Adam Bede by George Eliot

a character which would make him an example in any station, his
merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour
is due, and his friends should delight to honour him. I know Adam
Bede well--I know what he is as a workman, and what he has been as
a son and brother--and I am saying the simplest truth when I say
that I respect him as much as I respect any man living. But I am
not speaking to you about a stranger; some of you are his intimate
friends, and I believe there is not one here who does not know
enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health."
As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass,
said, "A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as
faithful and clever as himself!"
No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this
toast as Mr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first speech had been,
he would have started up to make another if he had not known the
extreme irregularity of such a course. As it was, he found an
outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, and
setting down his glass with a swing of his arm and a determined
rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others felt less comfortable on
the occasion, they tried their best to look contented, and so the
toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently unanimous.
Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his
friends. He was a good deal moved by this public tribute--very
naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, and
it was uniting to do him honour. But he felt no shyness about
speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack of words;
he looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, but stood in his usual
firm upright attitude, with his head thrown a little backward and
his hands perfectly still, in that rough dignity which is peculiar
to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen, who are never
wondering what is their business in the world.
"I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. "I didn't expect anything
o' this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've
the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr.
Irwine, and to all my friends here, who've drunk my health and
wished me well. It 'ud be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't
at all deserve th' opinion you have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks
to you, to say that you've known me all these years and yet
haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o' the truth about
me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll do it
well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamed to
stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's
a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's
pretty clear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let
us do what we will, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the
powers that ha' been given to us. And so this kindness o' yours,
I'm sure, is no debt you owe me, but a free gift, and as such I
accept it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I've
taken in hand, I'll only say that I took it at Captain
Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his
expectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him,
and to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking
care of his int'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen
as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world a bit
better than he found it, which it's my belief every man may do,
whether he's gentle or simple, whether he sets a good bit o' work
going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his
own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more about what
I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my life
in my actions."
There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the
women whispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and
seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of
opinion that nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that
Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such observations
were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the
old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and whether he was going to
have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking
round to the table where the wives and children sat. There was
none of the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert--
sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for
the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and Totty
was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a
wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.
"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased
to hear your husband make such a good speech to-day?"
"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly
to guess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs."
"What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr.
Irwine, laughing.
"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words
to say it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my
husband, for if he's a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand
to."
"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said,
looking round at the apple-cheeked children. "My aunt and the
Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. They were afraid
of the noise of the toasts, but it would be a shame for them not
to see you at table."
He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children,
while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding
at a distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the
young squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop
near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the
opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with
discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied with apparent
neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty
thought this was going to be the most miserable day she had had
for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality came
across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a
few hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great
procession is separated from a small outsider in the crowd.
Chapter XXV
The Games
THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any
lads and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then,
there was music always at hand--for was not the band of the
Benefit Club capable of playing excellent jigs, reels, and
hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from
Rosseter, who, with their wonderful wind-instruments and puffedout
cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to the small boys
and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an
act of generous forethought, he had provided himself with, in case
any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to
a solo on that instrument.
Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front
of the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped
poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the
old women, races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by
the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such ambitious
attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg--
feats in which it was generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the
lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be preeminent.
To crown all, there was to be a donkey-race--that
sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic idea of
everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest
donkey winning.
And soon after four o ciock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her
damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur,
followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the
striped marquee, where she was to give out the prizes to the
victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that
queenly office to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with
this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for
stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely
scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia,
looking neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and
Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend
of the family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was
to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry on the morrow,
but to-day all the forces were required for the entertainment of
the tenants.
There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn
from the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the
passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or
seated here and there on benches, stretched on each side of the
open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence.
"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep
voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene
with its dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm
likely to see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But
take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die
without seeing her."
"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm
afraid I should never satisfy you with my choice."
"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put
off with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making
for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly;
that will never do, because you'll want managing, and a silly
woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with
the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such
care of that tall old woman by the side of him--his mother, of
course. I like to see that."
"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is
Seth Bede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow.
Poor Seth has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was
because of his father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann
tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist preacher
who was here about a month ago, and I suppose she refused him."
"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people
here that I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since
I used to go about."
"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was
holding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of
that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale
blurred spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when
we come to look close. I can read small print without
spectacles."
"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and
those near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong
spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and
better for things at a distance. I suppose if I could live
another fifty years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't
out of other people's sight, like a man who stands in a well and
sees nothing but the stars."
"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their
race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"
"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats,
and then the little wiry one may win."
"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand,"
said Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice
of her."
"To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to
Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is
not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is
holding on her knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"
"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin
Poyser's niece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too.
My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some
lace of mine very respectably indeed--very respectably."
"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother;
you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine.
"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now," said
Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed!
She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since
my young days. What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown
away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the
good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man
who would have thought her just as pretty if she had had round
eyes and red hair."
Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was
speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with
something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough
without looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard
her beauty praised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a
native climate to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they
thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn
any man's head: any man in his place would have done and felt the
same. And to give her up after all, as he was determined to do,
would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride.
"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't
agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid
as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and
feeling, is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate
woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their
presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain
the influence the more refined beauty has on him, but he feels
it."
"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about
it?"
"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser
than married men, because they have time for more general
contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his
judgment by calling one woman his own. But, as an example of what
I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just now
told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never
been treated with anything but the utmost respect and kindness by
them. The reason is--though she doesn't know it--that there's so
much tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman
as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the coarsest
fellow is not insensible to."
"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to
receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one
of the racers in the sacks, who had set off before we came."
The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage,
otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person
had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had
happened to be a heavenly body, would have made her sublime.
Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her ear-rings again since
Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small
finery as she could muster. Any one who could have looked into
poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between
her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,
perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling.
But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would
have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed
to kiss Hetty.
Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere
hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said
there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she
approached the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but
with exultation sparkling in her round eyes.
"Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia,
taking a large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid
and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent
grogram gown and a piece of flannel."
"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?"
said Arthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and
save that grim-looking gown for one of the older women?"
"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said
Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of
encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have
a scarlet cloak, but that is for the old woman who wins."
This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression
in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up
and dropped a series of curtsies.
"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad
Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"
"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your
prize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had
hard work to win them this warm day."
Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so
hot and disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great
ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without
looking up, and with a growing tremulousness about the corners of
her mouth, and then turned away.
"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it
had been something more to her taste."
"She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at
all one I should like to encourage."
Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of
money before the day was over, that she might buy something more
to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for
her, turned out of the open space, where she was visible from the
marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree, began
to cry--very much tittered at the while by the small boys. In
this situation she was descried by her discreet matronly cousin,
who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her
husband's charge.
"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the
bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon,
running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good
grogram and flannel, as should ha' been gi'en by good rights to
them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might
spare me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the lad--ye war
ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that on ye."
"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with
a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover
herself.
"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said
the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle,
lest Chad's Bess should change her mind.
But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of
spirits that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time
the grand climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment
was entirely lost in the delightful excitement of attempting to
stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the
argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in
adopting a course inversely as the arguments urged, which, well
considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct
sequence; and the present donkey proved the first-rate order of
his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the
blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant
the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate
rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in
the midst of its triumph.
Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was
made happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and
gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had
hardly returned from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when
it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the
company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and
gratuitous performance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which
was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer
in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the
praise of originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an
accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly Wake--had
needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to
convince him that the gentry would be very much struck with his
performance of his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged
in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it was nothing but
right to do something to please the young squire, in return for
what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this
opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had
requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt
quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the
music would make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of
the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben
he had better not make a fool of himself--a remark which at once
fixed Ben's determination: he was not going to let anything alone
because Adam Bede turned up his nose at it.
"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it
something you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with
his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole."
"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going
to dance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this
moment."
"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine;
"rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddlescraping
is too much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take
you in now, that you may rest till dinner."
Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away,
while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White
Cockade," from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by
a series of transitions which his good ear really taught him to
execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact
to him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too
thoroughly absorbed by Ben's dancing for any one to give much heed
to the music.
Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance?
Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry
countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and
insinuating movements of the head. That is as much like the real
thing as the "Bird Waltz" is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben
never smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkey--as serious
as if he had been an experimental philosopher ascertaining in his
own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity
that could be given to the human limbs.
To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee,
Arthur clapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben
had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid
gravity that equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was
seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs.
"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat
to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a
pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could
niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like that."
"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turned
Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver
come jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for
the gentry to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can
see."
"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser,
who did not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're
going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a
bit, shall we, and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look
after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun."
Chapter XXVI
The Dance
ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely,
for no other room could have heen so airy, or would have had the
advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a
ready entrance into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor
was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the dancers
had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen
quarries. It was one of those entrance-halls which make the
surrounding rooms look like closets--with stucco angels, trumpets,
and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of
miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with statues in
niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green
boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his
hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone
staircase were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the
children, who were to stay till half-past nine with the servantmaids
to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the
chief tenants, there was abundant room for every one. The lights
were charmingly disposed in coloured-paper lamps, high up among
green boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped
in, believed no scene could be more splendid; they knew now quite
well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their
thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins and acquaintances
who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went on in
the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had
not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in which
we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.
It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their
families were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs,
or along the broad straight road leading from the east front,
where a carpet of mossy grass spread on each side, studded here
and there with a dark flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir
sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of
paler green. The groups of cottagers in the park were gradually
diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights
that were beginning to gleam from the windows of the gallery in
the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room, and some of the
sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of
these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial
attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in
dancing. It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had
never been more constantly present with him than in this scene,
where everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more
vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and gay-coloured
dresses of the young women--just as one feels the beauty and the
greatness of a pictured Madonna the more when it has been for a
moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this
presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better
with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more
querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a
strange conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour
paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the
conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when
Adam came to tell her that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join
the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of
her reach; she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it
mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did.
