested in his conversation with Dinah, that he would not have chosen to close it earlier ; and you shall hear now what they had been saying to each other. 128 CHAPTEE VIII. A VOCATION. Dinah, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but stiU kept hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr Irwine look- ing at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes met his, was, " What a well-favoured countenance ! Oh that the good seed might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish." The agreeable impression must have been mutual, for Mr Irwine bowed to her with a benignant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had been the most dignified lady of his ac- quaintance. "You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think ? " were his first words, as he seated himself opposite to her. "No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very kind, wanting me to have rest from my work there, because I'd been ill, and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while." A VOCATIOK. 129 " Ah, I remember Snowfiold very well ; I once had occasion to go there. It's a dreary bleak place. They were building a cotton-mill there ; biut that's many years ago now : I suppose the place is a good deal changed by the employment that mill must have brought." " It is changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a livelihood for themselves by working in it, and make it better for the trades- folks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for thereby I have enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you say, sir — very different from this country." "You have relations living there, probably, so that you are attached to the place as your home ? " " I had an aunt there once ; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But she was taken away seven years ago, and I have no other kindred that I know of, besides my aunt Poyser, who is very a-ood to me, and would have me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land, where- in they eat bread without scarceness. But I'm not free to leave Snowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like the small grass on the hill-top." "Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there 5 you are a Methodist — a Wesleyan, I think?" "Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause to be thankful for the privileges I have had thereby from my earliest childhood." VOL. I. I 130 ADAM BEDE. " And have you been long in the habit of preach- ing ? — for I understand you preached at Hayslope last night." " I &st took to the work four years siuce, when T was twenty-one." "Your Society sanctions women's preaching, then?" " It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work, and when their ministry is owned by the conversion of sinners, and the strengthening of God's people. Mrs Fletcher, as you may, have heard about, was the first woman to preach ia the Socifety, I believe, before she was married, when she was Miss Bosanquet ; and Mr Wesley approved of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many others now living who are precious fellow-helpers in the work of the ministry. I understand there's been voices raised against it in the Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to nought. It isn't for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they make chan- nels for the water-courses, and say, ' Flow here, but flow not there.' " "But don't you find some danger among your people — I don't mean to say that it is so with you, far fi:om it — but don't you find sometimes that both men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and are quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit, and bring holy things into contempt?" " Doubtless it is so sometimes ; for there have been evil-doers among us who have sought to deceive the brethren, and some there are who deceive their own A VOCATION. 131 selves. But we are not without discipline and cor- rection to put a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept among us, and the brethren and sisters watch for each other's souls as they that must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, ' Am I my brother's keeper ? ' " " But teU me — if I may ask, and I am really in- terested in knowing it — how you first came to think of preaching ? " " Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at all — I'd been used from the time I was sixteen to talk to the little children, and teach them, and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much drawn out in prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach ; for when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much given to sit stiU and keep by myself : it seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the thought of God overflowing my soul — as the pebbles lie bathed in the WiUow Brook. For thoughts are so great — aren't they, sir ? They seem to lie upon us like a deep flood ; and it's my beset- ment to forget where I am and everything about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning nor ending of them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember ; but sometimes it seemed as if speech came to me without any will of my own, and words were given to me that came out as the tears come, because our hearts are full and we can't help it. And those were always times of great blessing, though I had never thought it could be so with me before a congregation of people. But, sir, we are 132 ADAM BEDE. led on, like the little children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite suddenly, and since then I have never been left in doubt about the work that was laid upon me." " But tell me the circumstances — just how it was, the very day you began to preach." " It was one Sunday I walked with brother Mar- lowe, who was an aged man, one of the local preachers, all the way to Hetton-Deeps — that's a village where the people get their living by work- ing in the lead-mines, and where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles from Snow- field, so we set out early in the morning, for it was summer-time ; and I had a wonderful sense of the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where there's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make the sky look smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel the everlast- ing arms around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid of falling, for he overworked him- self sadly, at his years, in watching and praying, and walking so many miles to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his trade of linen-weaving. And when we got to the village, the people were expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he was there before, and such of them as cared to hear the Word of Life were assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others might be drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the A VOCATION. 133 first of the cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I would read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and saw the aged and trembling women at the doors, and the hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement in my soul, and I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit enter- ing into my weak body. And I went to where the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on the low wall that was built against the green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out of all the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord. That was the beginning of my preaching, sir, and I've preached ever since." Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in her usual simple way, but with that sincere, articulate, thrilling treble, by which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up her sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr Irwine was deeply interested. He said to himself, " He must be a miserable prig who would act the pedagogue here : one might as well go and lecture the trees for growing in their own shape.'' " And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youth — that you are a lovely young woman on whom men's eyes are fixed ? " he said aloud. 13i ADAM BEDE. " No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe tlie people ever take notice about that. I think, sir, when God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush : Moses never took any heed what sort of bush it was — ^he only saw the brightness of the Lord. I've preached to as rough ignorant people as can be in the villages about Snowfield — men that looked very hard and vnld : but they never said an uncivil word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me to pass through the midst of them." " That I can believe — that I can well believe," said Mr Irwine, emphatically. " And what did you think of your hearers last night, now ? Did you find them quiet and attentive ? " " Very quiet, sir ; but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except in a young girl named Bessy Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up to foUy and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But I've noticed, that in these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green pastures and the still waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be ii-om the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy woman who preaches there. It's wonderful how rich is the harvest of souls up those high-walled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a prison-yard, and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil. I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter when A VOCATION. 135 this life is so dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease." "Why, yes, our farm - labourers are not easily roused. They take life almost as slowly as the sheep and cows. But we have some intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist." " Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a gracious young man — sincere and without offence ; and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his great skiU and knowledge, and the kindness he shows to his brother and his parents." "Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them? Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the WiUow Brook last night, not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam." " Ah, their poor aged mother ! " said Dinah, drop- ping her hands, and looking before her with pitying eyes, as if she saw the object of her sympathy. " She will mourn heavily ; for Seth has told me she's of an anxious, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help.'' As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the milk- pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs Pey- ser. Mr Irwine now rose also, and, advancing to- wards Dinah, held out his hand, and said — " Good-bye. I hear you are going away soon ; but this will not be the last visit you will pay your aunt — :So we shall meet again, I hope." 136 ADAM BEDB. His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs Peyser's aaixieties at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said — " I've never asked after Mrs Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir ; I hope they're as well as usual." "Yes, thank you, Mrs Peyser, except that Miss Anne has one ef her bad headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you sent us — my mother especially." " I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I remembered Mrs Irwine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to leek at my poultry this long while, and I've got seme beautiful speckled chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some ef amongst hers." " Well, I'll tell her ; she must come and see them. Good-bye," said the Rector, mounting his horse. " Just ride slowly en, Irwine," said Captain Donni- thorne, mounting also. " I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Good-bye, Mrs Peyser ; tell your husband I shall come and have a long talk with him seen." Mrs Peyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had disappeared from the yard, amidst groat excitement on the part ef the pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation ef the bull-dog, who performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking ef his chain. Mrs Peyser delighted in this noisy exit ; it was a fresh assurance to her that the farmyard was well A VOCATION. 137 guarded, and that no loiterers could enter unob- served ; and it was not until the gate had closed behind the Captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage. Mrs Poyser, however, though she noticed the bon- net, deferred remarking on it iintil she had disbur- dened herself of her surprise at Mr Irwine's be- haviour. "Why, Mr Irwine wasn't angry, then? What did he say to you, Dinah? Didn't he scold you for preaching ? " " No, he was not at all angry ; he was very friendly to me. I was quite drawn out to speak to him ; I hardly know how, for I had always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his coiintenance is as pleasant as the morning sunshine." " Pleasant ! and what else did y' expect to iind him but pleasant?" said Mrs Poyser, impatiently, resuming her knitting. " I should think his coim- tenance is pleasant indeed ! and him a gentleman born, and's got a mother like a picter. You may go the country round, and not find such another woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-Hke to see such a man as that i' the desk of a Sunday ! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at a fuU. crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it ; it makes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o' bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's right, as look as if they'd 138 ADAM mmi. nover tastod notliing bettor than baoon-Bwovd ami sour-oake i' tlieir lives. But what did Mr Irwino Bay to you about that fool's ti'iok o' proaoliing on tho Green?" " He only said he'd heard of it ; ho didn't soem Id feel any displeasure about it. But, dour aunt, dou'l. think any more about that, lie told nio somclhing that I'm sure will cause you soirow, as it docs iiu<. Thias Bode was drowned last niglit in tlio Willmv Brook, and I'm tliinkiiif;- that the iig'dd iiioth((liodist; but, for tho matter o' that, it's tho flosh and blood folks aro mado on as makes tho dill'oronoo. Konm chooses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' now milk, and it's no matter what you call 'cm, you may loll which is wliioh by the look and the smell. Bnt as to Tliias Bode, he's bottov out o' the way nor in- - Ood roi|;'i' me for saying so — for he's done liMlc this ton year but make trouble for tlunn as belonged U> liini ; and I think it 'lul bo well ibr you to lake a liM.le bol.llc o rum for th' old woman, for I daresay she's got never a drop o' nothing to comfort luu- inHiil(^. Sit down, A VOCATION. 139 child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o' tea, and so I tell you." During the latter part of this speech, Mrs Poyser had been reaching down the tea-things from the shelves, and was on her way towards the pantry for the loaf (followed close by Totty, who had made her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups), when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her head. " MoUy,'' she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch of dock-leaves : the butter's ready to pack up now." "D' you hear what's happened, Hetty?" said her aunt. " No ; how should I hear anything ? " was the answer, in a pettish tone. " Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear ; for you're too feather-headed to mind if every- body was dead, so as you could stay up-stairs a- dressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody besides youi'self 'ud mind about such things happening to them as think a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might be drownded for what you'd care — you'd be perldng at the glass the next minute." " Adam Bede — drowned ? " said Hetty, letting her arms fall, and looking rather bewildered, but sus- pecting that her aunt was as usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose. "No, my dear, no," said Dinah, kindly, for Mrs Poyser had passed on to the pantry without deign- 140 ADAM BEDE. ing more precise information. "Not Adam. Adam's father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the WiUow Brook. Mr Irwine has just told me about it." " Oh, how dreadful ! " said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply affected ; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them silently and re- turned to the dairy without asking further questions. 141 CHAP TEE IX. HETTY S 'WORLD. While she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant butter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green, I am afraid Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithome had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young gentleman, with white hands, a gold chain, occa- sional regimentals, and wealth and grandeiu: im- measurable — those were the warm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating, and playing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any other influence divine or human than certain shortlived sunbeams of morning ; and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly-fashioned instruments called human souls have only a very limited range of music, and wUl not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others with tremulous rapture or quivering agony. 142 ADAM BEDE. Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to Hay- slope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her ; and that he would have made much more decided advances if her imcle Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was so foul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him by any civilities. , She was aware, too, that Mr Craig, the gardener at the Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made unmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She knew stUl better, that Adam Bede — tall, upright, clever, brave Adam Bede — who carried such authority with all the people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that " Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those as thought themselves his betters" — she knew that this Adam, who was often rather stem to other people, and not much given to run after the lasses, could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't help perceiving that Adam was " something like " a man ; always knew what to say about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended the chum in no time ; knew, with only look- ing at it, the value of the chesnut-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 beautifal hand that you could read off, and could HETTY'S WORLD. 143 do figures in Lie head — a degree of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that coTintry-side. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only broken , silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as for Mr Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knock- kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk ; moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way to forty. Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there was no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable artisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the pubhc-house, they might be seen tak- iag their jug of ale together ; the farmer having a latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which sustained him under his conspicuous inferior- ity in conversation. Martin Peyser was not a fre- quenter of public-houses, but he liked a friendly chat over his own home-brewed ; and though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something from a clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three years — ^ever since he had superin- tended the building of the new barn — Adam had always been made welcome at the HaU Farm, espe- cially of a winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, master and mistress, chil- 144 ADAM BEDE. dren and servants, were assembled in that glorious kitolien, at -well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the last two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her unole say, " Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is in the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if it's true what they say ; the woman as marries him 'nil have a good take, be't Lady-day or Michaelmas," — a remark which Mrs Poyser always followed up with her cor- dial assent. "Ah," she would say, "it's aU very fine having a ready-made rich man, but may-happen he'll be a ready-made fool; and it's no use filling your pocket fall o' money if you've got a hole in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own, if you've got a soft to drive you : he'll soon turn you over into the ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains ; for where's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled to a geek as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself fine to sit back'ards on a donkey." These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of Mrs Peyser's mind with regard to Adam ; and though she and her husband might have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter of their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match with Adam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a ser- vant elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a domestic help to her aunt, whose HETTY S WORLD. 145 health since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of ser- vants and children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement. Even in the mo- ments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself to think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indig- nant if he had shown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny, and at- taching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. " Mary Burge, indeed ! such a sallow-faced girl : if she put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow-flower, and her hair was as straight as a hank of cotton." And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from the Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his neglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair ! There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a shade deeper when his name was men- tioned ; she felt no thrill when she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or advancing towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the meadow ; she felt nothing when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing that he loved her, and would not care to look at Mary Bm-ge : he VOL. L K 146 ADAM BEDE. could no more stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young love, than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the subtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was — a poor man, with old parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to give her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. And Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries : to sit in a car- peted parlour, and always wear white stockings : to have some large beautiful earrings, such as were all the fashion ; to have Nottingham lace round the top of her gown, and something to make her handker- chief smell nice, like Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church ; and not to be obhged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him well enough to ma]*y him. But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty — vague, atmospheric, shaping it- self into no self-confessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground and go about her work in' a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and show- ing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if she were hving not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty had become aware that Mr Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her ; that he always placed himself at church so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and stand- Hetty's wokld. 147 ing ; that he was constantly finding reasons for call- ing at the HaU Farm, and always would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak to him and look at him. The poor child no more con- ceived at present the idea that the young squire could ever be her lover, than a baker's pretty daughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor dis- tinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, con- ceives that she shall be made empress. But the baker's daughter goes home and dreams of the hand- some young emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking what a heavenly lot it must be to have him for a husband : and so poor Hetty had got a face and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams ; bright, soft glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so fine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching ten- derness ; but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little silly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had con- sisted of little else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had directed towards her — of little else than recalling the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and became conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture, with an odour like that of a 148 ADAM BEDE. flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolisli thoughts ! But all this happened, you must remem- ber, nearly sixty years ago, and Hetty was quite un- educated — -a simple farmer's girl, to whom a gentle- man with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until to-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the next time Captain Don- nithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sun- day when she should see him at church ; but now she thought, perhaps he would try to meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow — and if he should speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by ! That had never happened yet ; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow — • whereabout in the Chase she should see him com- ing towards her, how she should put her new rose- coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what' he would say to her to make her return his glance — a glance which she would be living through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day. In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers, are as unsympa- thetic as butterflies sipping nectar ; they are iso- lated from all appeals by a barrier of dreams — by invisible looks and impalpable arms. While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr Ir- HETTY'S WORLD. 149 wine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain indistinct anticipations, running as an Tinder-current in his miad while he was listening to Mr Irwine's account of Dinah ; — indistinct, yet strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr Irwine suddenly said — " What fascinated you so in Mrs Peyser's dairy, Artlutr? Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and skimming-dishes?" Arthur knew the Kector too well to suppose that a clever invention would be of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness — " No, I went to look at the pretty butter-maker, Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe ; and if I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girls one sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns. That common round red face one sees sometimes in the men — aU cheek and no features, like Martin Peyser's — comes out in the women of the family as the most charm- ing phiz imaginable." " Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic hght, but I must not have you feeding her vanity, and filling her little noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's wife — honest Craig's, for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little puss seems aheady to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable as it's a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty. Apro- pos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get 150 ADAM BEDE. settled, now the poor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and I've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he looked uneasy, and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a better posi- tion. He has independence of spirit enough for two men — rather an excess of pride, if anything." " That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's shoes, and make a fine thing of that building business, I'll answer for him. I should like to see him well settled in this parish ; he would be ready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan no end of re- pairs and improvements together. I've never seen the girl, though, I think — at least I've never looked at her." " Look at her next Sunday at church — she sits with her father on the left of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to me, and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arith- metic and inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my wisdom there, Ar- thur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom has become cheap, I bestow it upon you." " Thank you. It may stand me in good stead HETTY S WORLD. 151 some day, though I don't know that I have any present use for it. Bless me ! how the brook has overflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of the hill." That is the great advantage of dialogue on horse- back ; it can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the necessity of farther conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind Adam's cottage. 152 CHAPTEK X. DINAH VISITS LISBETH. At five o'clock Lisbeth came down - stairs with a large key in her hand : it was the key of the cham- ber where her husband lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been in incessant movement, perform- ing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and exactitude that belong to religious rites. She had brought out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long years kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday — that time so many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure and reach it out for her when she died, for she was the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleans- ing to the strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window which had hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summer sunrise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fair white sheet, for DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 153 this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected and unnotioeable rent in the checkered bit of bed-curtain ; for the moments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do the smallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in aU her thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them : they can be injured by us, they can be wounded ; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence. And the aged peasant-woman most of all believes that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expectation that she should know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by her husband and her sons ; and now she felt as if the greatest work of her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently before her — under the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she lay in the coflBn, yet aU the while saw the sunshine above, and smelt the white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went to be churched after Adam was born. But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamber of death — had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from the village, not being fond of female neighbours 154 ADAM BEDE. generally ; and her favourite Dolly, the old house- keeper at Mr Burge's, who had come to condole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death, was too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in ordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that day ; it was soiled with the tread of muddy shoes, and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But what at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habits of order and cleanliness, seemed to her now just what should be : it was right that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, now the old man had come to his end in that sad way : the kitchen ought not to look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitations and exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep on a bench in the workshop ; and Seth was in the back-kitchen making a fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boU, and persuade his mother to have a cup of tea, an indulgence which she rarely allowed herself. There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth en- tered and threw herself into the chair. She looked round with blank eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally ; it was aU of a piece with the sad confusion of her mind — that confusion which belongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow, when the poor human soul is like DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 155 one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vast city, and wakes up in dreary amaze- ment, not knowing whether it is the growing or the dying day — not knowing why and whence came this illimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate in the midst of it. At another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, " Where is Adam ? " but the sudden death of her husband had restored him in these hours to that first place in her affections which he had held six- and-twenty years ago : she had forgotten his faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood, and thought of nothing but the young husband's Mndness and the old man's patience. Her eyes con- tinued to wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the scattered things, and clear the small round deal table that he might set out his mother's tea upon it. "What art goin' to do ? " she said, rather peevishly. " I want thee to have a cup of tea, mother," an- swered Seth, tenderly. " It'll do thee good ; and I'll put two or three of these things away, and make the house look more comfortable." " Comfortable ! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable ? Let a-be, let a-be. There's no com- fort for me no more," she went on, the tears coming when she began to speak, "now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed for and mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allays so pleased wi' iverything I done for him, an' used to be so handy an' do the jobs for me when I war iU an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made me the posset an' brought it 156 ADAM BEDE. Tip-stairs as proud as could be, an' carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five mile an' ne'er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, 'caxise I wanted to go an' see my sister, as war dead an' gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to be drownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we war married an' come home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put my plates an' things on, an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause he know'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to know, but to be a-sleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh ! an' me to live to see that ! An' us as war young folks once, an' thought we should do rarely when we war married. Let a-be, lad, let a-be ! I wonna ha' no tay : I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th' bridge tumbles down, where's th' use o' th' other stannin' ? I may's well die, an' foUer my old man. There's no knowin' but he'U. want me." Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, sway- ing herself backwards and forwards on her chair. Seth, always timid in his behaviour towards his mother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was useless to attempt to per- suade or soothe her, till this passion was past ; so he contented himself with tending the back-kitchen fire, and folding up his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since morning ; afraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest he should irritate her farther. But after Lisbeth had been rooking herself and DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 157 moaning- for some mimites, she suddenly paused, and said aloud to herself — "I'll go an' see arter Adam, for I canna think where he's gotten ; an' I want him to go up-stairs wi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is like the meltin' snow." Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother rose from her chair, he said — "Adam's asleep ia the workshop, mother. Thee'dst better not wake him. He was o'erwrought with work and trouble." " Wake him ? Who's a-goin' to wake him ? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' at him. I 'hanna seen the lad this two hour — I'd welly forgot as he'd e'er growed up from a babby when's feyther carried him." Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head sup- ported by his arm, which rested from the shoulder to the elbow on the long planing-table in the middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few minutes' rest, and had fallen asleep without slip- ping from his first attitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face, unwashed b'lnce yesterday, looked pallid and clammy ; his hair was tossed shaggily about his forehead, and his closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole face had an expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat on his haunches, resting his nose on his mas- ter's stretched-out leg, and dividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly down, and glanc- ing with a listening air towards the door. The poor 158 ADAM BEDB. dog was hungry and restless, but would not leave Lis master, and was waiting impatiently for some cLange in the scene. It was owing to this feeling on Gyp's , part, that when Lisbeth came into the workshop, and advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she could, her intention not to awake him was immediately de- feated ; for Gyp's excitement was too great to find vent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his eyes and saw his mother standing before him. It was not very unlike his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, in a fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was present to him through it all. The chief difference between the reality and the vision was, that in his dream Hetty was continually coming before him in bodily presence — strangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with which she had nothing to do. She was even by the WiUow Brook ; she made his mother angry by coming into the house ; and he met her with her smart clothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Tred- dleston, to teU the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to follow soon ; and when he opened his eyes, it was not at all startling to see her standing near him. " Eh, my lad, my lad ! " Lisbeth burst out immedi- ately, her wailing impulse returning, for grief in its freshness feels the need of associating its loss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, " thee'st got nobody now but thy old mother to tor- ment thee and be a burden to thee : thy poor feyther DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 159 'ull ne'er anger thee no more ; an' thy mother may's well go arter him — the sooner the better — for I'm no good to nobody now. One old coat 'uU do to patch another, but it's good for nought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy clothes an' get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber, a-sittin' i' th' chimney-corner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily ; he dreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of Hetty.) But if thy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room for another, for he could no more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' the scissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung away together, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha' done for us both." Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained sUenoe : he could not speak otherwise than tenderly to his mother to-day ; but he could not help being irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to know how it affected Adam, any more than it is possible for a wounded dog to know how his moans affect the nerves of his master. Like all complaining women, she complained in the ex- pectation of being soothed, and when Adam said nothing, she was only prompted to complain more bitterly. " I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee likedst, an' marry them as thee likedst. But I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut ; I'd ne'er open my lips to find faut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens well oif to get the bit an' the 160 ADAM BBDB. sup, though they'll to swallow iU words wi't. An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'U bring thee nought and waste all, when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll say nought, now thy fey- ther's dead an' drownded, for I'm no better nor an old haft when the blade's gone." Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench, and walked out of the workshop into the kitchen. But Lisbeth followed him. " Thee wutna go up-stairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin' now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at him, for he war allays so pleased when thee wast mild to him." Adam turned round at once and said, "Yes, mother; let us go up-stairs. Come, Seth, let us go together." They went up-stairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key was turned again, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again ; he was too weary and worn-out to encounter more of his mother's queru- lous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. Lisbeth no sooner entered the kitchen and sat down than she threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan, and rock herself as before. Seth thought, " She wiU be quieter by-and-by, now we have been up-stairs ; " and he went into the back-kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea. Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she sud- denly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 161 treble voice said to her, " Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you." Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from her face. The voice was strange to her. Could it be her sister's spirit come back to her from the dead after all those years ? She trembled, and dared not look. Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth's chair, and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a fiiendly presence. Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but a face — a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased ; perhaps it was an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on Lisbeth's again, and the old woman looked down at it. It was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards. Lisbeth looked ear- nestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise — " Why, ye're a workin' woman ! " " Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at home." VOL. I. L 162 ADAM BBDB. " Ah. ! " said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering ; " ye corned in so light, like the shadow on the waU, an' spoke i' my ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit. YeVe got a'most the face o' one as is a-sittin' on the grave i' Adam's new Bible." " I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs Poyser — she's my aunt, and she has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry ; and I'm come to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble ; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter ; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a com- mand to come and be to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you wiU let me." " Ah ! I know who y' are now ; y' are a Methody, like Seth ; he's tould me on you," said Lisbeth, fretfuUy, her overpowering sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. " Ye'U make it out as trouble's a good thing, like he allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to me a-that'n ? Ye carma make the smart less wi' talkin'. Ye'U ne'er make me believe as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if he must die, an' ha' the parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an' tell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes when I war angered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a sup he'd swallow. But eh ! to die i' the cold water, an' us close to him, an' ne'er to know ; an' me a-sleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no more nor if he'd been a journeyman tramp from nobody knows where ! " DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 163 Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again ; and Dinah said — "Yes, dear friend, your affliction is great. It would be hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to you to make light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was making merry with your friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down and rejoice with you, because you'd think I should like to share those good things ; but I should like better to share in your trouble and your labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won't send me away ? You're not angiy with me for coming ? " "Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come. An' Seth, why donna ye get her some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them as wants it. Sit ye down ; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', for it's little wage ye get by walkin' through the wet fields to see an old woman like me. . . . Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my own — ne'er had one — an' I warna sorry, for they're poor queechy things, gells is ; I allays wanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens. An' the lads 'uU be marryin' — I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye make the tay as ye like it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this day — it's all one what I swaUer — it's all got the taete o' sorrow wi't.'' Dinah took care not to betray that she had had 164 ADAM BEDE. her tea, and accepted. Lisbeth's invitation very readily, for the sake of persuading the old woman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day of hard work and fasting. Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help thinking her presence was worth purchasing with a life in which grief inces- santly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached himself — it was almost as if he were re- joicing in his father's sad death. Nevertheless the joy of being with Dinah would triumph : it was like the influence of climate, which no resistance can over- come. And the feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother's notice, while she was drinking her tea. " Thee may'st well taUj o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for thee thriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if thee know'dst no more o' care an' cumber nor when thee wast a babby a-lyin' awake i' th' cradle. For thee'dst allays lie still wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud lie still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal as can ne'er be bruised — though, for the matter o' that, thy poor feyther war just such another. But ye\e got the same look too " (here Lisbeth turned to Dinah). "I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'm a^-findin' faut wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an' somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh ! well, if the Methodies are fond o' trouble, they're like to thrive : it's a pity they canna ha't all, an' take it away from them as donna like it. I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty ; for when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn tiH DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 165 night ; and now lie's gone, I'd be glad for the worst o'er again." " Yes," said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feel- ing of Lisbeth's, for her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy — " yes ; I remember, too, when my dear atmt died, I longed for the sound of her bad cotigh in the nights, instead of the silence that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cup of tea and eat a little more." " What ! " said Lisbeth, taking the cup, and speak- ing in a less querulous tone, " had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about your aunt?" " No, I never knew a father or mother ; my aunt brought me up from a baby. She had no children, for she was never married, and she brought me up as tenderly as if I'd been her own child." " Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby, an' her a lone woman — it's ill bringin' up a cade lamb. But I daresay ye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life. But what did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live in this country, bein' as Mrs Peyser's your aunt too ? " Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attract- ed, told her the story of her early life — how she had been brought up to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life there ■ — all the details that she thought 166 ADAM BEDE. likely to interest Lisbeth. The old woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to tbe soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she was persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy ; for Dinah was bent on this, believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her side. Seth, mean- while, went out to chop wood ; for he surmised that Dinah would like to be left alone with his mother. Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and said at last, " Ye've got a notion o' cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothes an' waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this country-side. I reckon folks is different at Snowfield from what they are here." " They have a different sort of life, many of 'em," said Dinah ; " they work at different things — some in the mill, and many in the mines, in the villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere, and there are the children of this world and the children of light there as well as elsewhere. But we've many more Methodists there than in this country." " Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's Will Maskery's wife, as they say's a big Methody, isna pleasant to look at, at all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An' I'm thinkdn' I wouldna mind if ye'd stay an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i' th' mornin'. But may-happen they'U be lookin' for ye at Mester Peyser's." DINAH VISITS LISBETII. 167 " No," said Dinah, " they don't expect me, and I should like to stay, if you'll let me." " Well, there's room ; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er the back kitchen, an' ye can lie be- side me. I'd be glad to ha' ye wi' me to speak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts me i' mind o' the swaUows as was under the thack last 'ear, when they fust begun to sing low an' soft-like i' th' mornin'. Eh, but my old man war fond o' them birds ! an' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this 'ear. Happen they're dead too." " There," said Dinah, " now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear mother — for I'm your daughter to-night, you know — I should like you to wash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did, when God took away his child from him ? While the chdd was yet alive he fasted and prayed to God to spare it, and he would neither eat nor drink, but lay on the ground aU night, beseech- ing God for the child. But when he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and anointed himself, and changed his clothes, and ate and drank ; and when they asked him how it was that he seemed to haSre left off grieving now the child was dead, he said, ' While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept ; for I said. Who can tell whether God will be gracious to me, that the child may live ? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.' " " Eh, that's a true word," said Lisbeth. " Yea, 168 ADAM BEDE. my old man wonna come back to me, but I shall go to him — the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi' me : there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the back-kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam's new Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I like them words — ' I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.' " Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her girlhood up- wards she had had experience among the sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled tlirough poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of the mode in which they could best be touched, and softened into willingness to receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressed it, " she was never left to her- self; but it was always given her when to keep silence and when to speak." And do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration ? After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us. And so there was earnest prayer — there was faith, love, and hope pouring itself forth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor aged fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any course of religious emotions, felt a DINAH VISITS LISBETH. 169 vague Bense of goodness and love, and of sometliing right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrow- ing life. She couldn't understand the sorrow ; but, for these moments, under the subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be patient and stiU. 170 CHAPTEE XL IN THE COTTAGE. It was but half-past four the next morning, when Dinah, tired of lying awake listening to the birds, and watching the growing light through the little window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was astir in the house, and had gone down-stairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down ; but Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had stayed up work- ing the night before. Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the opening door. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last by Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work ; and so when he went to bed, it was not tilL he had tired himself with hours of tossing wakefulness, that IN THE COTTAGE. 171 drowsiness came, and led on a heavier morning sleep than was usual with him. But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day, and subdue sad- ness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in the valley ; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start to work again when he had had his breakfast. " There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work," he said to himself: "the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a man's miserable as when he's happy ; and the best o' work- ing is, it gives you a grip hold o' things outside your own lot." As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely himself again, and with his black eyes as keen as ever, and his thick black hair aU glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the workshop to look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan Surge's, and have the coffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not see and hear the sad task going forward at home. He had just gone into the workshop, when his quick ear detected a light rapid foot on the stairs — certainly not his mother's. He had been in bed and 172 ADAM BEDB. asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered whose step this could be. A fool- ish thought came, and moved him strangely. As if it could be Hetty ! She was the last person likely to be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look, and have the clear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listening to sounds which his imagination interpreted for him so pleasantly, that the keen strong face became suffused with a timid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the Idtchen, followed by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path ; and Adam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguish smiles, looking backward at this brush, and a rounded figure just leaning a little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thought — it could not be Hetty ; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was to go and see who it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to belief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank, and went to the kitchen door. "How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from her sweeping, and fixing her mild grave eyes upon him. " I trust you feel rested and strengthened again to bear the bur- then and heat of the day." It was like dreaming of the sunshine, and awaking in the moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious of any woman's presence IN THE COTTAGE. 173 except Hetty's, and he had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in love with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards her for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black .gown, and her pale serene face, impressed him with all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with the concentrated, examining glance which a man gives to an object in which he has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her life, felt a painful self-consciousness ; there was something in the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as she wondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetful- ness. " I was quite taken by surprise ; it was very good of you to come and see my mother in her trouble," he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she came to be there. " I hope my mother was thankful to have you," he added, wondering rather anxiously what had been Dinah's reception. " Yes," said Dinah, resuming her work, " she seemed greatly comforted after a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night, by times. She was fast asleep when I left her." "Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?" said Adam, his thoughts reverting to some one there ; he wondered whether she had felt anything about it. 174 ADAM BEDB. " It was Mr Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved for your mother when she heard it, and wanted me to come ; and so is my uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Eosseter all yesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go, for there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad to see you.'' Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite weU. that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said anything about their trouble ; she was too rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived to say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide- and-seek ; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind was directly fuU of the next visit he should pay to the HaU Farm, when Hetty would perhaps behave' more kindly to him than she had ever done before. " But you won't be there yourself any longer ? " he said to Dinah. "No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakbourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with my aunt and her children. But I can stay here all to-day, if your mother would like me ; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night." " Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at the beginning, she's sure IN THE COTTAGE. 175 to get fond of 'em ; but she's a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to be sure," Adam went on, smiHng, " her not liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you." Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conver- sation in motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his master's face to watch its expression, and observing Dinah's move- ments about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words was apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her, and put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way. "You see Gyp bids you welcome," said Adam, " and he's very slow to welcome strangers." " Poor dog ! " said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, " I've a strange feehng about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for the dogs always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how to make us understand, for we can't say half what we feel, with all our words." Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah ; he wanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on with her cleaning. By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with 176 ADAM BEDE. Lisbeth in a kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood, thyme, and sweetbriar from the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at &st, but moved about, serving the others with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually silent since she came down-stairs, appar- ently requiring some time to adjust her ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the re- membrance of her grief. At last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence : "Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah ; "I can ate it wi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen ; but how's ye t' know that ? The lads arena like to get folks as 'H make their parridge as I'n made it for 'em ; it's well if they get onybody as '11 make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin' ; for ye're a stirrin' body in a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well enough for a ma'-shift." " Makeshift, mother ? " said Adam. " Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I don't know how it could look better." "Thee dostna know? — nay; how's thee to know? IN THE COTTAGE. 177 Th' men ne'er know whetlier the floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it. Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then." " Dinah," said Seth, " do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We're all served now." "Ay, come an' sit ye down — do,'' said Lisbeth, " an' ate a morsel ; ye'd need, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come, then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, " I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye oanna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better nor wi' most folks." "I'll stay tiU to-night if you're willing,'' said Dinah. "I'd stay longer, only I'm going back to Snowiield on Saturday, and I must be with my aunt to-morrow." " Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the right on't too ; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been a bad country for a carpenter." " Ah," said Adam, " I remember father telling me when I was a little lad, that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. But I'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says — and he knows the South — as the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger- bodied, and a deal taller. And then he says, in some o' those counties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance, without climb- VOL. I, M 178 ADAM BEDB. ing up the higliest trees. I couldn't abide that : I like to go to work by a road that'U take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place, and there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself." " I like th' hiUs best," said Seth, "when the clouds are over your head, and you see the sun shiaing ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I've often done o' late, on the stormy days : it seems to me as if that. was heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life's dark and cloudy." " Oh, I love the Ston'yshire side," said Dinah ; " I shouldn't like to set my face towards the countries where they're rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread ; and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard life, and the men spend their days in the miaes away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one's soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there's nothing else to give comfort." "Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks weUy like the snowdrop-flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I'n gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight ; but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking at Adam, " donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy IN THE COTTAGE. 179 feyther and mother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin' on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard of a Sunday." " Donna fear, mother," said Adam. " If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha' been gone before now." He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking. "What art goin' to do?" asked Lisbeth. "Set about thy feyther's coffin ? " "No, mother," said Adam ; "we're going to take the wood to the village, and have it made there." "Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone ; " thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thysen ? Who'd make it so well ? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is the head o' the village, an' all Tred- dles'on too, for cleverness." " Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'U make the coffin at home ; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on." " An' why shouldna I like 't ? It's the right thing to be done. An' what's liking got to do wi't ? It's choice o' mislikings is all I'n got i' this world. One morsel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste. Thee mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I wonna ha' nobody to touch the coffin but thee." Adam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully. " No, mother," he said, " I'll not consent but Seth 180 ADAM BEDE. shall have a hand in it too, if it's to be done at home, I'll go to the village this forenoon, because Mr Buxge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at home and begin the cofSn. I can come back at noon, and then he can go." "Nay, nay," persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, " I'n set my heart on't as thee shalt ma' thy feyther's cofiSn. Thee't so stiff an' masterful, thee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi' thy feyther when he war alive ; thee must be the better to him now he's gone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's cofSn." " Say no more, Adam, say no more,'' said Seth, gently, though his voice told that he spoke with some effort ; " mother's in the right. I'll go to work, and do thee stay at home." He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam ; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old habits, began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop. They had abeady got on their aprons and paper- caps, and Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth's shoulder, while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not aware of her presence tiU. they heard her voice saying, " Seth Bede ! " Seth started, and they both turned round. Dinah looked as if she IN THE COTTAGE. 181 did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth's face, saying with calm kindness — "I won't say farewell. I shall see yon again when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it will be quite soon enough." " Thank you, Dinah ; I should like to walk home with you once more. It'U perhaps be the last time." There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, " You'll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother." She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said — " I don't wonder at thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily." Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips; he had never yet confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburthenment, as he an- swered— "Ay, Addy, I do love her — too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only as one child o God loves another. She'll never love any man as a husband — that's my belief." " Nay, lad, there's no telling ; thee mustna lose heart. She's made out o' stuiF with a finer grain than most o' the women ; I can see that clear enough. But if she's better than they are in other things, I canna think she'U fall short of 'em in loving.'' 182 ADAM BBDB. No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work on the coffin. " God help the lad, and me too," he thought, as he lifted the board. " We're like enough to find life a tough job — hard work inside and out. It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth, and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world. It's a mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting o' the seed, for that matter." 183 CHAPTEE XII. IN THE WOOD. That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donni- thome was moving about in his dressing-room see- ing his well-looldng British person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive-green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over his shoulder, had issued in a distuict practical resolution. " I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so," he said aloud. " I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off this morning ; so be ready by half- past eleven.'' The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriv- ing at this resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the " Beggar's Opera," " When the heart of a man is oppressed with care." Not an heroic strain ; nevertheless Arthur 184 ADAM BEDE. felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation was necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite gratuitously; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yet. forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his own virtues. No yoimg man could confess his faults more candidly ; candour was one of his favourite virtues ; and how can a man's candour be seen in all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous kind — impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine ; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Don- nithome to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. " No ! I'm a devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shaU fall on my own shoulders." Unhappily there is no in- herent poetical justice in hobbles, and they wUl sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly-expressed wish. It was entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble besides him- self. He was nothing, if not good-natured ; and all his pictures of the future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman — mansion in first- rate order, all elegance and high taste — jolly house- keeping, finest stud in Loamshire — purse open to aU public objects — in short, everything as different as IN THE WOOD. 185 possible from what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the first good actions he would perform in that future should be to increase Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hay- slope, so that he might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the Eector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection partly filial, partly fraternal ; — fraternal enough to make him like Irwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation. You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a good fellow" — aU his college friends thought him such : he couldn't bear to see any one uncomfort- able ; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods for any harm to happen to his grandfather ; and his aunt Lydia herself had the benefit of that soft-heartedness which he bore towards the whole sex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmless and purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was a question that no one had yet decided against him : he was but twenty- one, you remember ; and we don't in- quire too closely into character in the case of a hand- some generous young fellow, who will have property enough to support numerous peccadilloes — who, if he should unfortunately break a man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension him hand- somely ; or if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence for her, wiU make it up to her with expen- sive bon-bons, packed up and directed by his own 186 ADAM BEDE. hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analytic in such cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets about a young man of birth and fortune ; and ladies, with that fine intui- tion which is the distinguishing attribute of their sex, see at once that he is "nice." The chances are that he wiU go through life without scandalising any one ; a sea-worthy vessel that no one would refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their construction, that would never have been discoverable in smooth water ; and many a "good fellow," through a disastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal. But we have no fair ground for entertaining un- favourable auguries concerning Arthtur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capable of a pru- dent resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear : Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray with perfect comfort and satisfaction to himself; he will never get beyond that border-land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assatdts from the other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of Vice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. It was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly ; everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel on one's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of IN THE WOOD. 187 things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables ; everything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather persisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his sub- ordinates, one of whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on Arthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embit- tering ; one can put up with aimoyanoes in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexa- tion and disgust, is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be expected to endure long together without danger of misanthropy. Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that met Arthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned for him the bark of the two blood-hounds that kept watch there. He could never speak quite patiently to the old block- head. " You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Eattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Do you hear?" " Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n," said old John, very deliberately, following the young master into the stable. John considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world. 188 ADAM BBDE. Artlnir went in for the sake of patting Meg, declin- ing as far as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he phould lose his temper before breakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable, was comfortably curled up on her back. " Well, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, patting her neck, "we'll have a glorious canter this morn- ing." " Nay, your honour, I donna see as that can be," said John. "Not be? Why not?" " Why, she's got lamed." " Lamed, confound you ! what do you mean ? " " Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em flting out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near fore-leg." The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued. You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled with soothing " who-ho's " while the leg was examined ; that John stood by with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly-carved crab-tree walking- stick, and that Arthur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the pleasure-ground without singing as he went. He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was not another mount in the stable for himself and his servant besides Meg and Battler. It was vexatious ; just when he wanted to get out of the way for a week or two. It seemed IN THE WOOD. 189 culpable in Providence to allow such a combination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a broken arm, when every other fellow in his regi- ment was enjoying himself at Windsor — shut up with his grandfather, who had the same sort of affection for him as for his parchment deeds ! And to be disgusted at every turn with the management of the house and the estate ! In such circumstances a man necessarily gets in an iU humour, and works off the irritation by some excess or other. " Salkeld would have drunk a bottle of port every day," he muttered to himself; "but I'm not well seasoned enough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gaUop on Battler to Norburne this morning, and lunch with Gawaine." Behind this expUoit resolution there lay an im- plicit one. If he lunched with Gawaine and lingered chatting, he should not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in the housekeeper's room ; and when she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after din- ner, 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 ball-room belles only to look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any more notice of her ; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted ; though Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so soft and easily bruised ; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and cunning as he was himself. As for any real harm in Hetty's case, 190 ADAM BEDE. it was out of the question : Arthur Doimitliorne accepted his own bond for himself with perfect con- fidence. So the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping to- wards Norbume ; and by good fortune Halsell Com- mon lay in his road, and gave him some fine leaps for Battler. Nothing like " taking " a few bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon ; and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, with their immense advantages in this way, have left so bad a reputation in history. After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear, that although Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcely cleared the last stroke of three, when Arthur returned through the entrance - gates, got down from the panting Battler, and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been men since his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round upon us at the moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own. "The Cap'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace," said Dalton the coachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipe against the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler. " An' I wish he'd get the devil to do's grooming for'n," growled John. " Ay ; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now,'' observed Dalton ; and the joke ap- IN THE WOOD. 191 peared to him so good, that, being left alone tipon the scene, he continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imaginary audience, and shake luxuriously with a silent, ventral laughter ; mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the beginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' hall. When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it was inevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in the day should flash across his mind ; but it was impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance — impossible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been decisive with him then, any more than to recall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when he first opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an iU - stemmed current ; he was amazed himself at the force with which this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him : he was even rather tremulous as he brushed his hair — pooh ! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was because he had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if it were of any conse- quence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was all Irwine's fault. " If Irwine had said noth- ing, I shouldn't have thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg's lameness.'' However, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he would go and finish Dr Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove — the way Hetty was sure to come in walking from 192 ADAM BEDE. the Hall Farm. So nothing could be simpler and more natm-al : meeting Hetty was a mere circum- stance of his walk, not its object. Arthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chase than might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warm afternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when he stood before the tail narrow gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Gfrove, not because the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there a light, silver-stemmed birch — just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs : you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behind the smooth- sweeping outline of a tall lime ; you hear their soft liquid laughter — but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish behind the sUvery beeches, they make you beUeve that their voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they meta- morphose themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from the topmost bough. It was not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with narrow, hollow - shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss — paths which look as if they were made by the free-will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs. It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under an avenue of IN THE WOOD. 193 limes and beeches. It was a still afternoon — the golden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly- sprinkled moss : an afternoon in which destiny dis- guises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Arthur strolled along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but not look- ing on the ground as meditative men are apt to do ; his eyes would fix themselves on the distant bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appear before long. Ah ! there she comes : first a bright patch of colour, like a tropic bird among the boughs, then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a smaU basket under her arm ; then a deep- blushing, almost frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscioiis of blushing too — in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected. Poor things ! It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play to- gether. Arthur would have gone home to his silk- curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun piUow, and both would have slept without dreams, and to- VOL. I. N 194 ADAM BEDE. morrow would have been a life hardly conscious of a yesterday. Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side without giving a reason. They were alone together for the first time. What an overpowering presence that first privacy is ! He actually dared not look at this little buttermaker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs ; she had for- gotten her rose-coloured ribbons ; she was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting on a liquid bed, and warmed by the midsummer sunbeams. It may seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certaia care- lessness and confidence fi:om his timidity : it was an entirely different state of mind from what he had expected in such a meeting with Hetty ; and full as he was of vague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the thought that his previous debates and scruples were needless. " You are quite right to choose this way of com- ing to the Chase," he said at last, looking down at Hetty, "it is so much prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges." "Yes, sir,'' Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice. She didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr Arthur, and her very vanity made her more coy of speech. " Do you come every week to see Mrs Pomfret ? " "Yes, sir, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with Miss Donnithorne." " And she's teaching you something, is she ? " IN THE WOOD. 195 " Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the stocking-mending — it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell it's been mended ; and she teaches me cutting-out too." " What ! are you going to be a lady's-maid ? " " I should like to be one very much indeed." Hetty spoke more audibly now, but still rather tremulously ; she thought, perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her. "I suppose Mrs Pomfret always expects you at this time ? " " She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because my aunt couldn't spare me ; but the regular time is four, because that gives us time be- fore Miss Donnithorne's bell rings." " Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you the Hermitage. Did you ever see it ? " "No, sir." " This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I'U show it you some other time, if you'd like to see it." " Yes, please, sir." " Do you always come back this way in the even- ing, or are you afraid to come so lonely a road?" " Oh no, sir, it's never late ; I always set out by eight o'clock, and it's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if I didn't get home before nine.'' " Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you?" 196 ADAM BEDE. A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. "I'm sure he doesn't; I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him ; I don't like him," she said hastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast, that before she had done speaking a bright drop roUed down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was crying, and for one long instant her happiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her, and a gentle voice said — "Why, Hetty, what makes you cry? I didn't mean to vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come, don't cry ; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me." Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with a sweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three moments were, while their eyes met and his arms touched her ! Love is such a simple thing when we have only one-and-twenty summers and a sweet girl of seven- teen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud first opening her heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are at rest ; they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with ever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthur gazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no dififer- ence to him what sort of English she spoke ; and IN THE WOOD. 197 even if hoops and powder had been in fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then that Hetty wanted those signs of high breeding. But they started asunder with beating hearts : something had fallen on the ground with a rattling noise ; it was Hetty's basket ; all her little work- woman's matters were scattered on the path, some of them showing a capability of rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done in picking up, and not a word was spoken ; but when Arthur hung the basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his look and manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tone that were almost chilling to her — " I have been hindering you ; I must not keep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-bye." Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurried back towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream, that seemed to have begun ia bewildering delight, and was now passing into con- trarieties and sadness. Would he meet her again as she came home ? Why had he spoken almost as if he were displeased with her ? and then run away so suddenly ? She cried, hardly knowing why. Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant corner, and, thrusting his right hand into his 198 ADAM BEDE. pocket, first walked four or five times up and down the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself on the ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish not to abandon ourselves to feeling. He was getting in love with Hetty — that was quite plain. He was ready to pitch everything else — no matter where — for the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling which had just dis- closed itself. It was no use blinking the fact now • — they would get too fond of each other, if he went on taking notice of her — and what would come of it ? He should have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would be miserable. He must not see her alone again ; he must keep out of her way. Wiat a fool he was for coming back from Gawaine's I He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round the Hermi- tage. The soft air did not help his resolutions, as he leaned out and looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolution sufficiently fixed : there was no need to debate with himself any longer. He had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again ; and now he might give himself up to thinking how immensely agreeable it would be if circumstances were different — how pleasant it would have been to meet her this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him too — twenty to one she was. How beautiful IN THE WOOD. 199 ter eyes were with the tear on their lashes! He would like to satisfy his soul for a day with looking at them, and he must see her again : — he must see her, simply to remove any false impression from her mind about his manner to her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her — just to prevent her from going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that would be the best thing to do after all. It was a long while — more than an hour — before Arthur had brought his meditations to this point ; but once arrived there, he could stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement until he should see Hetty again. And it was already late enough to go and dress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six. 200 CHAPTEE XTIi:, EVENING IN THE WOOD. It happened that Mrs Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning — a fact which had two conse- quences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's-maid with so lively a recollection of former passages id Mrs Best's conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs Best had decidedly the inferiority as an interlocutor with Mrs Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence of mind than was demanded for using her needle, and throwing in an occasional " yes " or " no." She would have wanted to put on her hat earlier than usual ; only she had told Captain Donnithome that she usually set out about eight o'clock, and if he should go to the Grove again expecting to see her, and she should be gone ! Would he come ? Her little butterfly - soul fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation. At last the min- ute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-faced timepiece EVENING IN THE WOOD. 201 was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reason for its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs Pomfret's preoccupied mind did not pre- vent her from noticing what looked like a new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the looking-glass. " That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do beUeve," was her inward comment. " The more's the pity. She'R get neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don't like such pretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had been so very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teaohiag her something to get her bread with, better than farm-house work. They always told me I was good-natured — and that's the truth, and to my hurt too, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lord it over me in the housekeeper's room." Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr Craig, to whom she could hardly have spoken civiUy. How relieved she was when she had got safely under the oaks and among the fern of the Chase ! Even then she was as ready to be startled as the deer that leaped away at her ap- proach. She thought nothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleys between the fern, and made the beaiity of their living green more visible than it had been in the overpowering flood of noon : she thought of nothing that was pres- ent. She only saw something that was possible : 202 ADAM BECE. Mr Artlrar Donnithome coming to meet her again along the Fir-tree Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty's picture ; behind it lay a bright hazy some- thing — days that were not to be as the other days of her life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was no knowing what would come, since this strange en- trancing delight had come. If a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some unknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot was going to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joy would befall her ? Hetty had never read a novel ; if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have been too hard for her ; how then could she find a shape for her expectations ? They were as formless as the sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past her as she walked by the gate. She is at another gate now — that leading into Fir- tree Grove. She enters the wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes, the fear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come ! Oh how dreary it was — the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into the unsheltered road, without having seen him. She reaches the first turning towards the Hermitage, walking slowly — he is not there. She hates the leveret that runs across the path : she hates everything that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he EVENING IN THE WOOD. 203 is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry : her heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes ; she gives one great sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down. She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur Donnithorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the object. He is going to see Hetty again : that is the longing which has been growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from running away with wrong notions about their mutual relation. If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried ; and it would have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely as he had intended. As it was, she started when he ap- peared at the end of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft, soothing tone, as if she were a bright-eyed spaniel with a thorn in her foot? " Has something frightened you, Hetty ? Have you seen anything in the wood? Don't be fright- ened—I'll take care of you now." Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or miserable. To be crying again — what did gentlemen think of girls who cried in that 204 ADAM BEDE. way? She felt unable even to say "no," but could only look away from him, and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop had fallen on her rose-coloured striags : she knew that quite well. " Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter. Come, tell me." Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, " I thought you wouldn't come," and slowly got courage to lift her eyas to him. That look was too much : he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly in return. " You little frightened bird ! little tearful rose ! siUy pet ! You won't cry again, now I'm with you, will you?" Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is say- ing. This is not what he meant to say. His arm is stealing round the waist again, it is tightening its clasp ; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the round cheek, his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche — it is all one. There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating hearts till they came within sight cjf the gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss. But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the fountain of sweets : already Arthur EVENING IN THE WOOD. 205 was imcoinfortable. He took his arm from Hetty's waist, and said — " Here we are, almost at tlie end of the Grove. I wonder how late it is," he added, pulling out his watch. " Twenty minutes past eight — but my watch is too fast. However, I'd better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet, and get home safely. Good-bye." He took her hand, and looked at her half sadly, half with a constrained smUe. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet ; but he patted her cheek and said "Good-bye" again. She was obliged to turn away from him, and go on. As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put a wide space between him- self and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage again ; he remembered how he had debated with himself there before dinner, and it had aU come to nothing — worse than nothing. He walked right on into the Chase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes — there was something enervating in the very sight of them ; but the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in them — the sight of them would give a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, tin the twilight deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked black as it darted across his path. He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning : it was as if his horse had 206 ADAM BEDE. wheeled round from a leap, and dared to dispute Lis mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his miad on the prob- able consequences of giving way to the emotions which had stolen over him to-day — of contiauing to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as he had been betrayed into abeady — than he refused to believe such a future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very difierent affair from flirting with a pretty gfrl of his own station : that was understood to be an amuse- ment on both sides ; or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spoken iU of dfrectly, if she happened to be seen walking with him ; and then those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their veins — he should hate himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position ; it was too odious, too unlike him. And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of each other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting, after aU. 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. EVENING IN THE WOOD. 207 before he went to Gawaine's ; and while he was there something had taken hold of him and made him gallop back. It seemed, he couldn't quite de- pend on his own resolution, as he had thought he could : he almost wished his arm would get painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort it would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse might seize him to- morrow, in this confounded place, where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through the live- long day. What could he do to secure himself from any more of this folly ? There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine — tell him everything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial ; the temp- tation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him, to teU Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Eeotory the first thing after breakiast to-morrow. Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think which of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither as he could. He felt sure he should sleep now : he had had enough to tire him, and there was no more need for him to think. 208 CHAPTEE XIV,, THE EETUEN HOME. While that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the opposite slope. " Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her," she said to Adam, as they turned into the house again. " I'd ha' been wiUin' t' ha' her about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it easier dyin' — she spates so gentle an' moves about so still. I could be fast sure that pictur was drawed for her i' thy new Bible — th' angel a-sittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind lia'in' a daughter like that ; but nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught." " Well, mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a daughter ; for Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll get a liking for Seth in time.'' " Where's th' use o' talkin' a-that'n ? She caresna for Seth. She's goin' away twenty mile a£f. How's THE KETURN HOME. 209 she to get a likin' for him, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'uU come wi'out the leaven. Thy figurin' books might ha' tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does." " Nay, mother," said Adam, laughing, " the figures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't teU us about folks's feelings. It's a nicer job to calculate them. But Seth's as good- hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and good-looking too ; and he's got the same way o' thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's a rare bit o' work- manship. You don't see such women turned ofi" the wheel every day.'' "Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee wart aUays for halving iverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with marryin', as is on'y three- an'-twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by sixpence. An' as for his desarving her — she's two 'ear older nor Seth : she's pretty near as old as thee. But that's the way ; folks mun allays choose by oon- trairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork — a bit o' good meat wi' a bit o' offal. To the feminine mind in some of its moods, all things that might be, receive a temporary charm from comparison with what is ; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score — as peevish as she would have been if he had wanted to marry her, and so shut VOL. I. 210 ADAM BEDE. himself out from Mary Burge and the partnership as eiFectually as by marrying Hetty. It was more than half-past eight -when Adam and his mother were talking in this way, so that when, about ten miautes later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a little in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands : Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone. " Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear,'' she said, as she reached Hetty, " but he's very full of trouble to-night." Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what had been said ; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling self- en- grossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm pitying face, with its open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in feel- ings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman ; how was it possible to feel otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take Totty off her hands — little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at aU? Dinah had never said anything disapproving or re- THE EETUKN HOME. 211 proaphful to Hetty during her whole visit to the Hall Farm ; she had talked to her a great deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for she never listened : whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her ; Hetty looked at her much in the same way as one might imagine a little perching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark ; but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the ' Pilgrim's Progress,' or in the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday. Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. "You look very happy to-night, dear child," she said. "I shall think of you often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is now. It's a strange thing — sometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a few days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as if it was fay own, and I take comfort in spreadiag it before the Lord and resting in His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will come before me." 212 ADAM BEDE. She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. " It has been a very precious time to me," Dinah went on, "last night and to-day — seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother ; it's wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And I'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among my own people round Snowfield, that the strong, skUful men are often the gentlest to the women and chil- dren ; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying the little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be so with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty ? " " Yes," said Hetty, abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would not have been time to say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate. The stUl twilight, with its dying western red, and its few iaint struggling stars, rested on the farmyard, where there was not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset : the fowls were aU gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the faUing-to of the gate THE RETURN HOME. 213 disturbed tliem, and set them barking, like good officials, before tliey had any distinct knowledge of the reason. The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddy black-eyed face, which bore in it the possibility of looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market- days, but had now a predominant after-supper ex- pression of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their criticism of other men's scholarship, have yet been of a relenting and indulgent temper in private life ; and I have heard of a learned man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had betray- ed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven — alas ! they are not alien to us — but the man who takes the wrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser : he was of so excellent a disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neighbours more charitably on all personal matters ; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't Icnow the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed but a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was 214 ADAM BEDE. as hard and implacable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Peyser detected in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Eoyal George on market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his black eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door. Mr Poyser had smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, as the only resource of a man who continues to sit up after the day's business is done. " Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night," he said, when they reached the little gate leading into the causeway. "The mother's begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave the old woman Bede, Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five year." " She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah ; " but she's seemed more comforted to- day. Her son Adam's been at home all day, work- ing at his father's cofSn, and she loves to have him at home. She's been talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her in her old age." " Adam's sure enough," said Mr Poyser, misunder- standing Dinah's wish. " There's no fear but he'll THE EETURN HOME. 215 yield well i' the threshing. He's not one o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us soon ? But come in, come in," he added, making way for them ; " I hadn't need keep y' out any longer." The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to show every comer of the house- place. Mrs Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of the " right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep ; and when her cousins entered, she raised herself up, and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were defined by the edge of her lineii night-cap. In the large wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left- hand chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly black- haired son — his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his fore-arm to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his Imees, as was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head ; and he sat watching what went forward with the quiet outward glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexijectant purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the 216 ADAM BEDE. floor, watches even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the tick. "What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty ! " said Mrs Poyser. " Look at the clock, do ; why, it's going on for half-past nine, and I've sent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too ; when they've got to get up at half after four, and the mowers' bottles to fill, and the baking ; and here's this blessed child wi' the fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the physic but your uncle, and fiae work there's been, and half of it spilt on her night-gown — it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ull make her worse istead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use have allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be done.'' " I did set out before eight, aunt," said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a slight toss of her head. " But this clock's so much before the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when I get here.'' " What ! you'd be wanting the clock set by gentle- folks's time, would you? an' sit up burnin' candle, an' lie a-bed wi' the sun a-bakin' you like a cowoum- ber i' the frame ? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon." The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clocks when she told Captain Donni- thome that she set out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, per- THE EETURN HOME. 217 ceiving at length that the arrival of her cousins was hot likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, "Munny, munny," in an explosive manner. " Well, then, my pet, mother's got her, mother won't leave her ; Totty be a good dOling, and go to sleep now," said Mrs Poyser, leaning back and rock- ing the chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, " Don't yock ! " So the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest tempera^ ment, sat up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. " Come, Hetty," said Martin Poyser, in a concilia- tory tone, " go and get your supper i' the pantry, as the things are all put away ; an' then you can come and take the little un while your aunt undresses her- self, for she won't lie down in bed without her mother. An' I reckon you could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a house down there." " No, thank you, uncle," said Dinah ; " I ate a good meal before I came away, for Mrs Bede would make a kettle-cake for me.'' " I don't want any supper," said Hetty, taking off her hat. " I can hold Totty now, if aunt wants me." " Why, what nonsense that is to talk ! " said Mrs Poyser. " Do you think you can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' red ribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this minute, child ; there's a nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe- just what you're fond of." 218 ADAM BEDE. Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs Poyser went on speaking to Dinah. " Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to make yourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman was glad to see you, since you stayed so long." " She seemed to like having me there at last ; but her sons say she doesn't Kke young women about her commonly ; and I thought just at first she was al- most angry with me for going." "Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould folks doesna like the young uns," said old Martin, bending his head down lower, and seeming to trace the pat- tern of the quarries with his eye. " Ay, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas," said Mrs Poyser. "We've all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be't good luck or iU." "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 'uU keep bachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud be unreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o' their own side. What's good for one's good all round i' the long-run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marrying afore they know the difference atween a crab an' a apple ; but they may wait o'er long." " To be sure," said Mrs Poyser ; " if you go past your dinner-time, there'll be little reHsli o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' don't eat it THE KETUEN HOME. 219 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, Eachel," said Mr Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, " thee'dst better let Hetty carry her up-stairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the pain in thy side again." "Well, she may hold her if the child 'uU go to her," said Mrs Poyser. Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands. "WUt go to cousin Hetty, my diUing, while mother gets ready to go to bed? Then Totty shall go into mother's bed, and sleep there aU night." Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teeth against her under-lip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. Then, without speak- ing, she nestled to her mother again. " Hey, hey," said Mr Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, " not go to cousin Hetty ? That's like a babby: Totty's a little woman, an' not a babby." "It's no use trying to persuade her," said Mrs ,220 ADAM BEDE. Poyser. " She allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah." Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came forward, and, putting out her arms, said, " Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her up-stairs along with mother : poor, poor mother ! she's so tired — she wants to go to bed." Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill- humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she should be told to do anything else. "You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick's been come in this long while," said Mrs Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief from her low chair. " Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i' my room. Come, father." The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin prepared to move, by gather- ing up his blue handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the comer. Mrs Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms — all going to bed by twUight, Hke the birds. Mrs Poyser, on her way, peeped into the THE RETURN HOME. 221 room where her two boys lay, just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a mo- ment their light regular breathing. " Come, Hetty, get to bed," said Mr Poyser, in a soothing tone, as he himself turned to go up-stairs. " You didna mean to be late, I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench, good-night." 222 CHAPTEE XV. THE TWO BED-CHAMBEES. Hetty and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely - furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon — more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite well the pegs in the old painted Hnen-press on which she hung her hat and gown ; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion ; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her night-cap. A queer old looking-glass ! Hetty got into an ill-tem- per with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Poyser family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it : it had a great deal of tarnished THE TWO BED-CHAMBEKS. 223 gilding about it ; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk, and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them; above all, it had a brass candle- socket on each side, which would give it an aristo- cratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and be- cause, instead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at aU comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. Having taken oS her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle — secretly bought at Treddleston — and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches, and lighted the candles ; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that 224 ADAM BEDE. she chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling, and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donni- thome's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into deH- cate rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb, and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, stiU. like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin — such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear — but of a dark greenish cotton texture. Oh yes ! she was very pretty : Captain Donnithome thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hayslope — prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chase — indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly — and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at her- self to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt before ; there was an in- visible spectator whose eye rested on her like morn- ing on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 225 in the wood ; his arm was round her, and the deli- cate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return. But Hetty seemed to have inade up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press, and a pair of large earrings out of the sacred drawer from which she had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, fiill of rents, but it woidd make a becom- ing border round her shoulders, and set off the white- ness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little earrings she had in her ears — oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored ! — and put in those large ones : they were but coloured glass and gilding ; but if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as weU. as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large earrings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms : no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow — they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks ; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter - making, and other work that ladies never did. Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work : he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them ; for he must love her very much — no one else had ever put his arm round her and VOL. I. P 226 ADAM BEDS. kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her, and make a lady of her ; she could hardly dare to shape the thought — yet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr James, the Doctor's assistant, married the Doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The Doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew: it had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men ; he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh it was impos- sible to think how it would be ! But Captain Don- nithorne would know ; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again : perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair, and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening, as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby ; only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or aU the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one — she didn't know which she liked THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 227 best ; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriage — or rather, they would hear of it : it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red- framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor ; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up ; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon -like stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass earrings in her ears. How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress ! It would be the easiest foUy in the world to fall in love with her : there is such a sweet baby- like roundness about her face and figure ; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears and neck ; her great dark eyes with their long eye- lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty ! How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hang- ing on his arm in her white lace and orange blos- soms. The dear, young, round, soft, flexible thing ! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just' as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there : he can make her what he likes — that 228 ADAM BEDE. is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too : the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser ; those kitten - like glances and move- ments are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonder- ful eyes. How she will doat on her children ! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round things wiU hang about her like florets round the central flower ; and the husband will look on, smil- ing benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to with- draw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic, and the women all lovely and loving. It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty ; only he put his thoughts into different words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself, it is only because she doesn't love me well enough ; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 229 possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman — if you ever could, without hard head-break- ing demonstration, believe evil of the one supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No : people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it. Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature at all. He felt sure she was a dear, affec- tionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate ; and if he chances to look forward to future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him. God made these dear women so — and it is a convenient arrange- ment in case of siclmess. After all, I believe the wisest of us must be be- guiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Na- ture has her language, and she is not unveracious ; but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now : what can be more exquisite ? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. 230 ADAM BEDE. But if, in tlie reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals ; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's ; and now, while she walks with her pigeon-like state- liness along the room and looks down on her shoul- ders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the fature ; but of every picture she is the central figure in fine clothes ; Captain Donnithome is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and every- body else is admiring and envying her — especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very con- temptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the fature — any loving thought of her second parents — of the children she had helped to tend — of any youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots : you may tear them fi-om their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast aU her past life behind her, and never cared to be reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and THE TWO BED-CHAMBEES. 231 did not like the Jacob's Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers — perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her : she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of see- ing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life — as bad as buzz- ing insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet, Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in the half-empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the mak- ing and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again ; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time ; for the lambs were got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed 232 ADAM BEDE. her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure ; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herseK at Treddleston fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dim- pled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn-up nose and a protuberant jaw, was reaUy a tender-hearted girl, and, as Mrs Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry ; but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the " dear de- ceit " of beauty : so it is not surprising that Mrs Poyser, with her keenness and abundant oppor- tunity for observation, should have formed a toler- ably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. " She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall, and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dying : there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 233 the pit. To think o' that dear cherub ! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' crying fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the ohUd ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble." " Nay, nay," said Mr Poyser, " thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young geUs are like the un- ripe grain ; they'U. make good meal by-and-by, but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'U be all right when she's got a good husband and children of her own." " I don't want to be hard upo' the geU. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes, and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours, an' that I've done : for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough, though, Grod knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that eatchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength, to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast meat at three fires ; as soon as you've basted one, another's bumin'." Hetty stood sufiBciently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs Poyser disapproved ; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, 234 ADAM BEDE. and fright, if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle Kghted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and earrings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well : for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her earrings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time, and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come up-stairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that taU house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window, where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room, was to seat herself in this chair, and look out on the peace- ful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pas- ture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was half mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come ; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for, to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms : she thought THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 235 of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away from them, and know nothing of what was befalling them ; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moon- lit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sym- pathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes, and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence ; then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap, and the pale light resting on her cahn face, for at least ten min- utes, when she was startled by a loud sound, ap- parently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud and startHng, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress ; but now, owing to the sugges- tions of this sound, her thoughts became concen- trated on Hetty : that sweet young thing, with life 236 ADAM BEDE. and all its trials before her — the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother — and her mind so unpre- pared for them all; bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey, in which it will have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, be- cause she shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclu- sion that Hetty did not love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devoting love in Hetty's nature, to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity : the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free from selfish jealousies : it was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity ; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, look- ing with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS. 237 into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was abeady asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition, and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated ; she was not quite certain of a divine direction ; the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger that the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakeable guid- ance than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter, without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page : " And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck and kissed him." That was enough fqr Dinah ; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but, opening her own door gently, went and tapped at Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf ; but after the second tap the door 238 ADAM BEDE. was opened immediately. Dinah said, "WiE you let me come in, Hetty ? " and Hetty, witliout speak- ing, for she was confased and vexed, opened the door wider and let her in. What a strange contrast the two figures made! Visible enough in that mingled twilight and moon- light. Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glis- tening from her imaginary drama, her beautiftd neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face fuU. of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. / They were nearly of the same height ; Dinah evidently a little the taUer as she put her arm round Hetty's waist, and kissed her forehead. " I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, " for I heard you mov- ing ; and I longed to speak to you again to-night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?" " Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her earrings. Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush to- gether her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indi£ferenoe which belongs to THE TWO BED-OHAMBEES. 239 confased self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her ; they seemed unobservant of all details. " Dear Hetty," she said, " it has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble — trouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend iq Dinah Morris at Snowfield ; and if you come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you remember it, Hetty?" "Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. But why should you think I shall be in trouble ? Do you know of anything?" Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered — " Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life : we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's wiU for us to have, and then we go sorrowing ; the people we love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us ; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies ; we go astray and do wrong, and bring our- selves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman bom into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you ; and I desire for 24rO ADAM BEDE. you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day." Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still ; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's anxious aiFeotion ; but Dinah's words, uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to paleness ; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure -seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading be- came the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time to befall her, began to cry. It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this compre- hension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excit- able state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became irritated THE TWO BED-CHAMBEES. 241 under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impa- tiently, and said, with a childish sobbing voice — " Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me ? I've never done anything to you. 'Why can't you let me be ? " Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my deax, you're tired ; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night.'' She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost ; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees, and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again — her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. VOL. I. 242 CHAPTEE XVI. LINKS. Artiior Donnithorne, you remember, is under an engagement with himself to go and see Mr Irwiae this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing so early, that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The Eector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family hav- ing a different breakfast - hour ; Arthur will have an early ride over the hiU and breakfast with him. One can say everything best over a meal. The progress of civilisation has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father con- fessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an appetite for mufSns. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is quite a LINKS. 243 well-bred ^nd smiling procedure now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and third glasses of claret. Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed : when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall, and are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying, than if you were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany, with a companion who will have no rea- son to be surprised if you have nothing particular to say. However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sun- shine, has a sincere determination to open his heart to the Eector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is aU the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fear- ful ; and there is something so healthful in the shar- ing of a joy that is general and not merely personal, that this thought about the hay -harvest reacts on his state of mind, and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man about town might per- haps consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child's story-book ; but when you are among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple natural pleasures. 244 ADAM BEDE. Arthur had passed the village of Ha^slope, and was approaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a figure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usual rapid pace ; and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chatting with him. I wUl not say that his love for that good fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage : our friend Arthur liked to do everything that was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds recognised. Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse's heels, and waited for the horse- man, lifting his paper cap from his head with a bright smUe of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket ; it was Arthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair- haired lad of eleven, and when he had profited so well by Adam's lessons in carpentering and turning, as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modi- fied as the fair-haired lad had grown into the whis- LINKS. 245 kered young man. Adam, I confess, was very- susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a phil- osopher, or a proletaire with democratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fimd of reverence in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by build- ing with ill-seasoned timber — by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and work- shops and the like, without knowing the bearings of things — by slovenly joiners' work, and by hasty con- tracts that could never be fulfilled without mining somebody ; and he resolved, for his part, to set his fJice against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either ; but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how iU the woods on the estate were managed, and the shame- ful state of the farm -buildings ; and if old Squire Donnithome had asked him the effect of this mis- management, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a respectful demeanour towards a "gentleman" would have been strong within him aU the while. The word " gentle- man" had a spell for Adam, and, as he often said, he " couldn't abide a fellow who thought he made him- 246 ADAM BEDE. self fine by being coxy to's betters." I must remind you again that Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his char* acteristics to be obsolete. Towards the young squire this instinctive rever- ence of Adam's was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard ; so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur's good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into the estate — such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an " uncommon " notion about improvements and re- pairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithorne rode up. " "Well, Adam, how are you ? " said Arthur, hold- ing out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. " I could swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back, only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember ? " " Ay, sir, I remember. It 'ud be a poor look-out if folks didn't remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, then." "You're going to Broxton, I suppose?" said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while LINKS. 247 Adam walked by his side. '' Are you going to the Kectory ?" " No, sir, I'm going to see about Bradwell's bam. They're afraid of the roof pushing the walls out ; and I'm going to see what can be done with it before we send the stuff and the workmen." "Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? I should thinlc he wUl make you his partner soon. He will, if he's wise." " Nay, sir, I don't see as he'd be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he's got a conscience, and delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn't give a peimy for a man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he didn't get extra pay for it." " I know that, Adam ; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account per- haps. The old man must give up his business some time, and he has no son ; I suppose he'll want a son- in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasp- ing fingers of his own, I fancy : I daresay he wants a man who can put some money into the business. K I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I'm sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age ; and when I've paid off a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me." " You're very good to say so, sir, and I'm not un- 248 ADAM BBDE. thankful. But " — Adam continued, in a decided tone — " I shouldn't like to make any offers to Mr Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that 'ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time." " Very well, Adam," said Arthur, remembering what Mr Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, " we'll say no more about it at present. When is your father to be buried ? " " On Sunday, sir ; Mr Irwine's coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it's over, for I think my mother 'uU perhaps get easier then. It outs one sadly to see the grief of old people ; they've no way o' working it off ; and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree." " Ah, you've had a good deal of trouble and vex- ation in your life, Adam. I don't think you've ever been harebrained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. You've always had some care on your mind." " Why, yes, sir ; but that's nothing to make a fuss about. If we're men, and have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can't be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got their wings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lot every year. I've had enough to be thankful for: I've allays had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work ; and I count it a great thing as I've had Bartle LINKS. 