"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not
a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o'
bein' left to take up merrier folks's room above ground."
"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was
determined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I
shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there,
it 'ud look as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd
rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day."
"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right
t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st
slipped away from her, like the ripe nut."
"Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it
hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo'
that account: he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm
willing." He said this with some effort, for he really longed to
be near Hetty this evening.
"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be
angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth
'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked
on--an' who's to be prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the
cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?"
"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when
you get home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the
pleasure-grounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the
Poysers, for he had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that
he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon detected a
distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the
house along the broad gravel road, and he hastened on to meet
them.
"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser,
who was carrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o'
fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has
promised no end o' partners, an' I've just been askin' her if
she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no."
"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night," said Adam, already
tempted to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance tonight,
all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been
tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young
squire 'ull pick my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball:
so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the
Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand
still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow and can dance as well as
anybody."
"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the
dancin's nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's
nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's readymade
for you, you mun swallow the thickenin', or else let the
broth alone."
"Then if Hetty 'ull d'ance with me," said Adam, yielding either to
Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever
dance she's free."
"I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll
dance that with you, if you like."
"Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam,
else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to
pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men
stan' by and don't ask 'em."
Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do
for him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that
Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to
ask Miss Mary to dance with him the first dance, if she had no
other partner.
"There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must
make haste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore
us, an' that wouldna look well."
When they had entered the hall, and the three children under
Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of
the drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his
regimentals, leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais
ornamented with hot-house plants, where she and Miss Anne were to
be seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the
dancing, like the kings and queens in the plays. Arthur had put
on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much
of his militia dignity as if it had been an elevation to the
premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in
that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his figure.
The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to
greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was
always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling,
that this polish was one of the signs of hardness. It was
observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser
to-night, inquiring particularly about her health, recommending
her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and avoid all
drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great selfcommand,
but when he had passed on, she whispered to her husband,
"I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old
Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'." Mr. Poyser had no time
to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come
to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr.
Poyser, you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as
her partner."
The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted
honour as Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser,
to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his
good looks and good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly,
secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never had a
partner in HER life who could lift her off the ground as he would.
In order to balance the honours given to the two parishes, Miss
Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and
Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his
sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed with
Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was
prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples had
taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig,
and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the
glorious country-dance, best of all dances, began.
Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of
the thick shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry
stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal
of the hand--where can we see them now? That simple dancing of
well-covered matrons, laying aside for an hour the cares of house
and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but
proud of the young maidens by their side--that holiday
sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to
their wives, as if their courting days were come again--those lads
and lasses a little confused and awkward with their partners,
having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to see all
that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and
scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered
boots smiling with double meaning.
There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this
dance: it was that he was always in close contact with Luke
Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little
glazed coldness into his eye in the crossing of hands; but then,
as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke,
he might freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to
hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.
How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly
looked at her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press
it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave
her no sign of feeling. Now he was there--he had taken her hand--
yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at
him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him
away. That pale look came upon Arthur like the beginning of a
dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and
joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her what he
had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he should
be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so
much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the
desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray
the desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that
transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges
with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul
that flutters beneath them, but speaking the joys and sorrows of
foregone generations--eyes that tell of deep love which doubtless
has been and is somewhere, but not paired with these eyes--perhaps
paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a national
language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use
it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet
had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she
loved him too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that
moment he felt he would have given up three years of his youth for
the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion
for Hetty.
These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs.
Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that
neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to
take a quiet rest in the dining-room, where supper was laid out
for the guests to come and take it as they chose.
"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you,
sir," said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless,
she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So
I told her not to promise too many."
"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge.
"Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready
to give you what you would like best."
He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour
must be paid to the married women before he asked any of the young
ones; and the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious
nodding, and the waving of the hands, went on joyously.
At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the
strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of
eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first
love; and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than
a transient greeting--had never danced with her but once before.
His eyes had followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself,
and had taken in deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved
so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all
she smiled less than usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about
her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly; "I'd make her life a
happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love
her, could do it."
And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home
from work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek
softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the
music and the tread of feet might have been the falling of rain
and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew.
But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and
claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the
staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping
Totty into her arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets
from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into
the dining-room to give them some cake before they went home in
the cart with Grandfather and Molly was to follow as fast as
possible.
"Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the
children are so heavy when they're asleep."
Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms,
standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this
second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who
was not behind any child of her age in peevishness at an
unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her
in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened
her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's
arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round
Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next
moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and
locket scattered wide on the floor.
"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to
Adam; "never mind the beads."
Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted
his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the
raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and
as Adam picked it up, he saw the glass with the dark and light
locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the
glass was not broken. He turned it over on his hand, and saw the
enamelled gold back.
"It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was
unable to take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.
"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who
had been pale and was now red.
"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened
about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take it," he added,
quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he
wanted to look at it again.
By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as
she had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She
took it with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in
her heart vexed and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but
determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation.
"See," she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us
go."
Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of
him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her
relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and
none of her admirers, with whom he was acquainted, was in the
position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must
be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility of finding any
person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel with a
terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to
him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she
would come to love him, she was already loving another. The
pleasure of the dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they
rested on her, had an uneasy questioning expression in them; he
could think of nothing to say to her; and she too was out of
temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the
dance was ended.
Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no
one would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of
doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along
without knowing why, busy with the painful thought that the memory
of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was poisoned
for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he
stopped, startled by a flash of reviving hope. After all, he
might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty,
fond of finery as she was, might have bought the thing herself.
It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the things on
white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam
had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he
thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps
Hetty had had as much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no
knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in
that way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving
finery! But then, why had she been so frightened about it at
first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to
care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his seeing that she
had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it was wrong for
her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved
of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and
disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity
afterwards that he was very much displeased with her, that he was
inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he
walked on more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only
uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which might chill
Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter
must be the true one. How could Hetty have an accepted lover,
quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's house
for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not
come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It
would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a
lover. The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he
could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not
seen it very distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or
mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would
naturally put a bit of her own along with it.
And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an
ingenious web of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can
place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts
melted into a dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm,
and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so cold and
silent.
And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the
dance and saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the
wood the day after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can."
And Hetty's foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a
little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came fluttering
back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first
time this long day, and wished that dance would last for hours.
Arthur wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge
in; and a man never lies with more delicious languor under the
influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he
shall subdue it to-morrow.
But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her
mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of
to-morrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours.
Now that Hetty had done her duty and danced one dance with the
young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come
back to fetch them, for it was half-past ten o'clock, and
notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it would be bad
manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute
on the point, "manners or no manners."
"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as
she came to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part
with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are
elderly people, think of sitting out the dance till then."
"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to
stay up by candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds.
We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know
as they mustn't want to be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So,
if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave."
"Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd
sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these
pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an'
starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and
keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for
fear people shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing
to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi' eatin'
things as disagree."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and
felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for
thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll
back thee against all the wives i' the parish for a light foot an'
ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee
first--I reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an'
made the speech. An' Hetty too--she never had such a partner
before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'll serve you to
talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you danced wi' th'
young squire the day he come o' age."
Book Four
Chapter XXVII
A crisis
IT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after the
birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north
midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to
be retarded by the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and
much damage throughout the country. From this last trouble the
Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in
their brook-watered valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot
pretend that they were such exceptional farmers as to love the
general good better than their own, you will infer that they were
not in very low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of
bread, so long as there was hope of gathering in their own corn
undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying winds
flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine
looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand
masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round
hills behind the Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the
sun was hidden for a moment, and then shone out warm again like a
recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed off the
hedgerow trees by the wind; around the farmhouses there was a
sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the orchards; and the
stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on the common had
their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind seemed only
part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry
day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could top
the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in
good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind
had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out
of the husk and scattered as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man.
For if it be true that Nature at certain moments seems charged
with a presentiment of one individual lot must it not also be true
that she seems unmindful uncon-scious of another? For there is no
hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no morning
brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well
as new forces to genius and love. There are so many of us, and
our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature's mood is often
in harsh contrast with the great crisis of our lives? We are
children of a large family, and must learn, as such children do,
not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to be content
with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more.
It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double
work, for he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge,
until some satisfactory person could be found to supply his place,
and Jonathan was slow to find that person. But he had done the
extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant again about
Hetty. Every time she had seen him since the birthday, she had
seemed to make an effort to behave all the more kindly to him,
that she might make him understand she had forgiven his silence
and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the locket
to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happier
because he observed in her a more subdued air, something that he
interpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness.
"Ah!" he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll
be thoughtful enough after a while. And her aunt allays says how
clever she is at the work. She'll make a wife as Mother'll have
no occasion to grumble at, after all." To be sure, he had only
seen her at home twice since the birthday; for one Sunday, when he
was intending to go from church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined
the party of upper servants from the Chase and had gone home with
them--almost as if she were inclined to encourage Mr. Craig.
"She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house keeper's
room," Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For my part, I was never overfond
o' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies'
fat dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y
for show." And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy
some things; though, to his great surprise, as he was returning
home, he saw her at a distance getting over a stile quite out of
the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to her, she was very
kind, and asked him to go in again when he had taken her to the
yard gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after
coming from Treddleston because she didn't want to go in, she
said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt always made
such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in
with me!" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the
gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs.
Poyser was contented with only a slight remark on Hetty's being
later than was expected; while Hetty, who had looked out of
spirits when he met her, smiled and talked and waited on them all
with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make
leisure for going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her
day for going to the Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he
would get as much work done as possible this evening, that the
next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight
repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by
Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old
squire was going to let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been
seen to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to get a
tenant could account for the squire's undertaking repairs, though
the Saturday-evening party at Mr. Casson's agreed over their pipes
that no man in his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there
was a bit more ploughland laid to it. However that might be, the
repairs were ordered to be executed with all dispatch, and Adam,
acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual
energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere, he had not
been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the afternoon,
and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had
calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no
good to be done with this part of the building without pulling it
all down, and Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building
it up again, so as to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and
calf-pens, with a hovel for implements; and all without any great
expense for materials. So, when the workmen were gone, he sat
down, took out his pocket-book, and busied himself with sketching
a plan, and making a specification of the expenses that he might
show it to Burge the next morning, and set him on persuading the
squire to consent. To "make a good job" of anything, however
small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block, with
his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and
then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible
smile of gratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of
good work, he loved also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the
only people who are free from that weakness are those who have no
work to call their own. It was nearly seven before he had
finished and put on his jacket again; and on giving a last look
round, he observed that Seth, who had been working here to-day,
had left his basket of tools behind him. "Why, th' lad's forgot
his tools," thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shop tomorrow.
There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd
leave his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it's lucky
I've seen 'em; I'll carry 'em home."
The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase,
at about ten minutes' walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had
come thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put
up his nag on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr.
Craig, who had come to look at the captain's new horse, on which
he was to ride away the day after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig
detained him to tell how all the servants were to collect at the
gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire luck as he rode
out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase, and was
striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun
was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays
among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare
patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a
jewel dropt upon the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there
was only enough breeze to stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any
one who had been sitting in the house all day would have been glad
to walk now; but Adam had been quite enough in the open air to
wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought himself that he
might do so by striking across the Chase and going through the
Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on across
the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with
Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes
of the light--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence
in a certain calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy
working-day thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The very
deer felt it, and were more timid.
Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said
about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the
changes that might take place before he came back; then they
travelled back affectionately over the old scenes of boyish
companionship, and dwelt on Arthur's good qualities, which Adam
had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of the superior who
honours us. A nature like Adam's, with a great need of love and
reverence in it, depends for so much of its happiness on what it
can believe and feel about others! And he had no ideal world of
dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the past; he
must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving admiration
among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant
thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into
his keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he
opened the old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat
Gyp and say a kind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path
through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine
tree of all things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the
sea, so Adam's perceptions were more at home with trees than with
other objects. He kept them in his memory, as a painter does,
with all the flecks and knots in their bark, all the curves and
angles of their boughs, and had often calculated the height and
contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood looking at it. No
wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get on, he could not
help pausing to look at a curious large beech which he had seen
standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself
that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the
rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly
examining the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the
home where his youth was passed, before the road turned, and he
saw it no more. The beech stood at the last turning before the
Grove ended in an archway of boughs that let in the eastern light;
and as Adam stepped away from the tree to continue his walk, his
eyes fell on two figures about twenty yards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale.
The two figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped
hands about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who
had been running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of
them, and gave a sharp bark. They separated with a start--one
hurried through the gate out of the Grove, and the other, turning
round, walked slowly, with a sort of saunter, towards Adam who
still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with
which he held the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking
at the approaching figure with eyes in which amazement was fast
turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to
make unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more
wine than usual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its
flattering influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for
rencontre with Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all,
Adam was the best person who could have happened to see him and
Hetty together--he was a sensible fellow, and would not babble
about it to other people. Arthur felt confident that he could
laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so he sauntered
forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, his evening
dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust into his
waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light
which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were
now shedding down between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He
understood it all now--the locket and everything else that had
been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching light showed him the
hidden letters that changed the meaning of the past. If he had
moved a muscle, he must inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a
tiger; and in the conflicting emotions that filled those long
moments, he had told himself that he would not give loose to
passion, he would only speak the right thing. He stood as if
petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his own strong
will.
"Well, Adam," said Arthur, "you've been looking at the fine old
beeches, eh? They're not to be come near by the hatchet, though;
this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as
I was coming to my den--the Hermitage, there. She ought not to
come home this way so late. So I took care of her to the gate,
and asked for a kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for
this road is confoundedly damp. Good-night, Adam. I shall see
you to-morrow--to say good-bye, you know."
Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing
himself to be thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face.
He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at
the trees and then lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his
boot. He cared to say no more--he had thrown quite dust enough
into honest Adam's eyes--and as he spoke the last words, he walked
on.
"Stop a bit, sir," said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without
turning round. "I've got a word to say to you."
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected
by a change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the
susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was
still more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but
stood with his back to him, as if summoning him to return. What
did he mean? He was going to make a serious business of this
affair. Arthur felt his temper rising. A patronising disposition
always has its meaner side, and in the confusion of his irritation
and alarm there entered the feeling that a man to whom he had
shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position to criticize
his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself
in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares
for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation
as anger in his voice when he said, "What do you mean, Adam?"
"I mean, sir"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still
without turning round--"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by
your light words. This is not the first time you've met Hetty
Sorrel in this grove, and this is not the first time you've kissed
her."
Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from
knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty,
which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened
his irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, "Well, sir, what
then?"
"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man
we've all believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a
selfish light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what
it's to lead to when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to
a young woman like Hetty, and gives her presents as she's
frightened for other folks to see. And I say it again, you're
acting the part of a selfish light-minded scoundrel though it cuts
me to th' heart to say so, and I'd rather ha' lost my right hand."
"Let me tell you, Adam," said Arthur, bridling his growing anger
and trying to recur to his careless tone, "you're not only
devilishly impertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty
girl is not such a fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman
admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must mean
something particular. Every man likes to flirt with a pretty
girl, and every pretty girl likes to be flirted with. The wider
the distance between them, the less harm there is, for then she's
not likely to deceive herself."
"I don't know what you mean by flirting," said Adam, "but if you
mean behaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving
her all the while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man,
and what isn't honest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and
you're not a fool, and you know better than what you're saying.
You know it couldn't be made public as you've behaved to Hetty as
y' have done without her losing her character and bringing shame
and trouble on her and her relations. What if you meant nothing
by your kissing and your presents? Other folks won't believe as
you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not deceiving
herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the thought
of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never love
another man as 'ud make her a good husband."
Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he
perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and
that there was no irrevocable damage done by this evening's
unfortunate rencontre. Adam could still be deceived. The candid
Arthur had brought himself into a position in which successful
lying was his only hope. The hope allayed his anger a little.
"Well, Adam," he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're
perhaps right. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking
notice of the pretty little thing and stealing a kiss now and
then. You're such a grave, steady fellow, you don't understand
the temptation to such trifling. I'm sure I wouldn't bring any
trouble or annoyance on her and the good Poysers on any account if
I could help it. But I think you look a little too seriously at
it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan't make any
more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night"--Arthur
here turned round to walk on--"and talk no more about the matter.
The whole thing will soon be forgotten."
"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no
longer, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward
till he was right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense
of personal injury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep
under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of us, in the
first moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellowman
who has been the medium of inflicting it did not mean to hurt
us? In our instinctive rebellion against pain, we are children
again, and demand an active will to wreak our vengeance on. Adam
at this moment could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty--
robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had trusted--and he
stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring at him,
with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he had
hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a just
indignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to
shake him as he spoke.
"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and
me, when she might ha' loved me--it'll not soon be forgot as
you've robbed me o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best
friend, and a noble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And
you've been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have you? And I
never kissed her i' my life--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for
the right to kiss her. And you make light of it. You think
little o' doing what may damage other folks, so as you get your
bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throw back your favours, for
you're not the man I took you for. I'll never count you my friend
any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, and fight me where I
stand--it's all th' amends you can make me."
Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began
to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to
notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he was
speaking. Arthur's lips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was
beating violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a
shock which made him for the moment see himself in the light of
Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's suffering as not merely a
consequence, but an element of his error. The words of hatred and
contempt--the first he had ever heard in his life--seemed like
scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him.
All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while
others respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face
to face with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever
committed. He was only twenty-one, and three months ago--nay,
much later--he had thought proudly that no man should ever be able
to reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been time
for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of propitiation;
but Adam had no sooner thrown off his coat and cap than he became
aware that Arthur was standing pale and motionless, with his hands
still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.
"What!" he said, "won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't
strike you while you stand so."
"Go away, Adam," said Arthur, "I don't want to fight you."
"No," said Adam, bitterly; "you don't want to fight me--you think
I'm a common man, as you can injure without answering for it."
"I never meant to injure you," said Arthur, with returning anger.
"I didn't know you loved her."
"But you've made her love you," said Adam. "You're a double-faced
man--I'll never believe a word you say again."
"Go away, I tell you," said Arthur, angrily, "or we shall both
repent."
"No," said Adam, with a convulsed voice, "I swear I won't go away
without fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you
you're a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you."
The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his
right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which
sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as
Adam's now, and the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone
before, fought with the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the
deepening twilight darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed
gentleman was a match for the workman in everything but strength,
and Arthur's skill enabled him to protract the struggle for some
long moments. But between unarmed men the battle is to the
strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur must sink
under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken by an
iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying
concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his
darkly clad body.
He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise.
The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining
all the force of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it?
What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion,
only wreaked his own vengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor
changed the past--there it was, just as it had been, and he
sickened at the vanity of his own rage.
But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the
time seemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much
for him? Adam shuddered at the thought of his own strength, as
with the oncoming of this dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and
lifted his head from among the fern. There was no sign of life:
the eyes and teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam
completely mastered him, and forced upon him its own belief. He
could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's face, and that
he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but
knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death.