249 Massey's night-school to go to. He's helped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by myseK." " What a rare fellow you are, Adam ! " said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. " I could hit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I be- lieve you would knock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you." " God forbid I should ever do that, sir," said Adam, looking round at Arthur, and smiling. " I used to fight for fun ; but I've never done that since I was the cause o' poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I'll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that's got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up." Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently^ — " I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would mas- ter a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was qiiarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won't do a thing, and then doing it after all? " "Well," said Adam, slowly, after a moment's hesitation — " no. I don't remember ever being see- saw in that way, when I'd made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o' my mouth for things, when I know I should 250 ADAM BEDE. have a heavy conscience after 'em. I've seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what's wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It's like a bit o' bad worlnnanship — you never see th' end o' the mischief it'U do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creatures worse off instead o' better. But there's a difference be- tween the things folks call wrong. I'm not for making a sin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' non- sense anybody may be let into, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn't worth while to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see-saw about anything : I think my fault lies th' othetr way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hard for me to go back." " Yes, that's just what I expected of you," said Arthiu-. " You've got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather any cherries, and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can't prevent our mouths from watering." " That's true, sir ; but there's nothing like settling with ourselves as there's a deal we must do without i' this life. It's no use looking on life as if it was Treddles'on fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where's the use o' me talking to you, sir ? You know better than I do." " I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had LINKS. 251 four or five years of experience more than I've had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me." "Why, sir, you seem to think o' college some- thing like what Bartle Massey does. He says col- lege mostly makes people like bladders — just good for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he's got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has : it never touches anything but it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morn- ing, as you're going to the Eectory." " Good-bye, Adam, good-bye." Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the Eectory gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the Eeotor always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a smaU low room, belonging to the old part of the house — dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the walls ; yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun f6ll aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast-table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room enticing. In the crimson damask easy- chair sat Mr Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morn- ing toilet ; his finely - formed plump white hand was playing along Juno's brown curly back ; and close to Juno's tail, which was wagging with calm 252 ADAM BEDE. matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady, who looked on these familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of observing. On the table, at Mr Irwine's elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis ^schylus, which Arthur knew well by sight ; and the silver coffee-pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which com- pleted 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-siU. " Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven't you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that ham ? Why, this is like old days, Arthur ; you haven't been to breakfast with me these five years." " It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast," said Arthur ; " and I used to like break- fasting with you so when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn't agree with him." Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr Irwine's presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How could he make Irwine understand his position unless he LINKS. 253 told him those little scenes in the wood ; and how coTild he tell them without looking like a fool ? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine's, and doing the very opposite of what he intended ! Irwine would think him a shiUy-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremedi- tated way ; the conversation might lead up to it. "I like breakfast-time better than any other moment in the day," said Mr Irwine. " No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed a hare, and when I've got through my ' justicing,' as Carroll calls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me ; and so the day goes on, and I'm always the same lazy fel- low before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D'Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholar- ship doesn't run in your family blood." " No indeed. It's well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ' Cras ingens iterabimus sequor,' and a few shreds of that sort, will perhajps stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions 254 ADAM BBDE. 80 as to introduce them. But I don't think a know- ledge of the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman ; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a knowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's books lately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better man- agement of their land ; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and variegated with com and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives ; but there's nothing I should like better than to under- take the Stonyshire side of the estate — it's in a dis- mal condition — and set improvements on foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching their hats to me with a look of goodwill." " Bravo, Arthur ! a man who has no feeling for the classics couldn't make a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the quan- tity of food to maintain scholars — and rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You'll want a portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard work. Only don't set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to get in con- sequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole neighbour- hood upon him about that enclosure. You must LINKS. 255 mate it quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old boy — popularity or usefulness — else you may happen to miss both." " Oh ! Gawaine is harsh in his manners ; he doesn't make himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don't believe there's anything you can't prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved ; and it's very pleasant to go among the tenants here, they seem aU so weU in- clined to me. I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are." " Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don't get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes : she says, 'I'll never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.' She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil, you know ; and I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don't disgrace my judgment." Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs Irwine's opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of a sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at 256 ADAM BEDE. this point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concern- ing himself ; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own belief in the seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to make a fass about ; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg's lameness — go on Battler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack. That was his thought as he sugared his coffee ; but the next minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he re- membered how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No ! he would not be vacil- lating again — he would do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered — " But I think it is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of character, that he should be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn't insure one against small-pox or any other of those inevitable diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters, and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman." LINKS. 257 " Yes ; but there's this difference between love and small-pox, or bewitchment either — that if you detect the disease at an early stage, and try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any further development of symptoms. And there are certain alterative doses which a man may administer to himself by keeping unpleasant consequences be- fore his mind : this gives you a sort of smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline ; though I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified with a knowledge of the clas- sics might be lured into an imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus." The smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr Irwine's play- ful lead, he said, quite seriously — " Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that after aU one's reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I don't think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions." "Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional action ; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular VOL. I. E 258 ADAM BEDE. occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom." " Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of circumstances, which one might never have done-otherwise." " Why, yes, a man can't very weU. steal a bank- note unless the bank-note lies within convenient reach ; but he won't make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way." " But surely you don't think a man who struggles against a temptation into which he falls at last, as bad as the man who never struggles at all ? " " No, certainly ; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the worst form of Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible con- sequences, quite apart from any iluctuations that went before — consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are consider- ing in this philosophical, general way ? " In asking this question, Mr Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur wanted to teU him something, and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct ques- tion. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly LINKS. 259 and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back, and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended — it would quite niislead Irwine — he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boy- ishness. " Oh no, no danger," he said as indifferently as he could. " I don't know that I am more liable to irresolution than other people ; only there are little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen in the future." Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur's which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to himself ? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State : a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognised agent secretly busy in Arthur's mind at this moment — possibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the Hector a serious annoyance, in case he should not be able quite to carry out his good resolutions ? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human soul is a very complex thing. The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr Irwine's mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but hife 260 ADAM BEDE. disolaiming indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed — that there could be nothing serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of Mrs Poyser ; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more serious mean- ing than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the little chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away : no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur's charac- ter had not been a strong security against it. His honest, patronising pride in the goodwill and re- spect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more agaiast a lower kind of foUy. If there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in the previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said — " By the way, Arthur, at your colonel's birthday flte there were some transparencies that made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the 'generous youth,' the hero of the day. Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort to aston- ish our weak minds ? " The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung LINKS. 2G1 had drifted away — lie must trust now to his own swimming. In ten minutes from that time, Mr Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye, mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by deter- mining to set off for Eagledale without an hour's delay. BOOK 11. CHAPTER XVII. IN "WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. "This Eector of Broxton is little better than a pagan ! " I hear one of my readers exclaim. " How much more edifying it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some truly spiritual advice ! You might have put into his mouth the most beauti- ful things — quite as good as reading a sermon." Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the novelist to represent things as they never have been and never wiU be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character entirely after my own liking; I might select the most unexception- able type of clergyman, and put my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all occasions. But it happens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful account of men and things as they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is doubtless defective ; the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection faint or confused ; but I feel as much bound to tell you as precisely as I can what 266 ADAM BEDE. that reflection is, as if I were in the witness-box narrating my experience on oath. Sixty years ago — it is a long time, so no wonder things have changed — all clergymen were not zeal- ous ; indeed there is reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was small, and it is probable that if one among the small minority had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would have liked him no better than you like Mr Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless, indiscreet, methodistioal man. It is so very rarely that facts hit that nice medium required by our own enlightened opinions and refined taste ! Perhaps you wiU say, " Do im- prove the facts a little, then ; make them more accordant with those correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world is not just what we like ; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. Let all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unexceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be on the wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we shall see at a glance whom we are to condemn, and whom we are to approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the slightest disturbance of our preposses- sions : we shall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs to undoubting con- fidence." But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow-parishioner who opposes your husband in the vestry?— with your newly-appointed vicar, IN WHICH THE STOKY PAUSES A LITTLE. 267 whose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his regretted predecessor ? — with the honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing ? — with your neighbour, Mrs Green, who was really kind to you in your last iUness, but has said several ill-natured things about you since your convales- cence? — nay, with your excellent husband himself) who has other irritating habits besides that of not wiping his shoes ? These feUow-mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are : you can neither straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositions ; and it is these people — amongst whom your life is passed — that it is need- ful you should tolerate, pity, and love : it is these more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people, whose movements of goodness you should be able to admire — for whom you should cherish aU possible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I had the choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up in the morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty streets and the common green fields — on the real breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or injured by your prejudice ; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow-feeling, your forbearance, your out- spoken, brave justice. So I am content to teU my simple story, without trying to make things seem better than they were ; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one's best efibrts, there is reason to dread. False- 268 ADAM BEDE. hood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightftil facility in drawing a griffin — the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better ; but that marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you wiU find that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings — much harder than to say some- thing fine about them which is not the exact truth. It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty- minded people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow - mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrink- ing, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves, falls on her mob-cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and aU those cheap common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her ; — or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a high- shouldered, broad - faced bride, while elderly and middle - aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with quart -pots in IN "WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 269 their hands, but with an expression of unmistak- able contentment and goodwill. " Foh ! " says my idealistic friend, " what vulgar details ! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life ! — what clumsy, ugly people ! " But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope ? I am not at all sure that the majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those " lords of their kind," the British, squat figures, iU-shapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo curl on the summit of their brows would be decidedly trying ; yet to my certain know- ledge tender hearts have beaten for them, and their miniatures — flattering, but still not lovely — are kissed in secret by mothejrly Ups. I have seen many an excellent matron, who could never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a packet of yeUow love-letters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her saUow cheeks. And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes ! thank God ; human . feeling is like the mighty rivers that bless the earth : it does not wait for beauty — it flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it. 270 ADAM BBDE. All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form ! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children — in our gardens and in out- houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light ; paint us yet oftener a Madoima, turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory ; but do not impose on us any sesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy clowns taking holiday in a dingy pot-house, those rounded backs and stupid weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world — those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness ! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else we may hap- pen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. Therefore let Art always remind us of them ; therefore let us always have men ready to give the loving pains of a Hfe to the faithful representing of commonplace things — men who see beauty in these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them. There are few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women ; few heroes. I can't IN WHICH THE STOEY PAUSES A LITTLE. 271 aiford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities : I want a great deal of those feelings for my everyday fellow-men, especially for the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch, for whom I have to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazza- roni or romantic criminals half so frequent as your common labourer, who gets his own bread, and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocket-knife. It is more needful that I should have a fibre of sym- pathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs out my sugar in a vUely-assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green feathers ; — more needful that my heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergy- man of my own parish, who is perhaps rather too corpulent, and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sub- limest abstract of aU clerical graces that was ever conceived by an able novelist. And so I come back to Mr Irwine, with whom I desire you to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from satisfying your demands on the clerical char- acter. Perhaps you think he was not — as he ought to have been — a living demonstration of the benefits attached to a national church ? But I am not sure of that ; at least I know that the people in Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their clergyman, and that most faces brightened at 272 ADAM BEDE. his approach ; and until it can be proved that hatred is a better thing for the soul than love, I must be- lieve that Mr Irwine's influence in his parish was a more wholesome one than that of the zealous Mr Eyde, who came there twenty years afterwards, when Mr Irwine had been gathered to his lathers. It is true, Mr Eyde insisted strongly on the doc- trines of the Eeformation, visited his flock a great deal in their own homes, and was severe in rebuking the aberrations of the flesh — put a stop, indeed, to the Christmas rounds of the church singers, as pro- moting drunkeimess, and too light a handling of sacred things. But I gathered from Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen could be less successful in win- ning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr Eyde. They learned a great many notions about doctrine from him, so that almost every church-goer under fifty began to distinguish as well between the gen- uine gospel and what did not come precisely up to that standard, as if he had been born and bred a Dissenter; and for some time after his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that quiet niral district. " But," said Adam, " I've seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as religion's something else besides notions. It isn't notions sets people doing the right thing — it's feel- ings. It's the same with the notions in religion as it is with math'matics, — a man may be able to work problems straight off in's head as he sits by the fire and smokes his pipe ; but if he has to make a machine or a building, he must have a will and IN "WHICH THE STORY PAUSES A LITTLE. 273 a resolution, and love something else better than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to fall off, and people began to speak light o' Mr Eyde. I believe he meant right at bottom ; but, you see, he was sourish-tempered, and was for beat- ing down prices with the people as worked for him ; and his preaching wouldn't go down well with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i' the parish, punishing folks for doing wrong ; and he scolded 'em from the pulpit as if he'd been a Eanter, and yet he couldn't abide the Dissenters, and was a deal more set against 'em than Mr Irwine was. And then he didn't keep withia his income, for he seemed to think at first go-off that six hundred a-year was to make him as big a man as Mr Donnithome : that's a sore mischief I've often seen with the poor curates jumping into a bit of a living all of a sudden. Mr Eyde was a deal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books ; but as for math'matics and the natur o' things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very knowing about doctrines, and used to call 'em the bulwarks of the Eeformation ; but I've always mistrusted that sort o' learning as leaves folks foolish and unreason- able about business. Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be : as quick ! — he understood what you meant in a minute ; and he knew all about buUding, and could see when you'd made a good job. And he behaved as much like a gentle- man to the farmers, and th' old women and the labourers, as he did to the gentry. You never saw him interfering and scolding, and trying to play th' VOL. L S 274 ADAM BBDE. emperor. Ah I he was a fine man as ever you set eyes on ; and so kind to's mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne — he seemed to think more of her than of anybody else in the world. There wasn't a soul in the parish had a word to say against him ; and his servants stayed with him tiU they were so old and pottering, he had to hire other folks to do their work." "Well," I said, "that was an excellent way of preaching in the week-days ; but I daresay, if your old friend Mr Irwine were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he didn't preach better after aU your praise of him." " Nay, nay,'' said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back in his chair, as if he were ready to meet all inferences, "nobody has ever heard me say Mr Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn't go into deep speritial experience ; and I know there's a deal in a man's inward life as you can't measure by the square, and say, ' Do this and that '11 foUow,' and, 'Do that and this 'U follow.' There's things go on in the soul, and times when feelings come into you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture saiys, and part your life in two a'most, so as you look back on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you can't bottle up in a ' do this ' and ' do that ; ' and I'll go so far with the strongest Methodist ever you'U find. That shows me there's deep speritial things in religion. You can't make much out wi' talking about it, but you feel it. Mr Irwine didn't go into IN WHICH THE STOKY PAUSES A LITTLE. 275 those things : he preached short moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much up to what he said ; he didn't set up for being so dif- ferent from other folks one day, and then be as like 'em as two peas the next. And he made folks love him and respect him, and that was better nor stirring up their gaU wi' being over-busy. Mrs Poyser used to say — you know she would have her word about everything — she said, Mr Irwine was like a good meal o' victual, you were the better for him without thinking on it, and Mr Eyde was like a dose o' physic, he gripped you and worreted you, and after aU he left you much the same." "But didn't Mr Eyde preach a great deal more about that spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Adam? Couldn't you get more out of his ser- mons than out of Mr Irwine's?" " Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doc- trines. But I've seen pretty clear ever since I was a young un, as religion's something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at it as if the doc- trines was like finding names for your feelings, so as you can talk of 'em when you've never known 'em, just as a man may talk o' tools when he knows their names, though he's never so much as seen 'em, stiU less handled 'em. I've heard a deal o' doctrine i' my time, for I used to go after the Dissenting preachers along wi' Seth, when I was a lad o' seven- teen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th' Ar- minians and the Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you know, are strong Arminians ; and Seth, who could never abide anything harsh, and was always for 976 ADAM BEDE. toping tiie beet, held fast by the Wesleyans from the very first ; but I thought I could pick a hole or two in their notions, and I got disputing wi' one o' the class leaders down at Treddles'on, and harassed him so, first o' this side and then o' that, till at last he said, 'Young man, it's the devil making use o' your pride and conceit as a weapon to war against the simplicity o' the truth.' I couldn't help laugh- ing then, but as I was going home, I thought the man wasn't far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing and siftin'g what this text means and that text means, and whether folks are saved all by God's grace, or whether there goes an ounce o' their own will to't, was no part o' real religion at all. You may talk o' these things for hours on end, and you'll only be all the more coxy and conceited for't. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hear- ing nobody but Mr Irwine, for he said nothing but what was good, and what you'd be the wiser for remembering. And I found :^t better for my soul to be humble before the mysteries o' God's dealings, and not be making a clatter about what I could never understand. And they're poor foolish ques- tions after all ; for what have we got either inside or outside of us but what comes from God? If we've got a resolution to do right, He gave it us, I reckon, first or last ; but I see plain enough we shall never do it without a resolution, and that's enough for me." Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr Irwine, as, happily, some of us still are of the people we have known familiarly. IN WHICH THE STOEY PAUSES A LITTLE. 277 Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that lofty order of minds who pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that their emotions are of too exquisite a character to find fit objects among their everyday fellow-men. I have often been fa- voured with the confidence of these select natures, and find them concur in the experience that great men are over-estimated and small men are insup- portable ; that if you would love a woman without ever looking back on your love as a foUy, she must die while you are courting her ; and if you would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you must never make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunk from confessing to these accomplished and acute gentlemen what my own experience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with hypocritical assent, and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illusions, which any one moderately acquainted with French literature can command at a moment's notice. Human converse, I think some wise man has re- marked, is not rigidly sincere. But I herewith dis- charge my conscience, and declare, that I have had quite enthusiastic movements of admiration towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English, who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never moved in a higher sphere of influence than that of parish overseer ; and that the way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is lovable — the way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysteries — has been by living a great deal among people more or less 278 ADAM BEDE. commonplace and vulgar, of whom you would per- haps hear nothing very surprising if you were to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most of the small shop- keepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in them. For I have observed this remarkable coincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great enough to command their reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and pettiest. For ex- ample, I have often heard Mr Gedge, the landlord of the Eoyal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on his neighbours in the viUage of Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his own parish — and they were all the people he knew — in these em- phatic words : " Ay, sir, I've said it often, and I'U say it again, they're a poor lot i' this parish — a poor lot, sir, big and little." I think he had a dim idea that if he could migrate to a distant parish, he might find neighbours worthy of him ; and indeed he did subsequently transfer himself to the Sara- cen's Head, which was doing a thriving business in the back street of a neighbouring market-town. But, oddly enough, he has found the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as the inhabitants of Shepperton — "a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as comes for a go o' gin are no better than them as comes for a pint o' twopenny — a poor lot." 279 CHAPTEE XVJn. CHUECH. " Hettt, Hetty, don't you know clmrch begins at two, and it's gone half after one a'ready ? Have you got nothing better to think on this good Sunday, as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and him drownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's back run cold, but you must be 'dizen- ing yourself as if there was a wedding istid of a funeral ? " " Well, aunt," said Hetty, " I can't be ready so soon as everybody else, when I've got Totty's things to put on. And I'd ever such work to make her stand still." Hetty was coming down-stairs, and Mrs Poyser, in her plain bonnet and shawl, was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a white ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, except in her dark hair and eyes and her little 280 ADAM BEDE. buckled shoes. Mrs Poyser was provoked at her- self, for she could hardly keep from smiUng, as any mortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So she turned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some one she expected to see at church, that she hardly felt the ground she trod on. And now the little procession set off. Mr Poyser was in his Sunday suit of drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat, and a green watch-ribbon having a large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from that promontory where his watch-pocket was situated ; a silk handkerchief of a yellow tone round his neck ; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitted by Mrs Peyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that the grow- ing abuse of top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs, had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human calf. StiU less had he reason to be ashamed of his round joUy face, which was good-humour itself as he said, " Come, Hetty — come, little uns ! " and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causeway gate into the yard. The "little uns" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven, in little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes ; loolring as much like their father as a very small elephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind came patient CHUKcn. 281 Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the yard, and over all the wet places on the road ; for Totty, having speedily recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to church to-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside her tippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over this afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though now the clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on the horizon. You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooning subdued noises ; the very bull - dog looked less savage, as if he would have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed to call all things to rest and not to labour ; it was asleep itself on the moss-grown cow-shed ; on the group of white ducks nestling together with their bills tucked under their wings ; on the old black sow stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found an excellent spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs ; on Aliok, the shepherd, in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sit- ting half-standing on the granary steps. Aliok was of opinion that church, like other luxtiries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who had the weather and the ewes on his mind. " Church ! nay — I'n gotten summat else to think on," was an answer which he often uttered in a tone of bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure Alick meant no irreverence ; indeed, I know that his mind 282 ADAM BEDE. was not of a speculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed going to churcli on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and " Whissun- tide." But he had a general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies, like other non-pro- ductive employments, were intended for people who had leisure. " There's father a-standing at the yard-gate," said Martin Poyser. "I reckon he wants to watch us down the field. It's wonderful what sight he has, and him turned seventy-five." " Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies," said Mrs Poyser ; " they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they're looking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep." Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching, and held it wide open, lean- ing on his stick — pleased to do this bit of work ; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he Hked to feel that he was stUl useful — that there was a better crop of onions in the garden because he was by at the sowing — and that the cows would be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday aitemoon to look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Simdays, but not very regidarly at other times ; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch of rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead. "They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the churchyard," he said, as his son came up. " It 'ud ha' been better luck if they'd ha' CHURCH. 283 buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin' ; there's no Hkelihoods of a drop now ; an' the moon Hes like a boat there, dost see ? That's a sure sign o' fair weather — there's a many as is false, but that's sure." " Ay, ay," said the son, " I'm in hopes it'll hold up now." " Mind what the parson says, mind what the par- son says, my lads," said Grandfather to the black- eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of a marble or two in their pockets, which they looked for- ward to handling a little, secretly, during the sermon. "Dood-by, dandad," said Totty. "Me doin te church. Me dot my netlace on. Dive me a pep- permint." Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench," slowly transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat-pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation. And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again, watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the far gate, tiU. they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. Tor the hedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the better-managed farms ; and this after- noon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pink wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale honeysuckle grew out of reach, peep- ing high up out of a hoUy bush, and over aU an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow across the path. 284 ADAM BBDE. There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let them pass : at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy of cows stand- ing one behind the other, extremely slow to under- stand that their large bodies might be in the way ; at the far gate there was the mare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-coloured foal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still much embarrassed by its own straddling exist- ence. The way lay entirely through Mr Peyser's own fields till they reached the main road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as they went along, while Mrs Poyser was ready to supply a running commentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large share in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock and their " keep " — an exercise which strengthens her understanding so much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on most other subjects. "There's that short-homed SaUy," she said, as they entered the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cud, and look- ing at her with a sleepy eye. " I begin to hate the sight o' the cow ; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, for there's that little yallow cow as doesn't give half the milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her." " Why, thee't not like the women in general," said Mr Poyser ; " they like the short-horns, as give such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wants him to buy no other sort." CHXTBCH. 285 " What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes ? — a poor soft thing, wi' no more head-piece nor a sparrow. She'd take a big cullender to strain her lard wi', and then wonder as the scratohins run through. I've seen enough of her to Imow as I'll niver take a servant from her house again — aU hugger-mugger — and you'd niver know, when you went in, whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' the week ; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in a tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, as there's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots." "Well, Chowne's been wanting to buy SaUy, so we can get rid of her if thee lik'st," said Mr Poyser, secretly proud of his wife's superior power of putting two and two together ; indeed, on recent m^trket- days he had more than once boasted of her discern- ment in this very matter of short-horns. " Ay, them as choose a soft for a wife may's well buy up the short-horns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog your legs may's weU go after it. Eh ! talk o' legs, there's legs for you," Mrs Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry, toddled on in front of her father and mother. " There's shapes ! An' she's got such a long foot, she'll be her father's own child." " Ay, she'U be weUy such a one as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she's got thy coloured eyes. I niver re- member a blue eye i' my family ; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty's." "The child 'uU be none the worse for having 286 ADAM BEDE. Bummat as isn't like Hetty. An' I'm none for hav- ing her so over pretty. Though for the matter o' that, there's people wi' light hair an' blue eyes as pretty as them wi' black. If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in her cheeks, an' didn't stick that Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks . 'ud think her as pretty as Hetty." "Nay, nay," said Mr Poyser, with rather a con- temptuous emphasis, "thee dostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver rtm after Dinah as they would after Hetty." " What care I what the men 'ud run after ? It's well seen what choice the most of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives you see, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour's gone." " Well, weU, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice when I married thee," said Mr Poyser, who usually settled Httle conjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort ; " and thee wast twice as buxom as Dinah ten year ago." " I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a house. There's Chowne's wife ugly enough to turn the milk an' save the ren- net, but she'll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah, poor chUd, she's niver likely to be buxom as long as she'U make her dinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them as want. She provoked me past bearing sometimes ; and, as I told her, she went clean again' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself;' 'but,' I said, ' if you loved your neighbour no better nor you do CHUECH. 287 yourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinking he might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where she is this blessed Sunday ! — sitting by thart sick woman, I daresay, as she'd set her heart on going to all of a sudden." " Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when she might ha' stayed wi' us all summer, and eaten twice as much as she wanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' house at all, for she sat as stiU. at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married, theed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant.'' " It's no use thinking o' that," said Mrs Poyser. " You might as well beckon to the flying swallow, as ask Dinah to come an' live here comfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, I should ha' turned her, for I've talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded her too ; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do what I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'good-bye,' an' got into the cart, an' looked back at me with her pale face, as is welly like her aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened to think o' the set-downs I'd given her ; for it comes over you sometimes as if she'd a way o' knowing the rights o' things more nor other folks have. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no more nor a white calf's white 'cause it eats out o' the same bucket wi' a black un." " Nay," said Mr Poyser, with as near an approach 288 ADAM BEDE. to a snarl as Ms good-nature would allow ; " I'n no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'y tradesfolts as turn Methodists ; you niver knew a farmer bitten wi' them maggots. There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't over clever at's work, takes to preach- in' an' that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, as has got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better ; he's a good Churchman, else I'd never en- courage him for a sweetheart for Hetty." " Why, goodness me,'' said Mrs Poyser, who had looked back while her husband was speaking, " look where Molly is with them lads ! They're the field's length behind us. How could you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybody might as well set a pictur to watch the children as you. Eun back and tell 'em to come on." Mr and Mrs Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers ; Totty observing with com- placency, "Dey naughty, naughty boys — me dood." The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with great excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peeping than if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite sure he saw a yellowhammer on the boughs of the great ash, and while he was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which had run across the path and was described with much fervour by the junior Tommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just CHURCH. 289 fledged, fluttering along the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch, it, till it managed to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her ready sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said " Lawks ! " whenever she was expected to wonder. Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called to them that her aunt was angry ; but Marty ran on first, shouting, " We've found the speckled turkey's nest, mother ! " with the instinctive confidence that people who bring good news are never in fault. "Ah," said Mrs Peyser, really forgetting all dis- cipline in this pleasant surprise, " that's a good lad ; why, where is it ? " " Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, looking after the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest." " You didn't frighten her, I hope," said the mother, " else she'll forsake it." " No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to MoUy— didn't I, Molly?" "Well, well, now come on," said Mrs Poyser, "and walk before father and mother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday." " But, mother," said Marty, " you said you'd give half-a-crown to find the speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into my money- box?" VOL. I. T 290 ADAM BEDE. " We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy." The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at their eldest-born's acuteness ; but on Tommy's round face there was a cloud. " Mother," he said, half crying, " Marty's got ever so much more money in his box nor I've got in mine." " Munny, me want half-a-toun in mi/ bots," said Totty. " Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs Poyser, " did ever anybody hear such naughty children ? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, if they don't make haste and go on to church." This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two remaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without any serious interrup- tion, notwithstanding a smaU. pond lull of tadpoles alias " bullheads," which the lads looked at wistfuUy. The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow was not a cheering sight to Mr Poyser, who during hay and com harvest had often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest ; but no temptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, however early in the morn- ing, on a Sunday ; for had not Michael Holdsworth had a pair of oxen " sweltered " while he was plough- ing on Good Friday? That was a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing ; and with wickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have nothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper. CHURCH. 291 " It a'most makes your fingers itcli to be at the hay now the sun'tehines so," he observed, as they passed through the " Big Meadow." " But it's poor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience. There's that Jim Wakefield, as they u sed to call ' Gentleman Wakefield,' used to do the same of a Simday as o' week-days, and took no heed to right or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's he come to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket vn' oranges in't,'' " Ah, to be sure," said Mrs Poyser, emphatically, " you make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as is got so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leave our lads a sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as for the weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't : it's noth- ing of a plague to what the wenches are." Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit which Mrs Peyser's clock had of taking time by the forelock, had secured their arrival at the village while it was stUl a quarter to two, though almost every one who meant to go to church was already within the churchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, like Timothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby, and feeling as women feel in that position — that nothing else can be expected of them. It was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people were standing about the churchyard so long before service began ; that was theii common -practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the 292 ADAM BEDE. church at once, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, over tlfe tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor's stuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, as far preferable — about the servants, and there growing exorbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any farther than you could see her — about the bad price Mr Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was giving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as to his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs DingaU was a sensible woman, and they were all sorry for her, for she had very good kin. Meantime the men lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who had a humming and fragmentary re- hearsal to go through, entered the church until Mr Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that premature entrance, — what could they do in church, if they were there before service began ? — • and they did not conceive that any power in the universe could take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about " bus'ness." Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has got his clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cry at him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him at once as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with which the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to the farmers ; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working man must hold a candle to a personage CHUECH. 203 understood to be as black as lie was himself on week-days ; by which evU-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had horses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn, where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the farm- labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, as fellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position, some- times watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the conversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and were now joined by Martin Peyser, while his family passed into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr Casson, the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude — that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches- pocket, and his head very much on one side ; look- ing, on the whole, like an actor who has only a monosyllabic part intrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience discern his fitness for the leading business ; curiously in contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him, and leaned forward coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that could not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than usual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr Irwine's voice reading the final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their word of pity for poor Thias, 294 ADAM BEDE. but now they had got upon the nearer Bubject of their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, who played the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr Donnithome himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject of conversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself might pres- ently be walking up the paved road to the church door. And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr Irwine's voice had ceased, and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the church. They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr Irwine passed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them ; for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause before the three mourners came on : Lisbeth had turned round to look again towards the grave ! Ah ! there was noth- ing now but the brown earth under the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any day since her husband's death : along with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense of her own import- ance in having a "burial," and in Mr Irwine's read- ing a special service for her husband ; and besides, she knew the funeral psahn was going to be sung for him. She felt this counter- excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with her sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods of their fellow-parishioners. CHURCH. 295 The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the loiterers followed, though some still lingered without ; the sight of Mr Donnithome's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hiU, per- haps helping to make them feel that there was no need for haste. But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth ; the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every one must now enter and take his place. I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for anything except for the grey age of its oaken pews — great square pews mostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a short process for Joshua Eanu to take his place among them as principal bass, and return to his desk after the sing- ing was over. The pulpit and desk, grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading into the chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr Donnithome's family and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the buff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby in- terior, and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats. And there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, for the pulpit and Mr Donnithome's own pew had handsome crimson cloth cushions ; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth, embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's own hand. 296 ADAM BEDE. But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm and cheering when Mr Irwine was in the desk, looking" benignly round on that simple congregation — on the hardy old men, with bent knees and shoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clipping and thatching ; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly-cut bronzed faces of the stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half- dozen well-to-do farmers, with their apple-cheeked families ; and on the clean old women, mostly farm- labourers' wives, with their bit of snow-white cap- border under their black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow, folded passively over their chests. Tor none of the old people held books — why should they? not one of them could read. But they knew a few " good words " by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved silently, following the service without any very clear compre- hension indeed, but with a simple faith in its eflScacy to ward off harm and bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standing up — the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the grey pews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one of those lively psalm- tunes which died out with the last generation of rectors and choral parish-clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not in his usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his mother and Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absent too : all the more agree- able for Mr Joshua Eann, who gave out his bass CHURCH. 297 notes with Tinusual complacency, and threw an extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over his spectacles at the recusant WiH Maskery. I beseech you to imagine Mr Irwine looking round on this scene, in his ample white surplice, that be- came him so well, with his powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely-cut nostril and upper lip ; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keen countenance, as there is in all human faces from which a generous soul beams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sun- shine through the old windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, that threw pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall. I think, as Mr Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instant longer than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and his family. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible not to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. But Hetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances — she was absorbed in the thought that Arthur Donni- thome would soon be coming into church, for the carriage must surely be at the church gate by this time. She had never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursday evening, and oh ! how long the time had seemed ! Things had gone on just the same as ever since that evening ; the wonders that had happened then had brought no changes after them ; they were abeady like a dream. When she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared not look up. She felt that her 298 ADAM BEDE. aunt was curtsying ; she curtsied herseK. That must be old Mr Donnithorne — he always came first, the wrinkled small old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowing and curtsying congregation ; then she knew Miss Lydia was pass- ing, and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable little coal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't mind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies — no, he was not come ; she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew door but the housekeeper's black bonnet, and the lady's-maid's beautiful straw that had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of the butler and footman. No, he was not there ; yet she would look now — she might be mistaken — for, after aU, she had not looked. So she lifted up her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in the chancel : — there was no one but old Mr Donni- thorne rubbing his spectacles with his white hand- kerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edged prayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear : she felt herself turning pale, her lips trembling ; she was ready to cry. Oh, what should she do ? Everybody would know the reason ; they would know she was crying because Arthur was not there. And Mr Craig, with the wonderfal hothouse plant in his button -hole, was staring at her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she could kneel down. Two great drops would faU then, but no one saw them except good-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backs towards her. Molly. CHURCH. 299 unable to imagine any cause for tears in church ex- cept faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drew out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smeUing-bottle, and after much labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against Hetty's nostrils. " It donna smell," she whispered, thinking this was a great advantage which old salts had over fresh ones : they did you good without biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly ; but this little flash of temper did what the salts could not have done — it roused her to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with aU her might not to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain little nature : she would have borne anything rather than be laughed at, or pointed at with any other feeling than admiration ; she would have pressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people should know a secret she did not want them to know. What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, while Mr Irwine was pronouncing the solemn "Absolution" in her deaf ears, and through all the tones of petition that followed ! Anger lay very close to disappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures her small ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on the supposition that he really wanted to come, reaUy wanted to see her again. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because all the rest were rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even with a heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches to herself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her this pain — she would like him 300 ADAM BEDE. to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on in her soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer- book, and the eyelids with their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so, as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees. But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service ; they rather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the church service was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain con- sciousness of our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all our moments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was the best channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, and resignation ; its interchange of beseeching cries for help, with outbursts of faith and praise — its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm of its collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship could have done ; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from their childhood upward in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must have seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the streets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own past : no wonder the secret escapes the unsympathising observer, who might as well put on his spectacles to discern odours. But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the service in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other village nooks in the kingdom — a reason, of which I am sure you have not the slightest suspicion. It was the CHURCH. 301 reading of oior friend Joshua Eann. Where that good shoemaker got his notion of reading from, re- mained a mystery even to his most intimate acquaint- ances. I believe, after all, he got it chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest conceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow souls before his. She had given . him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical ear ; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufSced to inspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses. The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the wind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading of a parish-clerk — a man in rusty spectacles, with stubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is Nature's way : she wiU allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and poetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him the slightest hint of it ; and takes care that some narrow-browed feUow, trolling a ballad in the comer of a pot-house, shall be as true to his intervals as a bird. Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and it was always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from the desk to the choir. Still more to-day : it was a special occasion ; for an old man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death — not in his bed, a circumstance 302 ADAM BEDE. the most painful to the mind of the peasant — and now the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden departure. Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalm-tunee have many a wail among them, and the words — " Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood ; We vanish hence like dreams " — seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poor Thias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings. Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her hus- band good ; it was part of that decent burial which she would have thought it a greater wrong to with- hold from him than to have caused him many un- happy days while he was living. The more there was said about her husband, the more there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poor Lisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and pity are a ground of faith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, and tried to recall, as he had done continually since his father's death, aU that he had heard of the possi- bility that a single moment of consciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcile- ment ; for was it not written in the very psalm they were singing, that the Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam had never been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty of trouble and vexation since CHURCH. 303 he had been a lad ; but this was the first sorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow because the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for ever gone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father's hand before their parting, and say, " Father, you know it was all right between us ; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad ; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then ! " Adam thought but little to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his father : his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feel- ings had been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head before the rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissive silence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt after- wards as to our own generosity, if not justice ; how much more when the object of our anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the last time in the meekness of death ! " Ah ! I was always too hard," Adam said to him- self. " It's a sore fault in me as I'm so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against 'em, so as I can't bring myself to forgive em. I see clear enough there's more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner make a thousand strokes with th' hammer for my father than bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' pride and temjser to the strokes, as the devil will be having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our sins. May- hap the best thing I ever did in my life was only 304 ADAM KEDE. doing what was easiest for myself. It's allays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough job for me 'ud be to master my own wiU and temper, and go right against my own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find father at home to-night, I should behave different ; but there's no knowing — perhaps nothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's weU we should feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over ; there's no real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right." This was the key-note to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returned since his father's death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger emphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, "In the midst of life we are in death" — how the present moment is all we can call our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of fam- ily tenderness. AU very old truths — but what we thought the oldest truth becomes the most start- ling to us in the week when we have looked on the dead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want to impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, do they not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure its intensity by remembering the for- mer dimness ? Then came the moment of the final blessing. CHURCH. :105 when the for-ever sublime words, " The peace of God, which passeth all understanding," seemed to blend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of the congregation ; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, the fathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through the old archway into the green churchyard, and began their neighbourly tali, their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea ; for on a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guest — it was the day when all must be in their best clothes and their best humour. Mr and Mrs Poyser paused a minute at the church gate : they were waiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to go away without saying a kind word to the widow and her sons. " Well, Mrs Bede," said Mrs Poyser, as they walked on together, "you must keep up your heart ; husbands and wives must be content when they've lived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey." "Ay, ay," said Mr Poyser; "they wonna have long to wait for one another then, anyhow. And ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i' th' coun- try ; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a broad-shouldered feUow as need to be ; and as for you, Mrs Bede, why you're straighter i' the back nor half the young women now." " Eh," said Lisbeth, " it's poor luck for the platter to wear well when it's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under the thorn the better. I'm no good to no- body now." YOL, L U 306 ADAM BEDE. Adam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints ; but Seth said, " Nay, mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 'ull never get another mother.'' "That's true, lad, that's true," said Mr Poyser; "and it's wrong on us to give way to grief, Mrs Bede ; for it's like the children cryin' when the fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knows better nor us." " Ah," said Mrs Poyser, " an' it's poor work allays settin' the dead above the Hvin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon — it 'ud be better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, istid o' beginnin' when we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the last year's crop." "Well, Adam," said Mr Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were, as usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well to change the subject, " you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you to see what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it's got broke, and it'll be a nice job to mend it — there'll want a bit o' turning. You'll come as soon as you can now, will you?" Mr Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see where Hetty was ; for the children were running on before. Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about her than ever ; for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-white hothouse plant, with a very long name — a Scotch name, she CHUKCH. 307 supposed, since people said Mr Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the opportunity of looking round too ; and I am sure you will not require of him that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expression on Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small-talk. Yet in her secret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that she cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be given spontaneously ; for Mr Craig, like a superior man, was very fond of giving information. Mr Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were received coldly, for to shift one's point of view beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind ; we are none of us aware of the impression we produce on Bra- zilian monkeys of feeble understanding — it is pos- sible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover, Mr Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth year of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty that the " lass was well enough,'' and that " a man might do worse ; " but on convivial occasions men are apt to express them- selves strongly. Martin Poyser held Mr Craig in honour, as a man who " knew his business," and who had great lights concerning soils and compost ; but. he was less of a favourite with Mrs Poyser, who had more than once 308 ADAM BEDE. said in confidence to her husband, " You're mighty- fond o' Craig ; but for my part, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to hear him crow." For the rest, Mr Craig was an estimable gardener, and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheek-bones, and hung his head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches-pockets. I think it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not his '' bringing up ; " for except that he had a stronger burr in his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshii'e people about him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian. " Well, Mr Poyser," he said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, '' ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking : the glass sticks at ' change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more downfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloud there upo' the 'rizon — ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the land and sky seems to meet ? " " Ay, ay, I see the cloud," said Mr Poyser, " 'rizon or no 'rizon. It's right o'er Mike Holdsworth's fal- low, and a foul fallow it is." "Well, you mark my words, as that cloud 'uU spread o'er the sky pretty nigh as quick as you'd spread a tarpaulin over one o' your hay-ricks. It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord bless you! th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's a pretty sight o' things I could let them up to, if they'd just come to me. CHURCH. 309 And how are you^ Mrs Poyser ? — thinking o' gethcr- in' the red currants soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they're o'er-ripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to. How do ye do, Mistress Bede ? " Mr Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth. " I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables while ye're in trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not giving other folks' things away ; for when I've supplied the house, the garden's my own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old Squire could get as 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd be wilhng. I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to make sure o' getting back the money as I pay the Squire. I should like to see some o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their noses as I've got to do every year as comes." " They look pretty fiir, though," said Mr Poyser, turning his head on one side, and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. "Why, what could come truer nor that pictnr o' the cook wi' the big spurs, as has got its head knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th' firin', an' the ships behind? Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it's come as true as th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelson — an' they told us that before- hand." "Pee — ee-eh!" said Mr Craig. "A man doesna want to see fur to know as th' English 'ull beat the 310 ADAM BEDE. French, Why, I know upo' good authority as it's a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an' they live upo' spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge o' the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are to do against such fine fellows as our yoiing Captain Arthur. Why, it 'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor a Frenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they pinch theirseUs in wi' stays ; and it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides." "Where is the Captain, as he wasna at church to-day?" said Adam. "I was talking to him o' Friday, and he said nothing about his going away." " Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fish- ing ; I reckon he'U be back again afore many days are o'er, for he's to be at aU th' arranging and preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July. But he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' old Squire fit one an- other like frost and fiowers." Mr Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation, but the subject was not de- veloped farther, for now they had reached the turn- ing in the road where Adam and his companions must say "good-bye." The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not accepted Mr Peyser's invitation to tea. Mrs Poyser duly seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace not to make her neigh- bours welcome to her house : personal likes and dis- likes must not interfere with that sacred custom. CHURCH. 311 Moreover, Mr Craig had always been full of civili- ties to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs Peyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had " nothing to say again' him, on'y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatched different." So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down to the vaUey and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long anxiety — where Adam would never have to ask again as he entered, "■V^Tiere's father?" And the other family party, with Mr Craig for .company, went back to the pleasant bright house- place at the Hall Farm — all with quiet minds, ex- cept Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only the more puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite voluntary ; he need not have gone — he would not have gone if he had wanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever be pleasant to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to be fiilfilled ; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment and doubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again, of meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words, with that eager yearning which one may call the " growing pain " of passion. 1^12 OHAPTEK XIX. ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. Notwithstanding Mr Craig's prophecy, the dark-, blue cloud dispersed itself without having produced the threatened consequences. " The weather," as he observed the next morning — " the weather, you see, 's a ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't some- times when a wise man misses ; that's why the almanecks get so much credit. It's one o' them chancy things as fools thrive on." This unreasonable behaviour of the weather, how- ever, could displease no one else in Hayslope besides Mr Craig. All hands were to be out in the meadows this morning as soon as the dew had risen ; the wives and daughters did double work in every farm- house, that the maids might give their help in toss- ing the hay ; and when Adam was marching along the lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the sound of jocose talk and ringing laugh- ter from behind the hedges. The jocose talk of hay- makers is best at a distance ; like those clumsy bells round the cows' necks, it has rather a coarse sound ADAM ON A WOKKING DAY. 313 when it comes close, and naay even grate on your ears painfully ; but heard from far oif, it mingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of nature. Men's muscles move better when their souls are making merry music, though their merriment is of a poor blundering sort, not at all like the merriment of birds. And perhaps there is no time in a summer's day more cheering, than when the warmth of the sun is just beginning to triumph over the freshness of the morning — when there is just a lingering hint of early coolness to keep off languor urider the deK- cious influence of warmth. The reason Adam was walking along the lanes at this time was because his work for the rest of the day lay at a country house about three miles off, which was being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire ; and he had been busy since early morning with the packing of panels, doors, and chimney-pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on before him, while Jonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its arrival and direct the work- men. This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under the charm of the moment. It was summer morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the sunshine : a sunshine without glare • — with slanting rays that tremble between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday, when he put out his hand to her as they came out of church, that there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, such as he had not seen be- 314 ADAM BEDE. fore, and he took it as a sign that she had some sympathy with his family trouble. Poor fellow ! that touch of melancholy came from quite another source ; but how was he to know ? We look at the one little woman's face we love, as we look at the face of our mother earth, and see aU sorts of answers to our own yearnings. It was impossible for Adam not to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the prospect of marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger that some other man might step in and get possession of Hetty's heart and hand, while he himself was stiU in a position that made him shrink from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong hope that she was fond of him — and his hope was far from being strong — he had been too heavily burthened with other claims to provide a home for himself and Hetty — a home such as he could expect her to be content with after the comfort and plenty of the Farm. Like all strong natures, Adam had con- fidence in his ability to achieve something in the future ; he felt sure he should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family, and make a good broad path for himself; but he had too cool a head not to estimate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the time would be so long ! And there was Hetty, like a bright-cheeked apple hang- ing over the orchard waU, within sight of every- body, and everybody must long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she would be content to wait for him: but did she love him? His hopes had never risen so high that he had ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 315 dared to ask her. He was clear - sighted enough to be aware that her uncle and aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, and indeed without this encouragement he would never have persevered in going to the Farm ; but it was impossible to come to any but fluctuating conclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and had the same distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that came near her. But now he coidd not help saying to himself that the heaviest part of his burden was removed, and that even before the end of another year his circum- stances might be brought into a shape that would allow him to think of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew : she would be jealous of any wife he might choose, and she had set her mind especially against Hetty — perhaps for no other reason than that she suspected Hetty to be the woman he had chosen. It would never do, he feared, for his mother to hve in the same house with him when he was married ; and yet how hard she would thiuk it if he asked her to leave him ! Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with his mother, but it was a case in which he must make her feel that his will was strong — it would be better for her in the end. For himself, he would have liked that they should all live together till Seth was married, and they might have built a bit themselves to the old house, and made more room. He did not Hke " to part wi' th' lad : " they had hardly ever been separated for more than a day since they were born. 316 ADAM BEDE. But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in this way — making arrangements for an uncertain future— than he checked himself. "A pretty building I'm making, without either bricks or timber. I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much as dug the foundation." When- ever Adam was strongly convinced of any proposi- tion, it took the form of a principle in his mind : it was knowledge to be acted on, as much as the know- ledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps here lay the secret of the hardness he had accused himself of : he had too little fellow-feeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen consequences. With- out this fellow-feeling, how are we to get enough patience and charity towards our stumbling, falling companions in the long and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong deter- mined soul can learn it — by getting his heart-strings bound round the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the outward consequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is a long and hard lesson, and Adam had at present only learned the alphabet of it in his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating 'in an instant all that had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought and memory over what had claimed his pity and tenderness. But it was Adam's strength, not its correlative hardness, that influenced his meditations this morn- ing. He had long made up bis mind that it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry a bloom- ing young girl, so long as he had no other prospect ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 317 than that of growing poverty with a growing family. And his savings had been so constantly drawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's sub- stitute in the militia), that he had not enough money beforehand to furnish even a small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a rainy day. He had good hope that he should be "firmer on his legs" by-and-by; but he could not be satisfied with a vague confidence in his arm and" brain ; he must have definite plans, and set about them at once. The partnership with Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at present — there were things im- plicitly tacked to it that he could not accept ; but Adam thought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for themselves in addition to their journeyman's work, by buying a small stock of superior wood and making articles of household fur- niture, for which Adam had no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at separate jobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's work, and Adam, in his over-hours, could do all the " nice " work, that required pecuhar skill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he received as foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand 'with the world, so sparingly as they would all live now. No sooner had this little plan shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact calculations about the wood to be bought, and the particular article of furniture that should be undertaken first — a kitchen cupboard of his own contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of sliding -doors and bolts, such convenient nooks 31 S ADAM BEDE. for stowing household provender, and such a sym- metrical result to the eye, that every good house- wife would be in raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of melancholy longing tiU her hus- band promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured to himself Mrs Poyser examining it with her keen eye, and trying in vain to find out a deficiency ; and, of course, close to Mrs Poyser stood Hetty, and Adam was agaia beguiled from calculations and contri- vances into dreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her this evening — it was so long since he had been at the HaU Farm. He would have liked to go to the night-school, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church yesterday, for he feared his old friend was iU. ; but, unless he could manage both visits, this last must be put off till to-morrow — the desire to be near Hetty, and to speak to her again, was too strong. As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end of his walk, within the sound of the hammers at work on the refitting of the old house. The sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his work is hke the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who has to bear his part in the overture : the strong fibres begin their accus- tomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or ambition, begins its change into energy. All passion becomes strength when it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our personal lot in the labour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still, creative activity of our thought. Xiook at Adam through the rest of the day^ as he ADAM ON A WORKING DAY. 319 stands on the scaffolding with the two-feet ruler in his hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a floor-joist or a window-frame is to be overcome ; or as he pushes one of the younger workmen aside, and takes his place in upheaving a weight of timber, saying, " Let alone, lad ! thee'st got too much gristle i' thy bones yet ; " or as he fixes his keen black eyes on the motions of a work- man on the other side of the room, and warns him that his distances are not right. Look at this broad- shouldered man with the bare muscular arms, and the thick firm black hair tossed about like trodden meadow-grass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong barytone voice bursting every now and then into loud and solemn psalm-tunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous strength, yet presently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought which jars with the singing. Per- haps, if you had not been already in the secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories, what warm affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic body with the broken finger-nails — in this rough man, who new no better lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional hymn ; who knew the smallest pos- sible amount of profane history ; and for whom the motion and shape of the earth, the course of the sun, and the changes of the seasons, lay in the region of mystery just made visible by fragmentary know- ledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble, and work in over-hours, to know what he knew over .and above the secrets of his handicraft, and that 320 ADAM BEDE. acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the nature of the materials he worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn inherited faculty — to get the mastery of his pen, and write a plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in fairness be attributed to the unreasonable character of orthography rather than to any deficiency in the speller, and, moreover, to learn his musical notes and part-singing. Besides aU this, he had read his Bible, including the apocryphal books ; ' Poor Richard's Almanac,' Taylor's 'Holy Living and Dying,' ' The Pilgrim's Progress,' with Bunyan's Life and ' Holy War,' a great deal of Bailey's Dic- tionary, 'Valentine and Orson,' and part of a 'His- tory of Babylon,' which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many more books from Bartle Massey, but he had no time for reading " the commin print," as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in all the leisure moments which he did not fiU. up with extra carpentry. Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvel- lous man, nor, properly speaking, a genius, yet I will not pretend that his was an ordinary character among workmen ; and it would not be at aU. a safe conclusion that the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of tools over his shoulder and a paper cap on his head has the strong conscience and the strong sense, the blended susceptibility and self-command, of our friend Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared here and there in every generation of our peasant artisans — with an inheritance of affections nurtured by a ADAM ON A WORKING VAY. 321 simple family life of common need and common in- dustry, and an inheritance of faculties trained in skilful courageous labour : they make their way up- ward, rarely as geniuses, most commonly as pains- taking honest men, with the skill and conscience to do well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have no discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where they dwelt, but you are almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building, some application of mineral produce, some improvement in farming practice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their names are associated by one or two generations after them. Their employers were the richer for them, the work of their hands has worn well, and the work of their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coal-dust or streaked with lime and red paint ; in old age their white hairs are seen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they teU their well- dressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on winter evenings, how pleased they were when they first earned their twopence a-day. Others there are who die poor, and never put off the work- man's coat on week-days : they have not had the art of getting rich ; but they are men of trust, and when they die before the work is all out of them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine ; the master who employed them says, "Where shall I find their like?" VOL. I. 322 CHAPTEE XX. ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. Adam came back from his work in the empty wag- gon ; that was why he had changed his clothes, and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when it still wanted a quarter to seven. " What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for ? " said Lisbeth, complainingly, as he came down -stairs. " Thee artna goin' to th' school i' thy best coat ? " "No, mother," said Adam, quietly. "I'm going to the Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to tho school after, so thee mustna wonder if I'm a bit late. Seth 'uU be at home in half an hour — he's only gone to the village ; so thee wutna mind." " Eh, an' what's thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th' Hall Farm ? The Poyser folks see'd thee in 'em yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean by tumin' 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, put- ting on his hat and going out. ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 323 But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she had vexed him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that they were put on for Hetty's sake ; but deeper than all her peevishness lay the n6ed that her son should love her. She hurried after him, and laid hold of his arm before he had got half-way down to the brook, and said, "Nay, my lad, thee wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her got nought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee ? " "Nay, nay, mother," said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put his arm on her shoulder, "I'm not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to do. I'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings besides what he owes to's father and mother ; and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must make up thy mind, as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I like. So let us have no more words about it." " Eh," said Lisbeth, not wiUing to show that she felt the real bearing of Adam's words, " an' who likes to see thee i' thy best cloose better nor thy mother? An' when thee'st got thy face washed as clean as the smooth white pibble, an' thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyes a-sparkhn' — what else is there as thy old mother should like to look at half so weU ? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik'st for me — I'll ne'er plague thee no moor about'n." 324 ADAM BEDE. "Well, well; good-bye, mother," said Adam, kissing her, and hiirrying away. He saw there was no other means of putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the spot, shading her eyes and looking after him tiU he was qnite oiit of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had lain in Adam's words, and, as she lost sight of him and turned back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herself — for it was her way to speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her hnsband and sons were at their work — " Eh, he'll be teUin' me as he's goin' to briag her home one o' these days ; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I mun look on, belike, while she nses the blue-edged platters, and breaks 'em, mayhap, though there's ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' me bought 'em at the fair twenty 'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh ! " she went on, stiU louder, as she caught up her knitting from the table, "bnt she'U ne'er knit the lads' stockins, nor foot 'em nayther, while I live ; an' when I'm gone, he'll bethiuk him as nobody 'nil ne'er fit's leg an' foot as his old mother did. She'U know nothin' o' narrowin' an' heehn', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as he canna get's boot on. That's what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone thirty, an' th' feyther too, afore we war married ; an' young enough too. She'U be a poor dratcheU by then she^s thirty, a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore her teeth's all come." Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow : every one was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 325 — no one kept watoli in the yard but the bull-dog ; and when Adam reached the house-door, which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean house-place. But he guessed where Mrs Pey- ser and some one else would be, quite within hear- ing ; so he knocked on the door and said in his strong voice, "Mrs Poyser within?" " Come in, Mr Bede, come in," Mrs Poyser called out from the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house. "You may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the cheese." Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs Poyser and Nancy were crushing the first evening cheese. " Why, you might think you war come to a dead- house," said Mrs Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway ; " they're all i' the meadow ; but Martin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cooked to-night, ready for carrying first thing to- morrow. I've been forced t' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether the red currants to- night ; the fruit aUays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand's wanted. An' there's no trustin' the children to gether it, for they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket ; you might as well set the wasps to gether the fruit." Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr Poyser came in, but he was not quite cour- ageous enough, so he said, "I could be looking at your spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants do- ing to it. Perhaps it stands in the house, where I can find it?" 326 ADAM BBDE. " No, I've put it away in tlie right-hand parlour ; but let it be till I can fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now, if you'd go into the garden, and teU Hetty to send Totty in. The child 'ull run in if she's told, an' I know Hetty's lettin' her eat too many currans. I'll be much obliged to you, Mr Bede, if you'U. go and send her in ; an' there's the York and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden now — you'U. like to see 'em. But you'd like a drink o' whey first, p'r'aps ; I know you're fond o' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out." " Thank you, Mrs Poyser," said Adam ; " a drink o' whey's allays a treat to me. I'd rather have it than beer any day." " Ay, ay," said Mrs Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on the shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, " the smeU o' bread's sweet t' everybody but the baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, ' Oh, Mrs Poyser, I envy you your dairy ; and I envy you your chickens ; and what a beautiful thing a farm- house is, to be sure ! ' An' I say, ' Yes ; a farm- house is a fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know the liftin', an' the stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside, as belongs to't.' " " Why, Mrs Poyser, you wouldn't like to live any- where else but in a farmhouse, so well as you man- age it," said Adam, taking the basin ; " and there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in the paU, and the fresh butter ready for market, and the calves, and the poultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have ADAM VISITS THE HALL FAKM. 327 strength, to look after your own dairy, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' wives in the country.'' Mrs Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a compliment, but a quiet complacency overspread her face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her blue-grey eyes, as she looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah ! I think I taste that whey now — with a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from an odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imagination with a still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wire network window — the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall Gueldres roses. " Have a little more, Mr Bede ? " said Mrs Poyser, as Adam set down the basin. " No, thank you ; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the little lass." " Ay, do ; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy.'' Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the garden — once the well-tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house ; now, but for the handsome brick waU with stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy perennial flowers, unpruned fruit-trees, and kitchen vegetables growing together in careless, half-neglected abund- ance. In that leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden was like playing at " hide- and-seek." There were the tall hollyhocks beginning 328 ADAM BEDE. to flower, and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and yellow ; there were the syringas and Gueldres roses, all large and disorderly for want of trimming ; there were leafy walls of scarlet beans and late peas ; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, and in another a huge apple-tree making a barren circle under its low -spreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two ? The garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beans — it took nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end of the uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them ; and as for other vegetables, there was so much more room than was necessary for them, that in the rotation of crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of yearly occurrence on one spot or other. The very rose-trees, at which Adam stopped to pluck one, looked as if they grew wild ; they were all huddled together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wide open petals, almost all of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless dated from the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose a compact Pro- vence rose that peeped out half smothered by its flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his hand — ^he thought he should be more at ease holding something in his hand — as he walked on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest row of currant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour. But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy's voice saying — ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 329 "Now, then, Totty, hold out your pinny — there's a duck." The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry- tree, where Adam had no diiSculty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was below, behind the screen of peas. Yes — with her bonnet hanging down her back, and her fat face, dreadfrilly smeared with red juice, turned up towards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth and her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red ; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, " There now, Totty, you've got your cherries. Eun into the house with 'em to mother — she wants you — she's in the dairy. Eun in this minute — there's a good little girl." He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to cherry-eating ; and when he set her down she trotted off quite silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as she went along. "Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving bird," said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees. He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row : Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was standing with 330 ADAM BEDE. her back towards him, and stooping to gather the low- hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him coming ! perhaps it was because she was making the leaves rustle. She started when she became con- scious that some one was near — started so violently that she dropped the basin with the currants in it, and then, when she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at seeing him before. " I frightened you," he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did ; "let me pick the currants up." That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that be- longs to the first moments of hopeful love. Hetty did not turn away her eyes ; her blush had subsided, and she met his glance with a quiet sad- ness, which contented Adam, because it was so un- like anything he had seen in her before. " There's not many more currants to get," she said; "I shall soon ha' done now." " I'U help you," said Adam ; and he fetched the large basket which was nearly full of currants, and set it close to them. Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's heart was too full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence after all ; she had ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 331 blushed when she saw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about her which must surely mean love, since it was the opposite of her usual manner, which had often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at her continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeams stole through the thick apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can least forget in after-life, — the time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved betrays by a slight something — a word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid — that she is at least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eye — he could describe it to no one — it is a mere feather- touch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, to have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of everything but the present mo- ment. So much of our early gladness vanishes utterly from our memory : we can never recall the joy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our father's back in childhood ; doubtless that joy is wrought up into our nature, as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot ; but it is gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only believe in the joy of childhood. But the first glad moment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a far-off hour of happiness. It is a mem- 332 ADAM BEDE. ory that gives a more exquisite touch to tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy, and adds the last keenness to the agony of despair. Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen of apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotion as he looked at her and believed that she was think- ing of him, and that there was no need for them to talk— Adam remembered it all to the last moment of his life. And Hetty? Tou know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Like many other men, he thought the signs of love for another were signs of love towards himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her, she was absorbed as usual in think- ing and wondering about Arthur's possible return : the sound of any man's footstep would have affected her just in the same way — she would have felt it might be Arthur before she had time to see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling would have rushed back again at the sight of any one else just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come over Hetty : the anxieties and fears of a first passion, with which she was trem- bling, had become stronger than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless depen- dence on another's feeling which awakens the cling- ing deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl that can ever experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first time Hetty felt that there was ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 333 something soothing to her in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness : she wanted to be treated lov- ingly — oh, it was very hard to bear this blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing love ! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with love-making and flatter- ing speeches like her other admirers : he had always been so reserved to her : she could enjoy without any fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that Adam was pitiable too — that Adam, too, must suffer one day. Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently to the man who loved her in vain, because she had herself begun to love another. It was a very old story ; but Adam knew nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet delusion. "That'll do," said Hetty, after a little while. " Aunt wants me to leave some on the trees. I'll take 'em in now." " It's very weU. 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, smUing, " and been as long getting into the house as a little ant carrying a caterpillar. Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying things four times as big as themselves ? " " No," said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of ant-life. " Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can carry the basket with one 334 ADAM BEDE. arm, as if it was an empty mitshell, and give you th' other arm to lean on. Won't you? Such big arms as mine were made for little arms like yours to lean on." Hetty smiled faintly, and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another comer of the garden. " Have you ever been to Eagledale ? " she said, as they walked slowly along. " Yes,'' said Adam, pleased to have her ask a ques- tion about himself ; " ten years ago, when I was a lad, I went with father to see about some work there. It's a wonderful sight — rocks and caves such as you never saw in your Hfe. I never had a right notion o' rocks tiU I went there." " How long did it take to get there ? " " Why, it took us the best part o' two days' walk- ing. But it's nothing of a day's journey for anybody as has got a first-rate nag. The Captain 'ud get there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And I shouldn't wonder if he's back again to- morrow ; he's too active to rest long in that lonely place, aU by himself, for there's nothing but a bit of a inn i' that part where he's gone to fish. I wish he'd got th' estate in his hands ; that 'ud be the right thing for him, for it 'ud give him plenty to do, and he'd do't well to, for all he's so young ; he's got better notions o' things than many a man twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th' other day about lending me money to set up i' business ; and if things came round that way, I'd rather be beholding to him nor to any man i' the world." ADAM VISITS THE HALL FAIiM. 335 Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur be- cause he thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the young squire was so ready to befriend him ; the fact entered into his future prospects, which he would like to seem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest which brought a new Ught into her eyes and a half smile upon her lips. " How pretty the roses are now !" Adam continued, pausing to look at them. "See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns, don't you?" He set down the basket, and took the rose from his button-hole. " It smells very sweet," he said ; " those striped uns have no smell. Stick it in your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It 'ud be a pity to let it fade." Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what she had very often done before — stuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. The ten- der admiration in Adam's face was slightly shadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just the thing that would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike anything that belonged to her. " Ah," he said, " that's like the ladies in the pic- tures at the Chase ; they've mostly got flowers or 336 ADAM BEDB. feathers or gold things i' their hair, but somehow I don't like to see 'em : they aUays put me i' mind o' the painted women outside the shows at Treddles'on fair. What can a woman have to set her off better than her own hair, when it curls so, like yours ? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks aU the better for her being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It seems to me as a woman's face doesna want flowers ; it's almost like a flower itsei£ I'm sure yours is." " Oh, very well," said Hetty, with a Uttle playful pout, taking the rose out of her hair. " I'll put one o' Dinah's caps on when we go ia, and you'U see if I look better in it. She left one behind, so I can take the pattern." " Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I daresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here, as it was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people ; but I never rightly noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow as th' acorn-cup fits th' acorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without it. But you've got another sort o' face ; I'd have you just as you are now, without anything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's singing a good tune, you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the sound." He took her arm and put it within his again, look- ing down on her fondly. He was afraid she should think he had lectured her ; imagining, as we are apt ADAM VISITS THE HALL FAKM. 337 to do, that she had perceived all the thoughts he had only half expressed. And the tiling he dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this evening's happiness. For the world he would not have spoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kind- ness towards him should have grown into unmistake- able love. In his imagination he saw long years of his future life stretching before him, blest with the right to caU Hetty his own : he could be con- tent with very little at present. So he took up the basket of currants once more, and they went on towards the house. The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in the garden. The yard was full of life now : Marty was letting the screaming geese through the gate, aud wickedly provoking the gan- der by hissing at him ; the granary-door was groan- ing on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing out the corn ; the horses were being led out to watering, amidst much barking of all the three dogs, and many " whups " from Tim the ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek, intelligent heads, and Hffced their shaggy feet so deliberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direction but the right. Every- body was come back from the meadow ; and when Hetty and Adam entered the house-place, Mr Pey- ser was seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the large arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the supper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs Poyser had laid the cloth herself — a cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and of an VOL. I. Y 338 ADAM BEDE. agreeable wHtey - brown hue, such as all sensible housewives like to see — none of your bleached " shop-rag " that would wear into holes in no time, but good homespun that would last for two gener- ations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine, might weU look tempting to hungry men who had dined at half-past twelve o'clock. On the large deal table against the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Aliok and his companions ; for the master and ser- vants ate their supper not far off each other ; which was aU the pleasanter, because if a remark about to-morrow morning's work occurred to Mr Poyser, Aliok was at hand to hear it. " WeU, Adam, I'm glad to see ye," said Mr Poy- ser. " What ! ye've been helping Hetty to gether the currans, eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it's pretty near a three-week since y' had yotu' supper with us ; and the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I'm glad ye're come." " Hetty," said Mrs Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currants to see if the fruit was fine, " run up-stairs, and send Molly down. She's putting Totty to bed, and I want her to draw th' ale, for Nancy's busy yet i' the dairy. You can see to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from you along wi' Tommy for, and stuff herself wi' fruit as she can't eat a bit o' good victual?" This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talking to Adam ; for Mrs Poyser was strict in adherence to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young girl was not to be ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 339 treated sharply in the presence of a respectable man who was courting her. That would not be fair-play : every woman was young in her turn, and had her chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women not to spoU — just as one market- woman who has sold her own eggs must not try to balk another of a customer. Hetty made haste to run away up-stairs, not easily finding an answer to her aunt's question, and Mrs Poyser went out to see after Marty and Tommy, and bring them into supper. Soon they were all seated — the two rosy lads, one on each side, by the pale mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far comer, eating cold broad beans out of a large dish with his pocket- knife, and finding a flavour in them which he would not have exchanged for the finest pine-apple. " What a time that gell is drawing th' ale, to be sure ! " said Mrs Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of stuffed chine. "I think she sets the jug under and forgets to turn the tap, as there's nothing you can't believe o' them wenches : they'll set the empty kettle o' the fire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils.'' " She's drawin' for the men too," said Mr Poyser. " Thee shouldst ha' told her to bring our jug up first." " Told her ? " said Mrs Poyser : " yes, I might spend all the wind i' my body, an' take the bellows too, if I was to tell them gells everything as their own sharpness wonna tell 'em. Mr Bede, will you take some vinegar with your lettuce ? Ay, you're i' 340 ADAM BEDE. the right not. It spoils the flavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor eating where the flavour o' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter, and trusten to the salt t' hide it." Mrs Peyser's attention was here diverted by the appearance of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs, and four drinking-cans, all full of ale or small beer — an interesting example of the prehensile power possessed by the human hand. Poor MoUy's mouth was rather wider open than usual, as she walked along with her eyes fixed on the double cluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expres- sion in her mistress's eye. "Molly, I niver knew your equils — to think o' your poor mother as is a widow, an' I took you wi' as good as no character, an' the times an' times I've told you "... MoUy had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook her nerves the more for the want of that pre- paration. With a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport herself differently, she hastened her step a little towards the far deal table, where she might set down her cans — caught her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell with a crash and a splash into a pool of beer ; whereupon a tittering explosion from Marty and Tommy, and a serious " EUo ! " from Mr Peyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred. " There you go ! " resumed Mrs Peyser, in a cut- tiag tone, as she rose and went towards the cup- board while MoUy began dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. "It's what I told you 'ud ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 341 come, over and over again ; and there's yonr montli's wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I've had i' the house this ten year, and nothing ever happened to't before ; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' house you've been 'ud make a parson swear — God forgi' me for saying so ; an' if it had been boil- ing wort out o' the copper, it 'ud ha' been the same, and you'd ha' been scalded, and very like lamed for life, as there's no knowing but what you will be some day if you go on ; for anybody 'ud think you'd got the St Vitus's Dance, to see the things you've throwed down. It's a pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it's neither seeing nor hearing as 'tdl make much odds to you — anybody 'ud think you war case-hardened." Poor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her desperation at the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick's legs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs Peyser, opening the cupboard, turned a blighting eye upon her. "Ah," she went on, "you'll do no good wi' cry- ing an' making more wet to wipe up. It's all your own wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobody no call to break anythiag if they'll only go the right way to work. But wooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle. And here must I take the brown- and-white jug, as it's niver been used three times this year, and go down i' the cellar myself, and be- like catch my death, and be laid up wi' inflamma- tion" . . . Mrs Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown -and -white jug in her hand, when 342 ADAM BEDE. ste caught sight of something at the other end of the kitchen ; perhaps it was because she was abeady trembHng and nervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on her ; perhaps jug-breaking, like other crimes, has a contagious influence. However it was, she stared and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious brown-and-white jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout and handle. " Did ever anybody see the like ? " she said, with a suddenly-lowered tone, after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. " The jugs are bewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles — they slip o'er the finger like a snail." "Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face," said her husband, who had now joined in the laugh of the young ones. " It's all very fine to look on and grin," rejoined Mrs Poyser ; " but there's times when the crockery seems alive, an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke will be broke, for I never dropped a thing f my life for want o' holding it, else I should never ha' kept the crockery aU these 'ears as I bought at my ovm wedding. And Hetty, are you mad? Whativer do you mean by coming down i* that way, and making one think as there's a ghost a- walking i' th' house ? " A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by her sudden con- version to a fatalistic view of jug-breaking, than by that strange appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The little minx had found a black govm ADAM VISITS THE HALL FAEM. 343 of her aunt's, and pinned it close round her neck to look like Dinah's, had made her hair as flat as she could, and had tied on one of Dinah's high-crowned borderless net-caps. The thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with it, made it a laugh- able surprise enough to see them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their hands, and even Alick gave a low ventral laugh as he looked up from his beans. Un- der cover of the noise, Mrs Poyser went into the back kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free from bewitchment. "Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?" said Mr Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoy- ment of a laugh which one only sees in stout people. " You must pull your face a deal longer before you'll do for one ; mustna she, Adam ? How come you to put them things on, eh ? " " Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes," said Hetty, sitting down demurely. " He says folks look better in ugly clothes." "Nay, nay," said Adam, looking at her admir- ingly; "I only said they seemed to suit Dinah. But if I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I should ha' said nothing but what was true.'' "Why, thee thought' st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took her seat again. " Thee look'dst as soared as scared." 344 ADAM BEDE. " It little sinnifies how I looked," said Mrs Poy- ser ; " loots 'ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see. Mr Bede, I'm sorry you've to wait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute. Make yourself at home wi' th' cold potatoes : I know you like 'em. Tommy, I'U. send you to bed this minute, if you don't give over laughing. What is there to laugh at, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o' that poor thing's cap ; and there's them as 'ud be better if they could make theirselves like her i' more ways nor putting on her cap. It little becomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' her just gone away from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her: an' I know one thing, as if trouble was to come, an' I was to be laid up i' my bed, an' the children was to die — as there's no knowing but what they wiU — an' the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everything went to rack an' ruin — I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah's cap again, wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's one o' them things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when you're most i' need on't." Mrs Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so lilcely to expel the comic as the terrible. Tommy, who was of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten so many cherries as to have his feelings less under command than usual, was so affected by the dread- ful picture she had made of the possible future, that he began to cry; and the good-natured father, in- ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 345 dulgent to all weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty — " Yon'd better take the things off again, my lass ; it hurts your aunt to see 'em." Hetty went up-stairs again, and the arrival of the ale made an agreeable diversion ; for Adam had to give his opinion of the new tap, which could not be otherwise than complimentary to Mrs Poyser ; and then followed a discussion on the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in " hopping," and the doubtful economy of a farmer's making his own malt. Mrs Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself with weight on these subjects, that by the time supper was ended, the ale -jug refilled, and Mr Poyser's pipe alight, she was once more in high good-humour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheel for his inspection. " Ah," said Adam, looking at it carefully, " here's a nice bit o' turning wanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in the village, and do it there, for I've no convenence for turning at home. If you'U send it to Mr Purge's shop i' the morning, I'll get it done for you by Wednesday. I've been turning it over in my mind," he continued, looking at Mr Poyser, " to make a bit more conven- ence at home for nice jobs o' cabinet-making. I've always done a deal at such little things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's more workmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little business for ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Kosseter as 'ull take as many things as we 346 ADAM BEDE. Btould make, besides what we could get orders for round about." Mr Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step towards Adam's becoming a " master-man ; " and Mrs Poyser gave her approba- tion to the scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which was to be capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and house-linen, in the utmost compactness, without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warm evening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could see her quite well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five o'clock in the morning. " I shall take a step farther,'' said Adam, " and go on to see Mester Massey, for he wasn't at church yesterday, and I've not seen him for a week past. I've never hardly known him to miss church before." "Ay," said Mr Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's the , boys' hoUodays now, so we can give you no account." "But you'U. niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night ? " said Mrs Poyser, folding up her knitting. " Oh, Mester Massey sits up late," said Adam. "An' the night-school's not over yet. Some o' the men don't come till late — they've got so far to walk. And Bartle himself's never in bed till it's gone eleven." ADAM VISITS THE HALL FARM. 347 " I woTildna have him to live wi' me, then," said Mrs Poyser, "a-dropping candle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor the first thing i' the morning." "Ay, eleven o'clock's late — it's late," said old Martin. " I ne'er sot up so i' my life, not to say as it wama a marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late." " Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, " but it isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs Poyser; good-night, Hetty." Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp with currant-juice ; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to them, and said, " Come again, come again ! " "Ay, think o' that now," said Mr Poyser, when Adam was out on the causeway. " Sitting up till past twelve to do extry work ! Ye'll not find many men o' six-an' -twenty as 'ull do to put f the shafts wi' him. If you can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart some day, ril be your warrant." Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ride in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now. 348 CHAPTEE XXI. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTEK. Baktle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of a common, which was divided by the road to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm ; and when he had his hand on the door-latch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads bending over the desks, lighted by thin dips. When he entered, a reading lesson was going for- ward, and Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take his place where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson to-night, and his mind was too fall of personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty's presence, for him to amuse himself with a book tiU school was over ; so he sat down in a comer, and looked on with an absent mind. It was a sort of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years ; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the framed specimen of Bartle Massey's handwriting which THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 349 hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way of keep- ing a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils ; he knew the backs of aU the books on the shelf running along the whitewashed wall above the pegs for the slates ; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out of the ear of Indian-corn that hung from one of the rafters ; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his imagination in trying to think how the bunch of leathery sea-weed had looked and grown in its native element ; and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of England that hung against the opposite wall, for age had turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a well-seasoned meerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not made him indiEferent to it, and even in his present self-absorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of the old feUow-feeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil with their cramped hands, or humbly labouring through their reading lesson. The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster's desk, consisted of the three most backward pupils. Adam would have known it, only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his spectacles which he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present purposes. The face wore its mildest expression : the grizzled bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionate kindness, and the mouth, habit- ually compressed with a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to speak a helpful word 350 ADAM BEDB. or syllable in a moment. This gehtle expression was the more interesting because the schoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquUiae twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and his brow, moreover, had that peculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen impatient temperament : the blue veins stood out like cords under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimi- dating brow was softened by no tendency to bald- ness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length, stood round it in as close ranks as ever. "Nay, Bill, nay," Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, " begin that again, and then perhaps, it'll come to you what d, r, y, speUs. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know." "BUI" was a sturdy fellow, aged four-and-twenty, an excellent stone-sawyer, who could get as good wages as any man in the trade of his years ; but he fotmd a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder matter to deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so "uncommon ahke, there was no teUin' 'em one from another," the sawyer's business not being concerned with minute differences such as exist be- tween a letter with its tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two reasons : first, that Tom Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything " right off," whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a THE NIGHT-SCHOOL ANB THE SCHOOLMASTER. 