Chapter XXVIII
A Dilemma
IT was only a few minutes measured by the clock--though Adam
always thought it had been a long while--before he perceived a
gleam of consciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver
through his frame. The intense joy that flooded his soul brought
back some of the old affection with it.
"Do you feel any pain, sir?" he said, tenderly, loosening Arthur's
cravat.
Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way
to a slightly startled motion as if from the shock of returning
memory. But he only shivered again and said nothing.
"Do you feel any hurt, sir?" Adam said again, with a trembling in
his voice.
Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had
unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath. "Lay my head down," he
said, faintly, "and get me some water if you can."
Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the
tools out of the flag-basket, hurried through the trees to the
edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below
the bank.
When he returned with his basket leaking, but still half-full,
Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly reawakened
consciousness.
"Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?" said Adam, kneeling
down again to lift up Arthur's head.
"No," said Arthur, "dip my cravat in and souse it on my head."
The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised
himself a little higher, resting on Adam's arm.
"Do you feel any hurt inside sir?" Adam asked again
"No--no hurt," said Arthur, still faintly, "but rather done up."
After a while he said, "I suppose I fainted away when you knocked
me down."
"Yes, sir, thank God," said Adam. "I thought it was worse."
"What! You thought you'd done for me, eh? Come help me on my
legs."
"I feel terribly shaky and dizzy," Arthur said, as he stood
leaning on Adam's arm; "that blow of yours must have come against
me like a battering-ram. I don't believe I can walk alone."
"Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along," said Adam. "Or, will you
sit down a bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll prop y' up.
You'll perhaps be better in a minute or two."
"No," said Arthur. "I'll go to the Hermitage--I think I've got
some brandy there. There's a short road to it a little farther
on, near the gate. If you'll just help me on."
They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking
again. In both of them, the concentration in the present which
had attended the first moments of Arthur's revival had now given
way to a vivid recollection of the previous scene. It was nearly
dark in the narrow path among the trees, but within the circle of
fir-trees round the Hermitage there was room for the growing
moonlight to enter in at the windows. Their steps were noiseless
on the thick carpet of fir-needles, and the outward stillness
seemed to heighten their inward consciousness, as Arthur took the
key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand, for him to
open the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur had
furnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for himself, and
it was a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug
room with all the signs of frequent habitation.
Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman.
"You'll see my hunting-bottle somewhere," he said. "A leather
case with a bottle and glass in."
Adam was not long in finding the case. "There's very little
brandy in it, sir," he said, turning it downwards over the glass,
as he held it before the window; "hardly this little glassful."
"Well, give me that," said Arthur, with the peevishness of
physical depression. When he had taken some sips, Adam said,
"Hadn't I better run to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy?
I can be there and back pretty soon. It'll be a stiff walk home
for you, if you don't have something to revive you."
"Yes--go. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell
him to get it from Mills, and not to say I'm at the Hermitage.
Get some water too."
Adam was relieved to have an active task--both of them were
relieved to be apart from each other for a short time. But Adam's
swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinking--of living
again with concentrated suffering through the last wretched hour,
and looking out from it over all the new sad future.
Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but
presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and peered about slowly
in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of
wax candle that stood amongst a confusion of writing and drawing
materials. There was more searching for the means of lighting the
candle, and when that was done, he went cautiously round the room,
as if wishing to assure himself of the presence or absence of
something. At last he had found a slight thing, which he put
first in his pocket, and then, on a second thought, took out again
and thrust deep down into a waste-paper basket. It was a woman's
little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table,
and threw himself down on the ottoman again, exhausted with the
effort.
When Adam came back with his supplies, his entrance awoke Arthur
from a doze.
"That's right," Arthur said; "I'm tremendously in want of some
brandy-vigour."
"I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir," said Adam. "I've been
thinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn."
"No, no; the candle will last long enough--I shall soon be up to
walking home now."
"I can't go before I've seen you safe home, sir," said Adam,
hesitatingly.
"No: it will be better for you to stay--sit down."
Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy
silence, while Arthur slowly drank brandy-and-water, with visibly
renovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position,
and looked as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations.
Adam was keenly alive to these indications, and as his anxiety
about Arthur's condition began to be allayed, he felt more of that
impatience which every one knows who has had his just indignation
suspended by the physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one
thing on his mind to be done before he could recur to
remonstrance: it was to confess what had been unjust in his own
words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make this confession,
that his indignation might be free again; and as he saw the signs
of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his
lips and went back, checked by the thought that it would be better
to leave everything till to-morrow. As long as they were silent
they did not look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam
that if they began to speak as though they remembered the past--if
they looked at each other with full recognition--they must take
fire again. So they sat in silence till the bit of wax candle
flickered low in the socket, the silence all the while becoming
more irksome to Adam. Arthur had just poured out some more
brandy-and-water, and he threw one arm behind his head and drew up
one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was an
irresistible temptation to Adam to speak what was on his mind.
"You begin to feel more yourself again, sir," he said, as the
candle went out and they were half-hidden from each other in the
faint moonlight.
"Yes: I don't feel good for much--very lazy, and not inclined to
move; but I'll go home when I've taken this dose."
There was a slight pause before Adam said, "My temper got the
better of me, and I said things as wasn't true. I'd no right to
speak as if you'd known you was doing me an injury: you'd no
grounds for knowing it; I've always kept what I felt for her as
secret as I could."
He paused again before he went on.
"And perhaps I judged you too harsh--I'm apt to be harsh--and you
may have acted out o' thoughtlessness more than I should ha'
believed was possible for a man with a heart and a conscience.
We're not all put together alike, and we may misjudge one another.
God knows, it's all the joy I could have now, to think the best of
you."
Arthur wanted to go home without saying any more--he was too
painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as too weak in body, to
wish for any further explanation to-night. And yet it was a
relief to him that Adam reopened the subject in a way the least
difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the wretched position
of an open, generous man who has committed an error which makes
deception seem a necessity. The native impulse to give truth in
return for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, must be
suppressed, and duty was becoming a question of tactics. His deed
was reacting upon him--was already governing him tyrannously and
forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitual feelings.
The only aim that seemed admissible to him now was to deceive Adam
to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved.
And when he heard the words of honest retractation--when he heard
the sad appeal with which Adam ended--he was obliged to rejoice in
the remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer
immediately, for he had to be judicious and not truthful.
"Say no more about our anger, Adam," he said, at last, very
languidly, for the labour of speech was unwelcome to him; "I
forgive your momentary injustice--it was quite natural, with the
exaggerated notions you had in your mind. We shall be none the
worse friends in future, I hope, because we've fought. You had
the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I've
been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us shake hands."
Arthur held out his hand, but Adam sat still.
"I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir," he said, "but I can't
shake hands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was wrong when I
spoke as if you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong
in what I said before, about your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't
shake hands with you as if I held you my friend the same as ever
till you've cleared that up better."
Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his
hand. He was silent for some moments, and then said, as
indifferently as he could, "I don't know what you mean by clearing
up, Adam. I've told you already that you think too seriously of a
little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there is any
danger in it--I'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end
of it. As for the pain it has given you, I'm heartily sorry for
it. I can say no more."
Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face
towards one of the windows, as if looking at the blackness of the
moonlit fir-trees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but
the conflict within him. It was of no use now--his resolution not
to speak till to-morrow. He must speak there and then. But it
was several minutes before he turned round and stepped nearer to
Arthur, standing and looking down on him as he lay.
"It'll be better for me to speak plain," he said, with evident
effort, "though it's hard work. You see, sir, this isn't a trifle
to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go
making love first to one woman and then t' another, and don't
think it much odds which of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a
different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much
about but them as feel it and God as has given it to 'em. She's
more nor everything else to me, all but my conscience and my good
name. And if it's true what you've been saying all along--and if
it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it, as 'll be put
an end to by your going away--why, then, I'd wait, and hope her
heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think you'd speak
false to me, and I'll believe your word, however things may look."
"You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it," said
Arthur, almost violently, starting up from the ottoman and moving
away. But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying,
more feebly, "You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are
casting imputations upon her."
"Nay, sir," Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were halfrelieved--
for he was too straightforward to make a distinction
between a direct falsehood and an indirect one--"Nay, sir, things
don't lie level between Hetty and you. You're acting with your
eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been in
her mind? She's all but a child--as any man with a conscience in
him ought to feel bound to take care on. And whatever you may
think, I know you've disturbed her mind. I know she's been fixing
her heart on you, for there's a many things clear to me now as I
didn't understand before. But you seem to make light o' what she
may feel--you don't think o' that."
"Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I
feel it enough without your worrying me."
He was aware of his indiscretion as soon as the words had escaped
him.
"Well, then, if you feel it," Adam rejoined, eagerly; "if you feel
as you may ha' put false notions into her mind, and made her
believe as you loved her, when all the while you meant nothing,
I've this demand to make of you--I'm not speaking for myself, but
for her. I ask you t' undeceive her before you go away. Y'aren't
going away for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion in
her head o' your feeling about her the same as she feels about
you, she'll be hankering after you, and the mischief may get
worse. It may be a smart to her now, but it'll save her pain i'
th' end. I ask you to write a letter--you may trust to my seeing
as she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself
for behaving as you'd no right to do to a young woman as isn't
your equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way.
There's nobody can take care o' Hetty in this thing but me."
"I can do what I think needful in the matter," said Arthur, more
and more irritated by mingled distress and perplexity, "without
giving promises to you. I shall take what measures I think
proper."
"No," said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I
must know what ground I'm treading on. I must be safe as you've
put an end to what ought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget
what's owing to you as a gentleman, but in this thing we're man
and man, and I can't give up."
There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see
you to-morrow. I can bear no more now; I'm ill." He rose as he
spoke, and reached his cap, as if intending to go.
"You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of
recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards the door and placing
his back against it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife--
tell me you've been lying--or else promise me what I've said."
Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before
Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two, and now stopped,
faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of
them--that inward struggle of Arthur's--before he said, feebly, "I
promise; let me go."
Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur
reached the step, he stopped again and leaned against the doorpost.
"You're not well enough to walk alone, sir," said Adam. "Take my
arm again."
Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following.
But, after a few steps, he stood still again, and said, coldly, "I
believe I must trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may
be an alarm set up about me at home."
Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word,
till they came where the basket and the tools lay.
"I must pick up the tools, sir," Adam said. "They're my
brother's. I doubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to wait a
minute."
Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed
between them till they were at the side entrance, where he hoped
to get in without being seen by any one. He said then, "Thank
you; I needn't trouble you any further."
"What time will it be conven'ent for me to see you to-morrow,
sir?" said Adam.
"You may send me word that you're here at five o'clock," said
Arthur; "not before."
"Good-night, sir," said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had
turned into the house.
Chapter XXIX
The Next Morning
ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well.
For sleep comes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary
enough. But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by
declaring he was going to get up, and must have breakfast brought
to him at eight.
"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my
grandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am
gone for a ride."
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In
bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up,
though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which
offers some resistance to the past--sensations which assert
themselves against tyrannous memories. And if there were such a
thing as taking averages of feeling, it would certainly be found
that in the hunting and shooting seasons regret, self-reproach,
and mortified pride weigh lighter on country gentlemen than in
late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he should be more of a
man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with
the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after the scenes of
yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion, the loss
of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment which
suffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all
eyes--as a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a
nervous woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are
suffused with a sense of danger.
Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness
were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of
his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy.
He didn't like to witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes
beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of
seven, he one day kicked down an old gardener's pitcher of broth,
from no motive but a kicking impulse, not reflecting that it was
the old man's dinner; but on learning that sad fact, he took his
favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife out of his pocket
and offered them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur
ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If
there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself
against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps
the time was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the
first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at
discovering that Adam's happiness was involved in his relation to
Hetty. If there had been a possibility of making Adam tenfold
amends--if deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored
Adam's contentment and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur
would not only have executed them without hesitation, but would
have felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never have
been weary of making retribution. But Adam could receive no
amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and
affection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement.
He stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure
could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from
believing in--the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The
words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted
over him in their last conversation in the Hermitage--above all,
the sense of having been knocked down, to which a man does not
very well reconcile himself, even under the most heroic
circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which was
stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded
himself that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the
contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis
can seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciences--out
of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may have caused:
there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon.
Our moral sense learns the manners of good society and smiles when
others smile, but when some rude person gives rough names to our
actions, she is apt to take part against us. And so it was with
Arthur: Adam's judgment of him, Adam's grating words, disturbed
his self-soothing arguments.
Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam's discovery.
Struggles and resolves had transformed themselves into compunction
and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed
for his own, that he must leave her behind. He had always, both
in making and breaking resolutions, looked beyond his passion and
seen that it must speedily end in separation; but his nature was
too ardent and tender for him not to suffer at this parting; and
on Hetty's account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found
out the dream in which she was living--that she was to be a lady
in silks and satins--and when he had first talked to her about his
going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with him
and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had
given the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had
said no word with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all
spun by her own childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to
himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And to
increase the mischief, on this last evening he had not dared to
hint the truth to Hetty; he had been obliged to soothe her with
tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw her into violent
distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the sorrow of the
dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety of
the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future. That
was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he
could evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been
secret; the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one,
except Adam, knew anything of what had passed--no one else was
likely to know; for Arthur had impressed on Hetty that it would be
fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the least
intimacy between them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would
rather help them to keep it than betray it. It was an unfortunate
business altogether, but there was no use in making it worse than
it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings of evil that
might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst
consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad
consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty
might have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And
perhaps hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and
make up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. She
would owe the advantage of his care for her in future years to the
sorrow she had incurred now. So good comes out of evil. Such is
the beautiful arrangement of things!
Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who,
two months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate
honour which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not
contemplate any more positive offence as possible for it?--who
thought that his own self-respect was a higher tribunal than any
external opinion? The same, I assure you, only under different
conditions. Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our
deeds, and until we know what has been or will be the peculiar
combination of outward with inward facts, which constitutes a
man's critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves
wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in our
deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and
then reconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second
wrong presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable
right. The action which before commission has been seen with that
blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the
healthy eye of the soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of
apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that men call
beautiful and ugly are seen to be made up of textures very much
alike. Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an
individual character--until the placid adjustment is disturbed by
a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his
own sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur
because of that very need of self-respect which, while his
conscience was still at ease, was one of his best safeguards.
Self-accusation was too painful to him--he could not face it. He
must persuade himself that he had not been very much to blame; he
began even to pity himself for the necessity he was under of
deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honesty of his
own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in
consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter
that he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be
a gross barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he
could do to her. And across all this reflection would dart every
now and then a sudden impulse of passionate defiance towards all
consequences. He would carry Hetty away, and all other
considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an
intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down
upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting
feelings, some of which would fly away in the open air. He had
only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must get clear
and calm. Once on Meg's back, in the fresh air of that fine
morning, he should be more master of the situation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed
the gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her
nose, and patted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing
tone than usual. He loved her the better because she knew nothing
of his secrets. But Meg was quite as well acquainted with her
master's mental state as many others of her sex with the mental
condition of the nice young gentlemen towards whom their hearts
are in a state of fluttering expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at
the foot of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in
the road. Then he threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepared to
make up his mind.
Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before
Arthur went away--there was no possibility of their contriving
another without exciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened
child, unable to think of anything, only able to cry at the
mention of parting, and then put her face up to have the tears
kissed away. He could do nothing but comfort her, and lull her
into dreaming on. A letter would be a dreadfully abrupt way of
awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam said--that it
would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might be worse
than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of
satisfying Adam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one.
If he could have seen her again! But that was impossible; there
was such a thorny hedge of hindrances between them, and an
imprudence would be fatal. And yet, if he COULD see her again,
what good would it do? Only cause him to suffer more from the
sight of her distress and the remembrance of it. Away from him
she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control.
A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination--the
dread lest she should do something violent in her grief; and close
upon that dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he
shook them off with the force of youth and hope. What was the
ground for painting the future in that dark way? It was just as
likely to be the reverse. Arthur told himself he did not deserve
that things should turn out badly. He had never meant beforehand
to do anything his conscience disapproved; he had been led on by
circumstances. There was a sort of implicit confidence in him
that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence would
not treat him harshly.
At all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could
do was to take what seemed the best course at the present moment.
And he persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open
between Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as
he said, after a while; and in that case there would have been no
great harm done, since it was still Adam's ardent wish to make her
his wife. To be sure, Adam was deceived--deceived in a way that
Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been
practised on himself. That was a reflection that marred the
consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in mingled shame
and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in such a
dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure
Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told
or acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable
fool he was to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet,
if ever a man had excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are
determined not by excuses but by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that
promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears came into
Arthur's eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be
almost as hard for him to write it; he was not doing anything easy
to himself; and this last thought helped him to arrive at a
conclusion. He could never deliberately have taken a step which
inflicted pain on another and left himself at ease. Even a
movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up Hetty to Adam
went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and
set off home again in a canter. The letter should be written the
first thing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other
business: he should have no time to look behind him. Happily,
Irwine and Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock
the next day he should have left the Chase miles behind him.
There was some security in this constant occupation against an
uncontrollable impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust
into her hand some mad proposition that would undo everything.
Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign
from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift gallop.
"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night,"
said sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants'
hall. "He's been ridin' fit to split the mare i' two this
forenoon."
"That's happen one o' the symptims, John," said the facetious
coachman.
"Then I wish he war let blood for 't, that's all," said John,
grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had
been relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by
learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was
punctually there again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few
minutes Pym came down with a letter in his hand and gave it to
Adam, saying that the captain was too busy to see him, and had
written everything he had to say. The letter was directed to
Adam, but he went out of doors again before opening it. It
contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the inside of
the cover Adam read:
"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I
leave it to you to decide whether you will be doing best to
deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more
whether you are not taking a measure which may pain her more than
mere silence.
"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall
meet with better feelings some months hence.
A.D."
"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me," thought Adam.
"It's no use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use
meeting to shake hands and say we're friends again. We're not
friends, an' it's better not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is
a man's duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as you're to
give up all thoughts o' taking revenge: it can never mean as
you're t' have your old feelings back again, for that's not
possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can't feel the same
towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel the same
towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a
false line, and had got it all to measure over again."
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon
absorbed Adam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to
himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam,
who was not given to hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to
feel his way--to ascertain as well as he could what was Hetty's
state of mind before he decided on delivering the letter.
Chapter XXX
The Delivery of the Letter
THE next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of
church, hoping for an invitation to go home with them. He had the
letter in his pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of
talking to Hetty alone. He could not see her face at church, for
she had changed her seat, and when he came up to her to shake
hands, her manner was doubtful and constrained. He expected this,
for it was the first time she had met him since she had been aware
that he had seen her with Arthur in the Grove.
"Come, you'll go on with us, Adam," Mr. Poyser said when they
reached the turning; and as soon as they were in the fields Adam
ventured to offer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them
an opportunity of lingering behind a little, and then Adam said:
"Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you
this evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I've something partic'lar
to talk to you about."
Hetty said, "Very well." She was really as anxious as Adam was
that she should have some private talk with him. She wondered
what he thought of her and Arthur. He must have seen them
kissing, she knew, but she had no conception of the scene that had
taken place between Arthur and Adam. Her first feeling had been
that Adam would be very angry with her, and perhaps would tell her
aunt and uncle, but it never entered her mind that he would dare
to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It was a relief to her
that he behaved so kindly to her to-day, and wanted to speak to
her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was going home
with them lest he should mean "to tell." But, now he wanted to
talk to her by herself, she should learn what he thought and what
he meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she could
persuade him not to do anything she did not want him to do; she
could perhaps even make him believe that she didn't care for
Arthur; and as long as Adam thought there was any hope of her
having him, he would do just what she liked, she knew. Besides,
she MUST go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest her uncle and aunt
should be angry and suspect her of having some secret lover.
Hetty's little brain was busy with this combination as she hung on
Adam's arm and said "yes" or "no" to some slight observations of
his about the many hawthorn-berries there would be for the birds
this next winter, and the low-hanging clouds that would hardly
hold up till morning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle,
she could pursue her thoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser
held that though a young man might like to have the woman he was
courting on his arm, he would nevertheless be glad of a little
reasonable talk about business the while; and, for his own part,
he was curious to heal the most recent news about the Chase Farm.
So, through the rest of the walk, he claimed Adam's conversation
for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots and imagined her
little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked along by the
hedgerows on honest Adam's arm, quite as well as if she had been
an elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country
beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallow-hearted enough, it is
astonishing how closely her mental processes may resemble those of
a lady in society and crinoline, who applies her refined intellect
to the problem of committing indiscretions without compromising
herself. Perhaps the resemblance was not much the less because
Hetty felt very unhappy all the while. The parting with Arthur
was a double pain to her--mingling with the tumult of passion and
vanity there was a dim undefined fear that the future might shape
itself in some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the
comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their last meeting--
"I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see what can
be done." She clung to the belief that he was so fond of her, he
would never be happy without her; and she still hugged her secret--
that a great gentleman loved her--with gratified pride, as a
superiority over all the girls she knew. But the uncertainty of
the future, the possibilities to which she could give no shape,
began to press upon her like the invisible weight of air; she was
alone on her little island of dreams, and all around her was the
dark unknown water where Arthur was gone. She could gather no
elation of spirits now by looking forward, but only by looking
backward to build confidence on past words and caresses. But
occasionally, since Thursday evening, her dim anxieties had been
almost lost behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray
what he knew to her uncle and aunt, and his sudden proposition to
talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in a new way.
She was eager not to lose this evening's opportunity; and after
tea, when the boys were going into the garden and Totty begged to
go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs.
Poyser, "I'll go with her, Aunt."
It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too,
and soon he and Hetty were left alone together on the walk by the
filbert-trees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the
large unripe nuts to play at "cob-nut" with, and Totty was
watching them with a puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a
short time--hardly two months--since Adam had had his mind filled
with delicious hopes as he stood by Hetty's side un this garden.
The remembrance of that scene had often been with him since
Thursday evening: the sunlight through the apple-tree boughs, the
red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It came importunately now, on
this sad evening, with the low-hanging clouds, but he tried to
suppress it, lest some emotion should impel him to say more than
was needful for Hetty's sake.
"After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty," he began, "you won't
think me making too free in what I'm going to say. If you was
being courted by any man as 'ud make you his wife, and I'd known
you was fond of him and meant to have him, I should have no right
to speak a word to you about it; but when I see you're being made
love to by a gentleman as can never marry you, and doesna think o'
marrying you, I feel bound t' interfere for you. I can't speak
about it to them as are i' the place o' your parents, for that
might bring worse trouble than's needful."
Adam's words relieved one of Hetty's fears, but they also carried
a meaning which sickened her with a strengthened foreboding. She
was pale and trembling, and yet she would have angrily
contradicted Adam, if she had dared to betray her feelings. But
she was silent.
"You're so young, you know, Hetty," he went on, almost tenderly,
"and y' haven't seen much o' what goes on in the world. It's
right for me to do what I can to save you from getting into
trouble for want o' your knowing where you're being led to. If
anybody besides me knew what I know about your meeting a gentleman
and having fine presents from him, they'd speak light on you, and
you'd lose your character. And besides that, you'll have to
suffer in your feelings, wi' giving your love to a man as can
never marry you, so as he might take care of you all your life."
Adam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from
the filbert-trees and tearing them up in her hand. Her little
plans and preconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an illlearnt
lesson, under the terrible agitation produced by Adam's
words. There was a cruel force in their calm certainty which
threatened to grapple and crush her flimsy hopes and fancies. She
wanted to resist them--she wanted to throw them off with angry
contradiction--but the determination to conceal what she felt
still governed her. It was nothing more than a blind prompting
now, for she was unable to calculate the effect of her words.
"You've no right to say as I love him," she said, faintly, but
impetuously, plucking another rough leaf and tearing it up. She
was very beautiful in her paleness and agitation, with her dark
childish eyes dilated and her breath shorter than usual. Adam's
heart yearned over her as he looked at her. Ah, if he could but
comfort her, and soothe her, and save her from this pain; if he
had but some sort of strength that would enable him to rescue her
poor troubled mind, as he would have rescued her body in the face
of all danger!
"I doubt it must be so, Hetty," he said, tenderly; "for I canna
believe you'd let any man kiss you by yourselves, and give you a
gold box with his hair, and go a-walking i' the Grove to meet him,
if you didna love him. I'm not blaming you, for I know it 'ud
begin by little and little, till at last you'd not be able to
throw it off. It's him I blame for stealing your love i' that
way, when he knew he could never make you the right amends. He's
been trifling with you, and making a plaything of you, and caring
nothing about you as a man ought to care."
"Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you," Hetty burst
out. Everything was forgotten but the pain and anger she felt at
Adam's words.
"Nay, Hetty," said Adam, "if he'd cared for you rightly, he'd
never ha' behaved so. He told me himself he meant nothing by his
kissing and presents, and he wanted to make me believe as you
thought light of 'em too. But I know better nor that. I can't
help thinking as you've been trusting to his loving you well
enough to marry you, for all he's a gentleman. And that's why I
must speak to you about it, Hetty, for fear you should be
deceiving yourself. It's never entered his head the thought o'
marrying you."
"How do you know? How durst you say so?" said Hetty, pausing in
her walk and trembling. The terrible decision of Adam's tone
shook her with fear. She had no presence of mind left for the
reflection that Arthur would have his reasons for not telling the
truth to Adam. Her words and look were enough to determine Adam:
he must give her the letter.
"Perhaps you can't believe me, Hetty, because you think too well
of him--because you think he loves you better than he does. But
I've got a letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give
you. I've not read the letter, but he says he's told you the
truth in it. But before I give you the letter, consider, Hetty,
and don't let it take too much hold on you. It wouldna ha' been
good for you if he'd wanted to do such a mad thing as marry you:
it 'ud ha' led to no happiness i' th' end."
Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of a
letter which Adam had not read. There would be something quite
different in it from what he thought.
Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while
he said, in a tone of tender entreaty, "Don't you bear me ill
will, Hetty, because I'm the means o' bringing you this pain. God
knows I'd ha' borne a good deal worse for the sake o' sparing it
you. And think--there's nobody but me knows about this, and I'll
take care of you as if I was your brother. You're the same as
ever to me, for I don't believe you've done any wrong knowingly."
Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it
till he had done speaking. She took no notice of what he said--
she had not listened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it
into her pocket, without opening it, and then began to walk more
quickly, as if she wanted to go in.
"You're in the right not to read it just yet," said Adam. "Read
it when you're by yourself. But stay out a little bit longer, and
let us call the children: you look so white and ill, your aunt may
take notice of it."
Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of
rallying her native powers of concealment, which had half given
way under the shock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in
her pocket: she was sure there was comfort in that letter in spite
of Adam. She ran to find Totty, and soon reappeared with
recovered colour, leading Totty, who was making a sour face
because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe apple that
she had set her small teeth in.
"Hegh, Totty," said Adam, "come and ride on my shoulder--ever so
high--you'll touch the tops o' the trees."
What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious
sense of being seized strongly and swung upward? I don't believe
Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, and perhaps
deposited him on Jove's shoulder at the end. Totty smiled down
complacently from her secure height, and pleasant was the sight to
the mother's eyes, as she stood at the house door and saw Adam
coming with his small burden.
"Bless your sweet face, my pet," she said, the mother's strong
love filling her keen eyes with mildness, as Totty leaned forward
and put out her arms. She had no eyes for Hetty at that moment,
and only said, without looking at her, "You go and draw some ale,
Hetty; the gells are both at the cheese."
After the ale had been drawn and her uncle's pipe lighted, there
was Totty to be taken to bed, and brought down again in her nightgown
because she would cry instead of going to sleep. Then there
was supper to be got ready, and Hetty must be continually in the
way to give help. Adam stayed till he knew Mrs. Poyser expected
him to go, engaging her and her husband in talk as constantly as
he could, for the sake of leaving Hetty more at ease. He
lingered, because he wanted to see her safely through that
evening, and he was delighted to find how much self-command she
showed. He knew she had not had time to read the letter, but he
did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter
would contradict everything he had said. It was hard work for him
to leave her--hard to think that he should not know for days how
she was bearing her trouble. But he must go at last, and all he
could do was to press her hand gently as he said "Good-bye," and
hope she would take that as a sign that if his love could ever be
a refuge for her, it was there the same as ever. How busy his
thoughts were, as he walked home, in devising pitying excuses for
her folly, in referring all her weakness to the sweet lovingness
of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less and less inclination
to admit that his conduct might be extenuated too! His
exasperation at Hetty's suffering--and also at the sense that she
was possibly thrust for ever out of his own reach--deafened him to
any plea for the miscalled friend who had wrought this misery.
Adam was a clear-sighted, fair-minded man--a fine fellow, indeed,
morally as well as physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever
in love and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly
magnanimous. And I cannot pretend that Adam, in these painful
days, felt nothing but righteous indignation and loving pity. He
was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his love made him
indulgent in his judgment of Hetty, the bitterness found a vent in
his feeling towards Arthur.