351 letter from twenty miles off, saying how lie was prospering in the world, and had got an overlooker's place ; secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty ; and what could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing that he could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big finger towards three words at once, and turning his head on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one word which was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey must possess was something so dim and vast that Bill's imagina- tion recoiled before it : he would hardly have ven- tured to deny that the schoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regular re- turn of daylight and the changes in the weather. The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type : he was a Methodist brickmaker, who, after spending thirty years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately " got religion," and along with it the desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out to-night he had offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the nourishment of his soul — that he might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish evil memories and the temptations of old habit ; or, in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been a notorious poacher, and was 352 ADAM BEDE. suspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that shortly after the accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacher at Tred- dleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker ; and though he was stiU known in the neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of " Brimstone," there was nothing he held in so much horror as any farther transactions with that evil-smelHng element. He was a broad-chested fellow, with a fervid temper- ament, which helped him better in imbibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the mere human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in his resolution by a brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear that Brimstone was too eager for the know- ledge that puffeth up. The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as Brimstone, with a very pale fece, and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping homespun wool and old women's petticoats, had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more about the strange secrets of colour. He had already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was bent on discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at Treddle- ston had given him a notion that he might save THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 353 himself a great deal of labour and expense if he could learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the night-school, resolving that his "little chap" should lose no time in coming to Mr Massey's day-school as soon as he was old enough. It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending over the worn books, and painfully making out, "The grass is green," "The sticks are dry," "The corn is ripe" — a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter. It was almost as if three rough animals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human. And it touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for such full-grown children as these were the only pupils for whom he had no severe epithets, and no im- patient tones. He was not gifted with an imper- turbable temper, and on music -nights it was ap- parent that patience could never be an easy virtue to him ; but this evening, as he glances over his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turn- ing his head on one side with, a desperate sense of blankness before the letters d, r, y, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging light. After the reading class, two youths, between six- teen and nineteen, came up with imaginary bills of parcels, which they had been writing out , on their slates, and were now required to calculate " off- hand " — a test which they stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them ominously through his spectacles VOL. I. Z 354 ADAM BEDE. for some minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, high-pitclied tone, pausing between every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between his legs. "Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did a fortnight ago; and I'U tell you what's the reason. You want to learn accounts ; that's well and good. But you think all you need do to learn accounts is to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or three times a-week ; and no sooner do you get your caps on and turn out of doors again, than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whistling about, and take no more care what you're thinking of than if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swiU through that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em, it's pretty soon washed out again. You think knowledge is to be got cheap — you'U come and pay Bartle Massey six- pence a-week, and he'U make you clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge isn't to be got with paying sixpence, let me teU you : if you're to know figures, you must turn 'em over in your heads, and keep your thoughts fixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there's nothing but what's got number in it — even a fool. You may say to yourselves, ' I'm one fool, and Jack's another ; if my fool's head weighed four pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my head be than Jack's ? ' A man that had got his heart in learning figures would make sums THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 355 for himself, aad work 'em in his head : when he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on his stitches, say half a far- thing, and then see how much money he could get in an hour ; and then ask himself how much money he'd get in a day at that rate ; and then how much ten workmen would get working three, or twenty, or a hundred years at that rate — and all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the short of it is — I'U have nobody in my night- school that doesn't strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get out of a dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away because he's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to learn anything, I'd not refuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on people who think they can get it by the sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with 'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to me again, if you can't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead of thinking you can pay for mine to work for you. That's the last word I've got to say to you.'' With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his knobbed stick, and the discomfited lads got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writing- books to show, in various stages of progress from pot-hooks to round text ; and mere pen-strokes, how- ever perverse, were less exasperating to Bartle than false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob Storey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had 356 ADAM BEDE. written a pagefiil, all with their tops turned the wrong way, with a puzzled sense that they were not right " somehow." But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never wanted hardly, and he thought it had only been put there " to finish off th' alphabet, like, though ampus-and (&) would ha' done as well, for what he could see." At last the pupils had aU taken their hats and said their "Good-nights," and Adam, knowing his old master's habits, rose and said, " Shall I put the candles out, Mr Massey ? " " Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house ; and just look the outer door, now you're near it,'' said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him in descending fi"om his stool. He was no sooner on the ground than it be- came obvious why the stick was necessary — the left leg was much shorter than the right. But the schoolmaster was so active with his lameness, that it was hardly thought of as a misfortune ; and if you had seen him make his way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his kitchen, you would perhaps have understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might be indefinitely quickened, and that he and his stick might overtake them even in their swiftest run. The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his hand, a iaint whimpering began in the chimney-corner, and a brown-and-tan-coloured bitch, of that wise-looking breed with short legs and long body, known to an unmeohanioal generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 357 her tail, and hesitating at every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the ham- per in the chimney-corner and the master, whom she could not leave without a greeting. " Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies ? '' said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the chimney-corner, and holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up their heads towards the light, from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her toaster look at them without painful excitement : she got into the hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved with true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a large old-fashioned head and body on the most abbreviated legs. " Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr Massey ? " said Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. "How's that? I thought it was against the law here.'' " Law ? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let a woman into his house ? " said Bartle, turning away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have lost all consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. " If I'd known Vixen was a woman, I'd never have held the boys from drowning her ; but when I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now you see what she's brought me to — ^the sly, hypocritical wench " — Bartle spoke these last words in a rasping tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked down her 358 ADAM BEDE. head and turned up her eyes towards him with a keen sense of opprobrium — "and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday at church-time. IVe wished again and again I'd been a bloody-minded man, that I could have strangled the mother and the brats with one cord." " I'm glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church," said Adam. " I was afraid you must be iU for the first time i' your life. And I was particular sorry not to have you at church yesterday." "Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why," said Bartle, kindly, going up to Adam, and raising his hand up to the shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. "You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since I saw you — a rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better times coming for you. I've got some news to tell you. But I must get my supper first, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down." Bartle went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent home -baked loaf; for it was his one. extravagance in these dear times to eat bread once a-day instead of oat-cake ; and he justified it by ob- serving, that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oat-oake ran too much to bone instead of brains. Then came a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table which stood against his large arm- chair in the chimney-corner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it, and a window-shelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean as if Vixen had been an excellent housewife in a THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 359 checkered apron ; so was the quarry floor ; and the old carved oaken press, table, and chairs, which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristo- cratic houses, though, in that period of spider-legs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them for an old song, were as free from dust as thkigs could be at the end of a summer's day. " Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business till we've had our supper. No man can be wise on an empty stomach. But,'' said Bartle, rising from his chair again, " I must give Vixen her supper too, confound her ! though she'll do nothing with it but nourish those unneces- sary babbies. That's the way with these women, they've got no head-pieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or to brats." He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her hamper to Uck up with the utmost de- spatch. " I've had my supper, Mr Massey," said Adam, " so I'll look on while you eat yours. I've been at the Hall Farm, and they always have their supper be- times, you know : they don't keep your late hours." " I know little about their hours," said Bartle, dryly, cutting his bread and not shrinking from the crust. " It's a house I seldom go into, though I'm fond of the boys, and Martin Peyser's a good fellow. There's too many women in the house for me : I hate the sound of women's voices ; they're always either a-buzz or a-squeak — always either a-buzz or a-squeak. Mrs Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife ; and 360 ADAM BEDE. as for the young lasses, I'd as soon look at water- grubs — I know what they'U turn to — stinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take some ale, my boy : it's been drawn for you — it's been drawn for you." " Nay, Mr Massey," said Adam, who took his old friend's whim more seriously than usual to-night, " don't be so hard on the oreaturs God has made to be companions for us. A working man 'ud be badly off without a wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable." " Nonsense ! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed, to say a woman makes a house comfortable. It's a story got up, because the women are there, and something must be found for 'em to do. I tell you there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman, unless it's bearing children, and they do that in a poor make-shift way ; it had better ha' been left to the men — it had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a woman 'ull bake you a pie every week of her life, and never come to see that the hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull make your porridge every day for twenty years, and never think of measuring the pro- portion between the meal and the milk — a little more or less, she'U think, doesn't signify : the porridge will be awk'ard now and then : if it's wrong, it's summat in the meal, or it's summat in the milk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me ! I make my own bread, and there's no difference between one batch and an- other from year's end to year's end ; but if I'd got any other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 361 pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanli- ness, my house is cleaner than any other house on the Common, though the half of 'em swarm with women. WiU Baker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as much cleaning done in one hour without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three, and all the while be sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and let the fender and the fire- irons stand in the middle o' the floor half the day, for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't teU me about God having made such creatures to be com- panions for us ! I don't say but He might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in Paradise — there was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make mischief; though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd an opportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural opinion to say a woman's a blessing to a man now ; you might as well say adders and wasps, and foxes and wild beasts, are a blessing, when they're only the evils that belong to this state o' probation, which it's law- ful for a man to keep as clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another — hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in another." Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective that he had forgotten his supper, and only used the knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, the raps became so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the hamper and bark vaguely. 362 ADAM BEDE. "Quiet, Vixen!" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. " You're like the rest o' the women — always putting in your word before you know why." Vixen returned to her hamper again in humilia- tion, and her master continued his supper in a silence which Adam did not choose to interrupt ; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had had his supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never learned so much of Bartle's past life as to know whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that point Bartle was mute ; and it was even a secret where he had lived previous to the twenty years in which, happily for the peasants and artisans of this neighbourhood, he had been settled among them as their only schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replied, " Oh, I've seen many places — I've been a deal in the south " — and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of asking for a particu- lar town or village in Africa as in " the south.'' "Now then, my boy," said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug of ale and Ughted his pipe — " now then, we'U have a Httle talk. But teU me ficrst, have you heard any particular news to-day?" " No," said Adam, " not as I remember.'' "Ah, they'll keep it close, they'U keep it close, I daresay. But I found it out by chance ; and it's news that may concern you, Adam, else I'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid." THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTEK. 363 Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impa- tient loquacious man has never any notion of keep- ing his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs ; he is always letting it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he said — " Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I found it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock this morning. He's a good way beyond sixty, you know ; it's much if he gets over it." "Well," said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He's been a selfish, tale-bearing, mischievous fellow ; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so much harm to as to th' old Squire. Though it's the Squire himself as is to blame — making a stupid fellow Hke that a sort o' man-of-all-work, just to save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate. And he's lost more by iU- management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than 'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's to be hoped he'U make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make any difference to me." " But I see it, but I see it," said Bartle ; " and others besides me. The Captain's coming of age now — you know that as well as I do — and it's to "be expected he'U have a little more voice in things. And I know, and you know too, what 'ud be the Captain's wish about the woods, if there was a fan- opportunity for making a change. He's said in plenty of people's hearing that he'd make you man- ager of the woods to-morrow, if he'd the power. S64 ADAM BEDE. Why, Carroll, Mr Irwine's butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll looked in when we were smoking our pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it ; and whenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to back it, that I'll answer for. It was pretty well talked over, I can tell you, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you ; for if donkeys set to work to sing, you're pretty sure what the tune 'U be." "Why, did they talk it over before Mr Burge?"' said Adam ; " or wasn't he there o' Saturday ? " " Oh, he went away before CarroU came ; and Cas- Bon — he's always for setting other folks right, you know — would have it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. ' A substantial man,' says he, ' with pretty near sixty years' experience o' timber : it 'ud be all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, but it isn't to be supposed the Squire 'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders and betters at hand ! ' But I said, ' That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to luy timber ; would you put the woods into his hands, and let Hm make his own bargains ? I think you don't leave your customers to score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that's worth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's pretty well known who's the backbone of Jonathan Burge's business.' " "I thank you for your good word, Mr Massey,'' said Adam. "But, for all that, Casson was partly i' the right for once. There's not much likelihood THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 365 that th' old Squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me : I offended him about two years ago, and he's never forgiven me." "Why, how was that? You never told me about it," saidBartle. " Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen for Miss Lyddy — she's allays making something with her worsted-work, you know — and she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and there was as much talking ,and measuring as if we'd been planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked doing it for her. But, you know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I only worked at it in over-hours — often late at night — and I had to go to Treddleston over an' over again, about little bits o' brass nails and such gear ; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th' open work, after a pattern, as nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home. Miss Lyddy sent for me to bring it into her drawing-room, so as she might give me directions about fastening on the work — very fine needlework, Jacob and Eachel a-kissing one another among the sheep, like a pictiire — and th' old Squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was mighty pleased with the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn't speak at random — you know it's not my way ; I'd calculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a biU, and I said. One pound thirteen. That was paying for the mater' als and paying me, but none too much, for my work. 366 ADAM BEDB. Th' old Squire looted up at this, and peered in Ms way at the screen, and said, ' One pound thirteen for a gimoraok like that ! Lydia, my dear, if you must spend money on these things, why don't you get them at Kosseter, instead of paying double price for clumsy work here ? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.' Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she's not over-fond o' parting with the money herself — she's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought up under his thumb ; so she began fidgeting with her purse, and turned as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, ' No, thank you, madam ; I'U. make you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've charged the regular price for my work, and I know it's done well ; and I know, beg- ging his honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen at Eosseter under two guineas. I'm willing to give you my work — it's been done in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do with it but me ; but if I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price than I asked, because that 'ud be like saying, I'd asked more than was just. With your leave, madam, I'll bid you good-morning.' I made my bow and went out before she'd time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. I didn't mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I could ; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it out as I'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the one pound thirteen wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen pretty clear as th' old Squire can't abide me." THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 367 " That's likely enoTigh, that's likely enough," said Bartle, meditatively. " The only way to bring him round would be to show him what was for his own interest, and that the Captain may do — that the Cap- tain may do." " Nay, I don't know," said Adam ; " the Squire's 'cute enough, but it takes something else besides 'cuteness to make folks see what'll be their interest iu the long-run. It takes some conscience and belief in right and wrong, I see that pretty clear. You'd hardly ever bring round th' old Squire to believe he'd gain as much in a straightfor'ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him : I don't want to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree long. If the Captain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be dififerent : he's got a conscience and a will to do right, and I'd sooner work for him nor for any man living." " Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you put your head out at window and teU it to be gone about its business, that's aU. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad shilling, before you knew whether he was in jest or earnest — you're over-hasty and proud, and apt to set your teeth against folks that don't square to your notions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and stiff- backed : I'm an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. But where's the use of all the time 368 ADAM BEDE. I've spent in teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in the world, and show folks there's some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip? Do you mean to go on turning up your nose at every opportunity, because it's got a bit of a smell about it that nobody finds out but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wife is to make a work- ing man comfortable. Stuff and nonsense ! — stuff and nonsense ! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in simple addition. Simple addition enough ! Add one fool to another fool, and in six years' time six fools more — they're all of the same denomination, big and little's nothing to do with the sum ! " During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the climax to his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing his eye stiU on Adam, who was trying not to laugh. " There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr Massey," Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, " as there always is. But you'll give in that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that may never happen. What I've got to do is to work as weU as I can with the tools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a good chance comes to me, I'll think o' what you've been saying ; but tiLL then, I've got nothing to do but to trust to my own hands and my own head-piece. I'm turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the cabinet-making a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in THE NIGHT-SCHOOL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER. 369 that way. But it's getting late now — it'll be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and mother may happen to lie awake ; she's more fidgety nor usual now. So I'll bid you good-night." " Well, weU, we'll go to the gate with you — it's a fine night," said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at once on her legs, and without further words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of Bartle's potato-beds, to the little gate. " Come to the musio o' Friday night, if you can, my boy," said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam, and leaned against it. " Ay, ay," said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was the only object moving on the wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone images — as still as the grey-thatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the moving figure tUl it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affec- tion, had twice run back to the house to bestow a parenthetic lick on her puppies. "Ay, ay," muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared; "there you go, stalking along — stalk- ing along; but you wouldn't have been what you are if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest calf must have something to suck at. There's plenty of these big, lumbering fellows 'ud never have known their a b c, if it hadn't been for Bartle Massey. Well, well. Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it ? I must go in, must I? Ay, ay, I'm never to have a will o' my VOL. I. % A 370 ADAM BEDE. own any more. And those pups, what do you think I'm to do with 'em, when they're twice as big as you ? — for I'm pretty sure the father was that hulk- ing huU-terrier of Will Baker's — wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussey ? " (Here Vixen tucked her tail be- tween her legs, and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female will ignore.) " But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies ? " continued Bartle : " she's got no con- science — no conscience : it's all run to milk." BOOK III. CHAPTEE XXII. GOING TO THE BIKTHDAY FEAST. The thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was perfect for that time of the year : there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge- rows, and on the wild camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roU on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor July merrymaking, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just then — all the loveliest flowers are gone ; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past ; and yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green ; the waggon-loads of hay no longer creep 374 ADAM BEDE. along the lanes, scattering their sweet-smeUing frag- ments on the blackberry branches ; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the com has not got its last splendour of red and gold ; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their innocent frisky pretti- ness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm — that pause between hay and corn harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the Captain did weU to come of age just then, when they could give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed the autumn after " the heir " was bom, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the ringing of church- bells very early this morning, and every one had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase. The mid-day sun was streaming into Hetty's bed- chamber, and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at her- self in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next room — the room that had been Dinah's — would show her nothing below her little chin, and that beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into another round- ness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she thought more than usual about her neck and arms ; for at the dance this evening she was not to GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 375 wear any" neckerchief, and she had been busy yester- day with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of " real " lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments besides ; she had even taken out her small round earrings which she wore every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in the day- time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that these are thrust into the cor- ner. Hetty would not care to put the large coloured glass earrings into her ears now ; for see ! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the earrings ! Do not reason about it, my philosophical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments or not ; and that, moreover, to look at earrings which she coidd not possibly wear out of her bed-room could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others ; you will never understand women's natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were 376 ADAM BEDE. study ing the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an uncon- scious smile at the earrings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were put into her hands. No ; else why should she have cared to have earrings rather than anything else? and I know that she had longed for earrings from among all the ornaments she could imagine. " Little, little ears ! " Arthur had said, pretending to piach them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. "I wish I had some pretty earrings ! " she said in a moment, almost be- fore she knew what she was saying — the wish lay so close to her lips, it would flutter past them at the slightest breath. And the next day — it was only last week — Arthur had ridden over to Eosseter on purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively uttered, seemed to him the prettiest bit of childish- ness ; he had never heard anything like it before ; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his. No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the earrings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them ia her ears, — only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 377 the Head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of earrings as one looks at her ; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears ? One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out ; perhaps water- nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be one of them : it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman's destiny before her — a woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human anguish. But she cannot keep in the earrings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again, and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any earrings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's-maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe : she feels the bracelets on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock ; and she must put on her brown berries — her neck would look so unfinished 378 ADAM BEDE. without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of the earrings, though it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautifal gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery ; and that other pas- sion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new — everybody would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon — and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton stockings : they really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in the present : to be sure, Captain Donnithome loved her so, that he would never care about looking at other people, but GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 379 then those other people didn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes even for a short space. The whole party was assembled in the honse-place when Hetty went down, aH of course in their Sun- day clothes ; and the bells had been ringing so this morniag in honour of the Captain's twenty -first birthday, and the work had aU been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the day's fes- tivities. Mr Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up, and left to take care of itself; "for," said he, "there's no danger of any- body's breaking in — everybody '11 be at the Chase, thieves an' alL If we lock th' house up, aU the men can go : it's a day they wonna see twice i' their Kves." But Mrs Poyser answered with great deci- sion : " I never left the house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an' every spoon we'n got ; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when we'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the tramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens ; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be sure he'U find the means." " Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,'' said Mr Poyser ; " I've got a gun i' our room, hanna I ? 380 ADAM BEDE. and tliee'st got ears as 'iid find it out if a mouse was gnawing tlie bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog, too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink." Mrs Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost ; and now, at the last moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy- maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a burg- larious attempt. The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole famUy except the men- servants : Mr Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and children ; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day ; and there was time to exchange greet- ings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright colour — a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 381 among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with ends flaunting across a bran-new white smock-frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour of "th' heir ; " and the old men and women, who had never been so far down this side of the hiU for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr Irwine's suggestion. The church-beUs had struck up again now — a last tune, before the ringers came down the hiU to have their share in the festival ; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr Peyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Glub, which had mustered in all its glory ; that is to say, in bright -blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, " Let brotherly love continue," encircling a pic- ture of a stone-pit. The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back. " Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs Poyser, as she got down ii-om the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. " I should ha' thought there wasna so many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on us ! how hot it is out o' the shade ! Come here, Totty, else your little 382 ADAM BEDE. face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin' ! They might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs Best's room an' sit down." " Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr Poyser. " There's th' waggin coming wi' th' old folks in't ; it'U 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 ? " " Ay, ay," said old Martin, walking slowly imder the shade of the lodge porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton." He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Peyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two sticks. "WeU, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice, — for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting, — " you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen to-day, for -all you're ninety an' better." "Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Fey- ther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company. The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the least- winding carriage-road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them ; while the Poy- ser party wisely struck across the grass under the GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 383 shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger mar- quees on each side of the open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which it was imited at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at the end of older and lower farm-ofSces. The fine old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were aU down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot mid -day: it made Hetty quite sad to look at it : Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long while — not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a speech. But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the Eector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm- servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode — his arm no longer in a sling. So 384 ADAM BEDE. open-looking and candid, too ; but candid people have tlieir secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces. "Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, " I think the cottagers have the best of it : these cloisters make a delightful dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners — to let them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the ten- ants : especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte hlanche, he couldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point." "Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said Mr Irwine. " In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked to come ; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and dayhght." '' Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston people away, by having a feast for them in the town ; and I've got Casson and Adam Bede, and some other good fellows, to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 385 care things don't go too far. Come, let us go up above now, and see tlie dinner-tables for the large tenants." They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where aU the dusty worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three generations — mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius Csesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, hold- ing his Commentaries in his hand. "What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old abbey I " said Arthur. " K I'm ever master here, I shall do up the gallery in first-rate style : we've got no room in the house a third as large as this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children : Mrs Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a regular family thing of it. I shall be "the old squire" to those little lads and lasses some day, and they'll teU their children what a much finer young feUow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women and children below as well. But you wiU see them aU — you wiU come up with me after dinner, I hope ? " " Yes, to be sure," said Mr Irwine. " I wouldn't miss your maiden speech to the tenantry." " And there wiU be something else you'U like to hear," said Arthur. " Let us go into the Ubrary and m tell you all about it while my grandfather is in VOL. I. 2 B 386 ADAM BEDE. the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will surprise you," he continued, as they sat down. " My grandfather has come round after aU." "What, about Adam?" " Yes ; I should have ridden over to teU you about it, only I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with him — I thought it was hopeless ; but yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence of old SatcheH being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to employ Adam in superiatending 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 ffom the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some particular dislike of Adam to get over — and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There's the most curious contradiction in my grandfather : I know he means to leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more ; and yet I sometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I beUeve if I were to break my neck, he woijld feel it the greatest misfortune that could befaU him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series of petty annoyances.'' " Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is dircjocoTos epios, as old ^schylus calls it. There's GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY FEAST. 387 plenty of 'unloving love' in the world of a mas- culine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted the post ? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his present wort, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time on his own hands." " Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him, and he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was, that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the employment, and would not be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all things ; — it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished to do — to give up working for Biu'ge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business of his own, which he and Seth wiU carry on, and wiU perhaps be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day ; and I mean to announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my firiend Adam. He's a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think so." " A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part to play," said Mr Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, " My part, you know, is always that 388 ADAM BEDE. of the old Fogy who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit that I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a respectable man as steward?" " Oh no," said Arthiu-, rising from his chair with an air of impatience, and walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. " He's got some project or other about letting the Chase Farm, and bargaining for a supply of mUk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about it — it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do aU the business himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what energy he has, though." "Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr Irwine, rising too. "I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her under the marquee.'' "Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. " It must be two o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants' dinners." 389 CHAPTEE XXIII. DINNER-TIME. When Adam heard that he was to dine up -stairs with the large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to dine in. the cloisters below. But Mr Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had g^iven particular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not there. Adam nodded, and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off. " Seth, lad," he said, " the Captain has sent to say I'm to dine up-stairs — he wishes it particular, Mr Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud be behaving ill for me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee't not take it unkind, I hope ? " "Nay, nay, lad," said Seth, "thy honour's our honour ; and if thee get'st respect, thee'st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel'st like a brother to me. It's because o' thy being appointed over the 390 ADAM BEDE. woods, and it's nothing but what's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a common workman now." "Ay," said Adam, "but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given notice to Mr Burge about leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybody else about it before he knows, for he'U. be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People 'uU be wondering to see me there, and they'll like enough be guessing the reason, and asking questions, for there's been so much talk up and down about my having the place, this last three weeks." " Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the reason. That's the truth. And mother 'ull be iine and joyful about it. Let's go and tell her." Adam was not the only guest invited to come up-stairs on other grounds than the amount he con- tributed to the rent-roll. There were other people in the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend ; for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that, for he disliked any risk of being "joked " about Hetty ; — the big, outspoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making. DINNEB-TIME. 391 "Well, Mester Massey," said Adam, as Bartle came up, " I'm going to dine up-stairs with, you to-day : the Captain's sent me orders." " Ah ! " said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. " Then there's something in the wind — there's something in the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old Squire means to do ? " "Why, yes," said Adam; "TH teU you what I know, because I believe you can keep a still tongue in your head if you like , and I hope you'll not let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasons against its being known." " Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in everybody's hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelor — let him be a bachelor." " Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday, that I'm to take the management o' the woods. The Captain sent for me t' offer it me, when I was see- ing to the poles and things here, and I've agreed to't. But if anybody asks any questions up-stairs, just you take no notice, and turn the talk to some- thing else, and I'll be obliged to you. Now, let us go on, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think." " I know what to do, never fear," said Bartle, moving on. " The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Ay, ay, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back you for an eye at measuring, and a head-piece for figures, against any man in this county ; and you've had good teaching — ^you've had good teaching." When they got up - stairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as to who was to be 392 ADAM BEDE. president, and who vice, was still under discussion, so that Adam's entrance passed without remark. " It stands to sense," Mr Casson was saying, " as old Mr Poyser, as is th' oldest man i' the room, should sit at top o' the table. I wasn't butler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about dinner.'' " Nay, nay," said old Martin, " I'n gi'en up to my son ; I'm no tenant now : let my son take my place. Th' ould foulks ha' had their turn : they mun make way for the young uns." " I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor th' oldest," said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr Poyser ; " there's Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th' estate." "Well," said Mr Poyser, "suppose we say the man wi' the foulest land shall sit at top ; then who- ever gets th' honour, there'U be no envying on him." " Eh, here's Mester Massey," said Mr Craig, who, being a neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in conciliation ; " the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr Massey ? " " Why, the broadest man," said Bartle ; " and then he won't take up other folks' room ; and the next broadest must sit at bottom." This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter — a smaller joke would have sufficed for that. Mr Casson, however, did not feel it com- patible with his dignity and superior knowledge DINNEE-TIME. 393 to join in the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin Poy- ser the younger, as the broadest, was to be presi- dent, and Mr Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice. Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the table, feU under the immediate observation of Mr Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed his entrance. Mr Casson, we have seen, considered Adam " rather lifted up and peppery- like : " he thought the gentry made more fuss about this young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr Casson, although he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years. "Well, Mr Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace," he said, when Adam sat down. "You've niver dined here before, as I remember.'' " No, Mr Casson," said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard along the table ; " I've never dined here before, but I come by Captain Donni- thome's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here.'' "Nay, nay," said several voices at once, "we're glad ye're come. Who's got anything to say again' it?" " And ye'U sing us ' Over the hiUs and far away,' after dinner, wonna ye ? " said Mr Chowne. " Thai's a song I'm uncommon fond on." " Peeh ' " said Mr Craig ; " it's not to be named by side o the Scotch tunes. I've never cared about singing myself ; I've had something better to do. A 394 ADAM BBDE. man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o' mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He'd got nothing else to think on." " The Scotch tunes ! " said Bartle Massey, con temptuously ; " I've heard enough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit for noth- ing but to frighten the birds with — that's to say, the English birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipes instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the com '11 be safe." "Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in nnder- vallying what they know but little about," said Mr Craig. " Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman," Bartle went on, without deigning to notice Mr Craig's remark. "They go on with the same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end. Anybody 'nd think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of some- body as deaf as old Taffc, and had never got an answer yet." Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr Casson, because this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table. Hetty, how- ever, had not even noticed his presence yet, fot she was giving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty marks on Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat legs pushed down than up they came again. DINNEU-TIME. 395 for Totty's eyes were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the pltun-ptidding was, for her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she said — " Oh dear, aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty ; she keeps putting her legs up so, and messing my frock." " What's the matter wi' the child ? She can niver please you," said the mother. " Let her come by the side o' me, then : / can put up wi' her." Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross, and that Adam's eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings, but she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adam should know it. And it was quite true, that if Hetty had been plain she would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one's moral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But really there was something quite charming in her pettishness : it looked so much more like innocent distress than ill-humour ; and the severe Adam felt no movement of disappro- bation ; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a Httle bird with its feathers ruffled. He could not gather what 396 ADAM BEDE. was vexing her, but it was impossible to Mm to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that if he cotdd have his way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caught his eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation : she knew Mary Burge was looking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam. 397 CHAPTEE XXIV. THE HEALTH -DRINKING. When tlie dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr Poyser at the side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had been settled very definitely what Mr Poyser was to do when the young Squire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite, and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his breeches-pockets. When the young Squire entered, with Mr Irwine by his side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great deal for the goodwill of these people : he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in his face as he said — " My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale 398 ADAM BEDE. good. Mr Irwine and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like anything the better that the Eector shares with ns." All eyes were now turned on Mr Poyser, who, with his hands still busy in his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock. "Cap- tain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, for where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score. And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many things — one man lays down his land one way, an' another another — an' I'll not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own — this I'll say, as we're all o' one mind about our young Squire. We've pretty nigh all on us known you when you war a little nn, an' we've niver known anything on you but what was good an' honorable. Tou speak fair an' y' act fair, an' we're joyful when we look foirard to your being our landlord, for we b'Heve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ull make no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I mean, an' that's what we aU mean ; and when a man's said what he means, he'd better stop, for th' ale 'uU be none the better for stannin'. An' I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till we'd drunk your health in it ; but the dinner was good, an' if there's anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fatdt of his own inside. An' as for the Kector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the parish wherever he may be ; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live to see us old folks, an' THE HEALTH-DKINKING. 399 otir children grown to men an' women, an' your honour a family man. I've no more to say as oon- cems the present time, an' so we'U drink our young Squire's health — three times three." Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jing- ling, a clattering, and a shouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur had felt a twinge of conscience during Mr Poyser's speech, but it was too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not de- serve what was said of him on the whole ? If there was something in his conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why, no man's con- duct wUl bear too close an inspection ; and Poyser was not likely to know it ; and, after all, what had he done ? Grone a little too far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have acted much worse ; and no harm would come — no harm should come, for the next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must not think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself: uncomfortable thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can be formed so rapidly, that he had time to be uncom- fortable and to become easy again before Mr Poy- ser's slow speech was finished, and when it was time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted. "I thank you aU, my good Mends and neigh- bours," Arthur said, "for the good opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr Poyser 400 ADAM BEDE. has been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be my heaviest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord ; indeed it is on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me to celebrate this day and to come among you now ; and I look forward to this position, not merely as one of power and plea- sure for myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man as I am, to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much older, and are men of experi- ence ; still, I have interested myself a good deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities have allowed ; and when the course of events shall place the estate in my hands, it will be my first desire to afford my ten- ants all the encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land, and trying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on by aU. my deserving tenants as their best Mend, and nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place at present to enter into particulars ; I only meet your good hopes concerning me by telling you that my ovm hopes correspond to them — that what you expect from me I desire to fulfil ; and I am quite of Mr Peyser's opiaion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better stop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would not be perfect if we did not drink the THE HEALTH-DEINKING. 401 health of my grandfather, who has filled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you have joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to appear among you as the future representative of his name and famUy." Perhaps there was no one present except Mr Irwine • who thoroughly understood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing his grand- father's health. The farmers thought the young Squire knew weU enough that they hated the old Squire, and Mrs Poyser said, "he'd better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth." The bucolic mind does not readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could not be rejected, and when it had been drunk, Arthur said — " I thank you, both for my grandfather and my- self; and now there is one more thing I wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you wUl. I think there can be no man here who has not a respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my friend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood that there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his ; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that I was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling for him — I think that shows that I know a good fellow when I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very VOL. I. 2 C 402 ADAM BEDE. valuable ; not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has the knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settled that Adam shall manage the woods — a change which I am sure will be very much for the advantage of the estate ; and. I hope you wiU by-and-by join me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam Bede present, and I need not teU you that it is Mr Irwine. I'm sure you will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health imtil we have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of his parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and let us drink to our excellent Eeotor — ^three times three ! " This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the last, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when Mr Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned towards him. The superior re- finement of his face was much more striking than that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people round them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste in costume than Mr Irwine's powder, and the well- brushed but well-worn black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions ; for he had the mysterious secret of never wearing a newlooking coat. THE HEALTH-DEINKING. 403 " This is not the first time, by a great many," he said, "that I have had to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but neighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious the older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that when what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here, as w^ll as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as pleasantly at me when I christened them, as I am happy to see them looking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say, that among all those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my friend Mr Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot have oc- curred to any one else who is present ; and I have some pride as weU. as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning him, and youi- confidence in his possession of those qualities which will make him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take that important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young man of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which I share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit 404 ADAM BEDE. the opportunity of saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Beds. People in a high station are of course more thought of and talked about, and have their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in humble everyday work ; but every sensible man knows how necessary that humble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be done well. And I agree with my friend Mr Arthiir Donnithorne in feeling that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character which would make him an example in any station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well — I know what he is as a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother — and I am saying the simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respect any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger ; some of you are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who does not know enough of him to join heartUy in drinking his health." As Mr Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up, and, filling his glass, said, "A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever as himself ! " No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as Mr Poyser : " tough work '' as his first speech had been, he would have started up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity of such a course. As it was, he found THE HEALTH-DKINKING. 405 an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently unan- imous. Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tribute — very naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack of words ; he looked neither awkward nor em- barrassed, but stood in his usual &m upright atti- tude, with his head thrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built work- men, who are never wondering what is their business in the world. " I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. " I didn't expect anything o' this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the more reason to be grate- ful to you. Captain, and to you, Mr Irwine, and to all my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me weU. It 'ud be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion you have of me ; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me all these years, and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o' the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll do it well, be my pay big or little — and that's true. I'd 4.06 ADAM BEDE. be asliamed to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me, that's a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty clear to me as I've never done more than my duty ; for let us do what we will, it's only making use o' the sper- rit and the powers that ha' been given to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe me, but a free gifb, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I've taken in hand, I'U only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his ex- pectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his int'rests. For I believe he's one o' those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which it's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel towards him : I hope to show it through the rest o' my life in my actions." There were various opinions about Adam's speech : some of the women whispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be ; but most of the men were of opinion that nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the old Squire meant to do for a bailiff, and whether he was going THE IIEALTH-DEINKING. 407 to have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert — sparkling goose- berry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the mothers. Mrs Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there. " How do you do, Mrs Poyser ? " said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hear your husband make such a good speech to-day?" "Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied — you're forced partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs." " What ! you think you could have made it better for him ? " said Mr Irwine, laughing. "Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he's a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to." " I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said, looking round at the apple-cheeked chil- dren. " My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table." He walked on, speaking to the mothers and pat- ting the children, while Mr Irwine satisfied himself with standing still, and nodding at a distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young Squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did 408 ADAM BEDE. not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent ; for what woman was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love ? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable day she had had for a long while ; a mo- ment of chill daylight and reality came across her dream : Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession is separated from a small outsider in the crowd. 409 CHAPTEE XX;V. THE GAMES. The great dance was not to begin until eight o'dock ; but for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was music always at hand ; for was not the band of the Benefit Club cap- able of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes ? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from Eosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument. Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in firont of the house, the games began. There were of course well-soaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of chal- lenges to such ambitious attempts as that of walking 410 ADAM BEDE. as many yards as possible on one leg — feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race — that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of everybody encourag- ing everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest donkey winning. And soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs Ir- wine, in her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for stateliness. Old Mr Donni- thorne, the delicately-clean, iinely-soented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of punc- tilious, acid politeness; Mr Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach- blossom silk ; and Mr Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides Mr Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants. There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the THE GAMES. 411 open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence. " Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with its dark-green background ; " and it's the last fete-day I'm likely to see, imless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her.'' "You're so terribly fastidious, godmother," said Arthur, " I'm afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice." " Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly ; that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face ? There, standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side of him — his mother, of course. I like to see that." "What, don't you know him, mother?" said Mr Irwine. " That is Seth Bede, Adam's brother — a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late ; 1 thought it was because of his father's dying in that sad way , but Joshua Eann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him." "Ah, I remember hearing about her: but there are no end of people here that I don't know, for 412 ADAM BEDE. they're grown Tip and altered so since I used to go about." " What excellent sight yon have ! " said old Mr Donnithorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes, " to see the expression of that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can read small print without spectacles.'' "Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be blind to every- thing that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a man who stands in a well, and sees nothing but the stars." "See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?" " The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, and then the little wiry one may win." " There are the Poysers, mother, not far off on the right hand," said Miss Irwine. "Mrs Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her.'' "To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to be neglected. Bless me ! what a fat child that is she is holding on her knee ! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?" THE GAMES. 413 " That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donni- thorne, " Martin Peyser's niece — a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very respectably indeed — very respectably." "Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, mother ; you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine. " No, I've never seen her, child ; at least not as she is now," said Mrs Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. " Well-looking, indeed ! She's a perfect beauty ! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune ! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair.'' Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without looking ; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty praised — for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climate to Arthur's feelings : it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes ! she was enough to turn any man's head : any man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride. 414 ADAM BEDE. "No, mother," said Mr Irwine, replying to her last words ; " I can't agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeliag, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman, and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels it." "Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you Imow about it?" " Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than married men, because they have time for more general contemplation. Your fine critic of women must never shackle his judg- ment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now, told me that she had preached to the roughest miners, and had never been treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is — though she doesn't know it — that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman as that brings with her ' airs from heaven ' that the coarsest fellow is not insensible to." " Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girl- hood, coming to receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr Gawaine. " She must be one of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we came." The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaint- ance Bessy Cranage, otherwise Chad's Bess, whose THE GAMES. 415 large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had hap- pened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her earrings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could have looked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. But then, you see, they were so very different outside ! You would have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty. Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere hoidenish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling in her round eyes. " Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia, taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid, and giving it to Mrs Irwine before Bessy came up; "an excellent grog- ram gown and a piece of flannel." " You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, aunt ? " said Arthur. " Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save that grim- looking gown for one of the older women?" " I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own 416 ADAM BEDE. lace; "I should not think of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins." This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped a series of curtsies. " This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr Irwine, kindly, " Chad Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?" "Yes, to be sure," said Mrs Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your prize — excellent warm things ' for winter. I'm sure you have had hard work to win them this warm day." Bessy's lip feU as she saw the ugly, heavy gown, — which felt so hot and disagreeable, too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the comers of her mouth, and then turned away. " Poor girl," said Arthur ; " I think she's disap- pointed. I wish it had been something more to her taste." " She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at all one I should like to encourage." Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money before the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind ; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of the open space, where she was THE GAMES. 417 visible from the marqtiee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry — very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her husband's charge. " What's the matter wi' ye ? " said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad — ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess ; I ne'er said that on ye." " Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself. " WeU, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said the disinterested cousin, walking quick- ly away with the bundle, lest Chad's Bess should change her mind. But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits that secured her from any rank- ling grief; and by the time tho grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was en- tirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, VOL. I. 2D 418 ADAM BEDS. well considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence ; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of BiU Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the midst of its triumph. Arthur himseK had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made happy with a splendid pocket- knife, supplied with blades and gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be imderstood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous performance — namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless borrowed ; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing — an accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake — had needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale, to con- vince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his performance of the hornpipe ; and he had been decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Eann, who observed that it was nothing but right to do something to please the young Squire, in return for what he had done for them. You wiU THE GAMES. 419 be the less surprised at this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had requested Mr Kann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not make a fool of himself — a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination : he was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it. "What's this, what's this?" said old Mr Donni- thorne. " Is it something you've arranged, Arthur ? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole." "No,'' said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to dance ! It's one of the car- penters — I forget his name at this moment." " It's Ben Cranage — Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr Irwine ; " rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too much for you : you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may rest till dinner." Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White Cockade,'' from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some skiU. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed 420 ADAM BEDE. by Ben's dancing for any one to give much heed to the music. Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance ? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real thing as the " Bird Waltz " is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled : he looked as serious as a dancing monkey — as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the human Kmbs. To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur clapped his hands contiau- aUy and cried " Bravo ! " But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs. "What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. " He goes as pat to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at danc- ing myself when I was Hghter, but I could niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that." "It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," returned Mrs Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver come jig- ging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grass- hopper, for the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can see." THE GAMES. 421 " Well, well, so much, the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable view of things. " But they're going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. We'U move about a bit, shall we? and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking and things : I doubt he hasna had much fun." 422 CHAPTEE XXVI. THE DANCE. Arthur had chosen the entrance-hall for the ball- room : very wisely, for no other room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the surround- ing rooms look like closets — with stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr Craig had been proud to show his taste and his hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids, to see the dancing ; and as this dance was confined to THE DANCE. 423 the chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in col- oured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more splendid ; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in the great world. The lamps were already lit,, though the sun had not long set, and there was that cahn light out of doors in which we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day. It was a pretty scene outside the house : the farmers and their families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from the windows of the gaUery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her — not from filial attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth : Dinah had never been more constantly present with him than in this scene, where 424 ADAM BEDE. everything was so tinlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young women— just as one feels the beauty and the greatness of a pic- tured Madonna the more, when it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffer- ing from a strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her darhng son Adam was beginniag to be worsted in the conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithome desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her reach ; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did. "Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, istid o' bein' left to take up merrier folks's room above ground." "Nay, don't look at it i' that way, mother," said Adam, who was determined to be gentle to her to- day. " I don't mean to dance — I shall only look on. And since the Captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day." "Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's THE DANCE. . 425 got no right t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st slipped away from her, like the ripe nut." " WeU, mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the Captain as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo' that account : he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing." He said this with some effort, for he reaUy longed to be near Hetty this evening. " Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that — the young Squire 'uU be angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked on — an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother ? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee an these 'ears ? " "Well, good-bye, then, mother — good-bye, lad — remember Gyp when you get home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure- grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet them. " Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. " You're going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no." 426 ■ ADAM BEDE. "Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-nigM," said Adam, already tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty. " Nonsense !" said Mr Peyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night, all but th' old Squire and Mrs Irwine. Mrs Best's been tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'uU dance, an' the young Squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball : so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow, and can dance as well as anybody." " Nay, nay," said Mrs Poyser, " it 'ud be unbe- comin'. I know the dancin's nonsense ; but if you stick at everjiihing because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone.'' " Then if Hetty 'uU dance with me," said Adam, yielding either to Mrs Peyser's argument or to some- thing else, " I'll dance whichever dance she's free." "I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty ; " I'll dance that with you, if you like." " Ah," said Mr Poyser, " but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don't ask 'em.'' Adam felt the justice of Mr Peyser's observation : it would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty ; and remembering that Jonathan Purge had THE DANCE. 427 some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner. "There's the big clock strikia' eight," said Mr Poyser ; " we must make haste in now, else the Squire and the ladies 'uU be in afore us, an' that wouldna look well." When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding - doors of the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regi- mentals, leading Mrs Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hothouse plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr Donni- thorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in that way : his uniform was very advantageous to his figure. The old Squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives : he was always polite ; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civihty to Mrs Poy- ser to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her 428 ADAM BEDE. husband, " I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag his tail bo for nothin'." Mr Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs Poyser, I'm come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance ; and, Mr Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner." The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room ; but Mr Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in her life who could lift her oif the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes. Miss Irwine danced with Lvike Britton, the largest Brox- ton farmer, and Mr Gawaine led out Mrs Britton. Mr Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cot- tagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less dis- tinguished couples had taken their places : Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr Craig, and Mary Burge by Adam ; and now the music struck up, and the glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began. Pity it was not a boarded floor ! Then the rhyth- mic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand^where can we see them now ? That THE DAIirCB. 429 simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remember- ing but not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their side — that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little com- pliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come again — those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners, having nothing to say — it would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring cos- tumes, and languid men in lackered boots smiling with double meaning. There was but one thing to mar Martin Peyser's pleasure in this dance : it was, that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands ; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong per- son. So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchUled by moral judgments. How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her ! He had hardly looked at her to-day : now he must take her hand. Would hfe press it ? would he look at her ? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling. Now he was there — he had taken her hand — yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must 430 ADAM BEDE. dance and smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to teU her ; and he should never be able to bear it — he should be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so much as he thought : it was only the sign of a struggle between the desire for him to notice her, and the dread lest she should betray the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos not be- longing to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of fore- gone generations — eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes — perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing ; just as a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had something of a terrible un- confessed delight in it, that she loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of abandoning himself with- out remorse to his passion for Hetty. These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it as they chose. " I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir," said the good innocent woman ; THE DANCE. 431 "for she's so thoughtless, she'd be Hke enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to promise too many." " Thank you, Mrs Poyser," said Arthur, not with- out a twinge. " Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what you would like best.'' He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones ; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously. At last the time had come for the fourth dance — longed for by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate -handed youth of eighteen ; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love ; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transient greeting — had never danced with her but once before. His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all, she smiled less than usual ; there was almost a sweet sadness about her. " God bless her ! " he said inwardly ; " I'd make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love her, could do it." And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the 432 ADAM BBDE. musio and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew. But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her arms, before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs Peyser had taten the two boys away into the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in the cart with grandfather, and MoUy was to follow as fast as possible. " Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned up-stairs : " the children are so heavy when they're asleep." Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round Hetty's neck. The looket leaped out from her frock, and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and looket scattered wide on the floor. "My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud THE DANCE. 433 frightened whisper to Adam ; " never mind the beads.'' Adam had aheady seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor ; and as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back. "It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty. " Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who had been pale and was now red. " Not matter ? " said Adam, gravely. " You seemed very frightened about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it,'' he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it again. By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She took it with an air of indifference, and put it in her pocket ; in her heart vexed and angry with Adam, because he had seen it, but determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation. " See," she said, " they're taking their places to dance ; let us go." Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had VOL. I. 2 E 434 ADAM BEDE. taken possession of him. Had Hetty a lover lie didn't know of? — for none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that ; and none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter impossi- bility of finding any person for his fears to alight on : he could only feel with a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to him ; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would come to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with Hetty was gone ; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an im- easy questioning expression in them ; he could think of nothing to say to her ; and she, too, was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the dance was ended. Adam was determined to stay no longer ; no one wanted him, and no one would notice if he shpped away. As soon as he got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along with- out knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After aU, he might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself. It looked too expensive for that — it looked like the things on white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Eosseter. But Adam had THE DANCE. 435 very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it iu that way ; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving finery ! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his see- ing that she had such a smart thing— she was con- scious that it was wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and dis- liked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chiU Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover, quite unknown to him ? She was never away from her uncle's house for more than a day ; she could have no acquaintances that did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own ; he could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very distinctly. It might be 436 ADAM BEDS. a bit of her father's or mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own along with it. And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himseK an ingenious web of probabilities — the surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to forgive him. for being so cold and silent. And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was lead- ing Hetty to the dance, and saying to her in low hurried tones, " I shall be in the wood the day after to-morrow at seven ; come as early as you can." And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too ; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge in ; and a man never lies with more delici- ous languor under the influence of a passion, than when he has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow. But Mrs Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the young Squire, Mr Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it was half-past THE DANCE. 437 ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs Poyser was resolute on the point, "manners or no manners." " What I going already, Mrs Poyser ? " said old Mr Donnithorne, as she came to curtsy and take leave ; " I thought we should not part with any of our guests till eleven : Mrs Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then." " Oh, your honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up by candle-light' — they've got no cheese on their minds. We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want to be milked so early to - morrow momin'. So, if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave." " Eh ! " she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, " I'd sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next ; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagree." " Nay, nay," said Mr Poyser, who was in his merri- est mood, and felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'D. back thee 438 ADAM BBDE. against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young Squire to ask thee first — I reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty too — she never had such a partner before — a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'U serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman — how you danced wi' th' young Squire the day he come o' ENn OF THE FIRST VOLUME. PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. Cornell University Library PR 4650.E78 V.1 The works of George Eliot. 3 1924 008 065 330