"Her head was allays likely to be turned," he thought, "when a
gentleman, with his fine manners, and fine clothes, and his white
hands, and that way o' talking gentlefolks have, came about her,
making up to her in a bold way, as a man couldn't do that was only
her equal; and it's much if she'll ever like a common man now."
He could not help drawing his own hands out of his pocket and
looking at them--at the hard palms and the broken finger-nails.
"I'm a roughish fellow, altogether; I don't know, now I come to
think on't, what there is much for a woman to like about me; and
yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, if I hadn't set my
heart on her. But it's little matter what other women think about
me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me, perhaps, as
likely as any other man--there's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid
of, if he hadn't come between us; but now I shall belike be
hateful to her because I'm so different to him. And yet there's
no telling--she may turn round the other way, when she finds he's
made light of her all the while. She may come to feel the vally
of a man as 'ud be thankful to be bound to her all his life. But
I must put up with it whichever way it is--I've only to be
thankful it's been no worse. I am not th' only man that's got to
do without much happiness i' this life. There's many a good bit
o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that's enough
for us: we shouldn't know better how things ought to be than He
does, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling. But it
'ud ha' gone near to spoil my work for me, if I'd seen her brought
to sorrow and shame, and through the man as I've always been proud
to think on. Since I've been spared that, I've no right to
grumble. When a man's got his limbs whole, he can bear a smart
cut or two."
As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections,
he perceived a man walking along the field before him. He knew it
was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, and made haste to
overtake him.
"I thought thee'dst be at home before me," he said, as Seth turned
round to wait for him, "for I'm later than usual to-night."
"Well, I'm later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with
John Barnes, who has lately professed himself in a state of
perfection, and I'd a question to ask him about his experience.
It's one o' them subjects that lead you further than y' expect--
they don't lie along the straight road."
They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam
was not inclined to enter into the subtleties of religious
experience, but he was inclined to interchange a word or two of
brotherly affection and confidence with Seth. That was a rare
impulse in him, much as the brothers loved each other. They
hardly ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more than an
allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by nature reserved in
all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain timidity towards
his more practical brother.
"Seth, lad," Adam said, putting his arm on his brother's shoulder,
"hast heard anything from Dinah Morris since she went away?"
"Yes," said Seth. "She told me I might write her word after a
while, how we went on, and how mother bore up under her trouble.
So I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her about thee having
a new employment, and how Mother was more contented; and last
Wednesday, when I called at the post at Treddles'on, I found a
letter from her. I think thee'dst perhaps like to read it, but I
didna say anything about it because thee'st seemed so full of
other things. It's quite easy t' read--she writes wonderful for a
woman."
Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam,
who said, as he took it, "Aye, lad, I've got a tough load to carry
just now--thee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit silenter and
crustier nor usual. Trouble doesna make me care the less for
thee. I know we shall stick together to the last."
"I take nought ill o' thee, Adam. I know well enough what it
means if thee't a bit short wi' me now and then."
"There's Mother opening the door to look out for us," said Adam,
as they mounted the slope. "She's been sitting i' the dark as
usual. Well, Gyp, well, art glad to see me?"
Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had
heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the grass, before Gyp's
joyful bark.
"Eh, my lads! Th' hours war ne'er so long sin' I war born as
they'n been this blessed Sunday night. What can ye both ha' been
doin' till this time?"
"Thee shouldstna sit i' the dark, Mother," said Adam; "that makes
the time seem longer."
"Eh, what am I to do wi' burnin' candle of a Sunday, when there's
on'y me an' it's sin to do a bit o' knittin'? The daylight's long
enough for me to stare i' the booke as I canna read. It 'ud be a
fine way o' shortenin' the time, to make it waste the good candle.
But which on you's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or
full, I should think, seein' what time o' night it is."
"I'm hungry, Mother," said Seth, seating himself at the little
table, which had been spread ever since it was light.
"I've had my supper," said Adam. "Here, Gyp," he added, taking
some cold potato from the table and rubbing the rough grey head
that looked up towards him.
"Thee needstna be gi'in' th' dog," said Lisbeth; "I'n fed him well
a'ready. I'm not like to forget him, I reckon, when he's all o'
thee I can get sight on."
"Come, then, Gyp," said Adam, "we'll go to bed. Good-night,
Mother; I'm very tired."
"What ails him, dost know?" Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was
gone upstairs. "He's like as if he was struck for death this day
or two--he's so cast down. I found him i' the shop this forenoon,
arter thee wast gone, a-sittin' an' doin' nothin'--not so much as
a booke afore him."
"He's a deal o' work upon him just now, Mother," said Seth, "and I
think he's a bit troubled in his mind. Don't you take notice of
it, because it hurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you
can, Mother, and don't say anything to vex him."
"Eh, what dost talk o' my vexin' him? An' what am I like to be
but kind? I'll ma' him a kettle-cake for breakfast i' the
mornin'."
Adam, meanwhile, was reading Dinah's letter by the light of his
dip candle.
DEAR BROTHER SETH--Your letter lay three days beyond my knowing of
it at the post, for I had not money enough by me to pay the
carriage, this being a time of great need and sickness here, with
the rains that have fallen, as if the windows of heaven were
opened again; and to lay by money, from day to day, in such a
time, when there are so many in present need of all things, would
be a want of trust like the laying up of the manna. I speak of
this, because I would not have you think me slow to answer, or
that I had small joy in your rejoicing at the worldly good that
has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bear him
is nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he
uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when he was exalted to
a place of power and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards
his parent and his younger brother.
"My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to
be near her in the day of trouble. Speak to her of me, and tell
her I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, when I am
sitting in the dim light as I did with her, and we held one
another's hands, and I spoke the words of comfort that were given
to me. Ah, that is a blessed time, isn't it, Seth, when the
outward light is fading, and the body is a little wearied with its
work and its labour. Then the inward light shines the brighter,
and we have a deeper sense of resting on the Divine strength. I
sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and it is as
if I was out of the body and could feel no want for evermore. For
then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and
the sin I have beheld and been ready to weep over--yea, all the
anguish of the children of men, which sometimes wraps me round
like sudden darkness--I can bear with a willing pain, as if I was
sharing the Redeemer's cross. For I feel it, I feel it--infinite
love is suffering too--yea, in the fulness of knowledge it
suffers, it yearns, it mourns; and that is a blind self-seeking
which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewith the whole
creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not true
blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is sorrow and sin
in the world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not
seek to throw it off. It is not the spirit only that tells me
this--I see it in the whole work and word of the Gospel. Is there
not pleading in heaven? Is not the Man of Sorrows there in that
crucified body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one with the
Infinite Love itself--as our love is one with our sorrow?
"These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have
seen with new clearness the meaning of those words, 'If any man
love me, let him take up my cross.' I have heard this enlarged on
as if it meant the troubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves
by confessing Jesus. But surely that is a narrow thought. The
true cross of the Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this world--
that was what lay heavy on his heart--and that is the cross we
shall share with him, that is the cup we must drink of with him,
if we would have any part in that Divine Love which is one with
his sorrow.
"In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and
abound. I have had constant work in the mill, though some of the
other hands have been turned off for a time, and my body is
greatly strengthened, so that I feel little weariness after long
walking and speaking. What you say about staying in your own
country with your mother and brother shows me that you have a true
guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clear showing, and to
seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying a false
offering on the altar and expecting the fire from heaven to kindle
it. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes
think I cling too much to my life among the people here, and
should be rebellious if I was called away.
"I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the
Hall Farm, for though I sent them a letter, by my aunt's desire,
after I came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no word
from them. My aunt has not the pen of a ready writer, and the
work of the house is sufficient for the day, for she is weak in
body. My heart cleaves to her and her children as the nearest of
all to me in the flesh--yea, and to all in that house. I am
carried away to them continually in my sleep, and often in the
midst of work, and even of speech, the thought of them is borne in
on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is dark to
me. There may be some leading here; but I wait to be taught. You
say they are all well.
"We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it
may be, not for a long while; for the brethren and sisters at
Leeds are desirous to have me for a short space among them, when I
have a door opened me again to leave Snowfield.
"Farewell, dear brother--and yet not farewell. For those children
of God whom it has been granted to see each other face to face,
and to hold communion together, and to feel the same spirit
working in both can never more be sundered though the hills may
lie between. For their souls are enlarged for evermore by that
union, and they bear one another about in their thoughts
continually as it were a new strength.--Your faithful Sister and
fellow-worker in Christ,
DINAH MORRIS."
"I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen
moves slow. And so I am straitened, and say but little of what is
in my mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me
to kiss her twice when we parted."
Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with
his head resting on his arm at the head of the bed, when Seth came
upstairs.
"Hast read the letter?" said Seth.
"Yes," said Adam. "I don't know what I should ha' thought of her
and her letter if I'd never seen her: I daresay I should ha'
thought a preaching woman hateful. But she's one as makes
everything seem right she says and does, and I seemed to see her
and hear her speaking when I read the letter. It's wonderful how
I remember her looks and her voice. She'd make thee rare and
happy, Seth; she's just the woman for thee."
"It's no use thinking o' that," said Seth, despondingly. "She
spoke so firm, and she's not the woman to say one thing and mean
another."
"Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to
love by degrees--the best fire dosna flare up the soonest. I'd
have thee go and see her by and by: I'd make it convenient for
thee to be away three or four days, and it 'ud be no walk for
thee--only between twenty and thirty mile."
"I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be
displeased with me for going," said Seth.
"She'll be none displeased," said Adam emphatically, getting up
and throwing off his coat. "It might be a great happiness to us
all if she'd have thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and
seemed so contented to be with her."
"Aye," said Seth, rather timidly, "and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too;
she thinks a deal about her."
Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but "good-night"
passed between them.
Chapter XXXI
In Hetty's Bed-Chamber
IT was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even
in Mrs. Poyser's early household, and Hetty carried one with her
as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone,
and bolted the door behind her.
Now she would read her letter. It must--it must have comfort in
it. How was Adam to know the truth? It was always likely he
should say what he did say.
She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint
scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur were close to
her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered sensations
for a moment or two swept away all fear. But her heart began to
flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as she broke the seal.
She read slowly; it was not easy for her to read a gentleman's
handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains to write plainly.
"DEAREST HETTY--I have spoken truly when I have said that I loved
you, and I shall never forget our love. I shall be your true
friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in
many ways. If I say anything to pain you in this letter, do not
believe it is for want of love and tenderness towards you, for
there is nothing I would not do for you, if I knew it to be really
for your happiness. I cannot bear to think of my little Hetty
shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them away; and if I
followed only my own inclinations, I should be with her at this
moment instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part from
her--harder still for me to write words which may seem unkind,
though they spring from the truest kindness.
"Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it
would be to me for you to love me always, I feel that it would
have been better for us both if we had never had that happiness,
and that it is my duty to ask you to love me and care for me as
little as you can. The fault has all been mine, for though I have
been unable to resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all
the while that your affection for me might cause you grief. I
ought to have resisted my feelings. I should have done so, if I
had been a better fellow than I am; but now, since the past cannot
be altered, I am bound to save you from any evil that I have power
to prevent. And I feel it would be a great evil for you if your
affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of no
other man who might be able to make you happier by his love than I
ever can, and if you continued to look towards something in the
future which cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were
to do what you one day spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do
what you yourself would come to feel was for your misery instead
of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by marrying
a man in your own station; and if I were to marry you now, I
should only be adding to any wrong I have done, besides offending
against my duty in the other relations of life. You know nothing,
dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live, and you
would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so little
in which we should be alike.
"And since I cannot marry you, we must part--we must try not to
feel like lovers any more. I am miserable while I say this, but
nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve
it; but do not believe that I shall not always care for you--
always be grateful to you--always remember my Hetty; and if any
trouble should come that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do
everything that lies in my power.
"I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want
to write, but I put it down below lest you should have forgotten.
Do not write unless there is something I can really do for you;
for, dear Hetty, we must try to think of each other as little as
we can. Forgive me, and try to forget everything about me, except
that I shall be, as long as I live, your affectionate friend,
ARTHUR DONNITHORNE.
Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it
there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass--
a white marble face with rounded childish forms, but with
something sadder than a child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the
face--she saw nothing--she only felt that she was cold and sick
and trembling. The letter shook and rustled in her hand. She
laid it down. It was a horrible sensation--this cold and
trembling. It swept away the very ideas that produced it, and
Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her clothes-press, wrapped
it round her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but
getting warm. Presently she took up the letter with a firmer
hand, and began to read it through again. The tears came this
time--great rushing tears that blinded her and blotched the paper.
She felt nothing but that Arthur was cruel--cruel to write so,
cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could not marry her had no
existence for her mind; how could she believe in any misery that
could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing
for and dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make up the
notion of that misery.
As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face
in the glass; it was reddened now, and wet with tears; it was
almost like a companion that she might complain to--that would
pity her. She leaned forward on her elbows, and looked into those
dark overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth, and saw how the
tears came thicker and thicker, and how the mouth became convulsed
with sobs.
The shattering of all her little dream-world, the crushing blow on
her new-born passion, afflicted her pleasure-craving nature with
an overpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to resistance,
and suspended her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went
out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw
herself on the bed without undressing and went to sleep.
There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little
after four o'clock, with a sense of dull misery, the cause of
which broke upon her gradually as she began to discern the objects
round her in the dim light. And then came the frightening thought
that she had to conceal her misery as well as to bear it, in this
dreary daylight that was coming. She could lie no longer. She
got up and went towards the table: there lay the letter. She
opened her treasure-drawer: there lay the ear-rings and the
locket--the signs of all her short happiness--the signs of the
lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the little
trinkets which she had once eyed and fingered so fondly as the
earnest of her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the
moments when they had been given to her with such tender caresses,
such strangely pretty words, such glowing looks, which filled her
with a bewildering delicious surprise--they were so much sweeter
than she had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had
spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was present with
her now--whose arm she felt round her, his cheek against hers, his
very breath upon her--was the cruel, cruel Arthur who had written
that letter, that letter which she snatched and crushed and then
opened again, that she might read it once more. The half-benumbed
mental condition which was the effect of the last night's violent
crying made it necessary to her to look again and see if her
wretched thoughts were actually true--if the letter was really so
cruel. She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not
have read it by the faint light. Yes! It was worse--it was more
cruel. She crushed it up again in anger. She hated the writer of
that letter--hated him for the very reason that she hung upon him
with all her love--all the girlish passion and vanity that made up
her love.
She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last
night, and now she felt that dry-eyed morning misery, which is
worse than the first shock because it has the future in it as well
as the present. Every morning to come, as far as her imagination
could stretch, she would have to get up and feel that the day
would have no joy for her. For there is no despair so absolute as
that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow,
when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be
healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope. As Hetty
began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the
night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a
sickening sense that her life would go on in this way. She should
always be doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the
old tasks of work, seeing people she cared nothing about, going to
church, and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and
carrying no happy thought with her. For her short poisonous
delights had spoiled for ever all the little joys that had once
made the sweetness of her life--the new frock ready for
Treddleston Fair, the party at Mr. Britton's at Broxton wake, the
beaux that she would say "No" to for a long while, and the
prospect of the wedding that was to come at last when she would
have a silk gown and a great many clothes all at once. These
things were all flat and dreary to her now; everything would be a
weariness, and she would carry about for ever a hopeless thirst
and longing.
She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned
against the dark old clothes-press. Her neck and arms were bare,
her hair hung down in delicate rings--and they were just as
beautiful as they were that night two months ago, when she walked
up and down this bed-chamber glowing with vanity and hope. She
was not thinking of her neck and arms now; even her own beauty was
indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered sadly over the dull old
chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards the growing dawn.
Did a remembrance of Dinah come across her mind? Of her
foreboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's
affectionate entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No,
the impression had been too slight to recur. Any affection or
comfort Dinah could have given her would have been as indifferent
to Hetty this morning as everything else was except her bruised
passion. She was only thinking she could never stay here and go
on with the old life--she could better bear something quite new
than sinking back into the old everyday round. She would like to
run away that very morning, and never see any of the old faces
again. But Hetty's was not a nature to face difficulties--to dare
to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown
condition. Hers was a luxurious and vain nature--not a passionate
one--and if she were ever to take any violent measure, she must be
urged to it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room
for her thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her
imagination, and she soon fixed on the one thing she would do to
get away from her old life: she would ask her uncle to let her go
to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maid would help her to get a
situation, if she krew Hetty had her uncle's leave.
When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began
to wash: it seemed more possible to her to go downstairs and try
to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle this very day. On
Hetty's blooming health it would take a great deal of such mental
suffering as hers to leave any deep impress; and when she was
dressed as neatly as usual in her working-dress, with her hair
tucked up under her little cap, an indifferent observer would have
been more struck with the young roundness of her cheek and neck
and the darkness of her eyes and eyelashes than with any signs of
sadness about her. But when she took up the crushed letter and
put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard
smarting tears, having no relief in them as the great drops had
that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes. She wiped
them away quickly: she must not cry in the day-time. Nobody
should find out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was
disappointed about anything; and the thought that the eyes of her
aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her the self-command which
often accompanies a great dread. For Hetty looked out from her
secret misery towards the possibility of their ever knowing what
had happened, as the sick and weary prisoner might think of the
possible pillory. They would think her conduct shameful, and
shame was torture. That was poor little Hetty's conscience.
So she locked up her drawer and went away to her early work.
In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his
good-nature was therefore at its superlative moment, Hetty seized
the opportunity of her aunt's absence to say, "Uncle, I wish you'd
let me go for a lady's maid."
Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in
mild surprise for some moments. She was sewing, and went on with
her work industriously.
"Why, what's put that into your head, my wench?" he said at last,
after he had given one conservative puff.
"I should like it--I should like it better than farm-work."
"Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It
wouldn't be half so good for your health, nor for your luck i'
life. I'd like you to stay wi' us till you've got a good husband:
you're my own niece, and I wouldn't have you go to service, though
it was a gentleman's house, as long as I've got a home for you."
Mr. Poyser paused, and puffed away at his pipe.
"I like the needlework," said Hetty, "and I should get good
wages."
"Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi' you?" said Mr. Poyser, not
noticing Hetty's further argument. "You mustna mind that, my
wench--she does it for your good. She wishes you well; an' there
isn't many aunts as are no kin to you 'ud ha' done by you as she
has."
"No, it isn't my aunt," said Hetty, "but I should like the work
better."
"It was all very well for you to learn the work a bit--an' I gev
my consent to that fast enough, sin' Mrs. Pomfret was willing to
teach you. For if anything was t' happen, it's well to know how
to turn your hand to different sorts o' things. But I niver meant
you to go to service, my wench; my family's ate their own bread
and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father? You
wouldna like your grand-child to take wage?"
"Na-a-y," said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant
to make it bitter as well as negative, while he leaned forward and
looked down on the floor. "But the wench takes arter her mother.
I'd hard work t' hould HER in, an' she married i' spite o' me--a
feller wi' on'y two head o' stock when there should ha' been ten
on's farm--she might well die o' th' inflammation afore she war
thirty."
It was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son's
question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the embers of a long
unextinguished resentment, which had always made the grandfather
more indifferent to Hetty than to his son's children. Her
mother's fortune had been spent by that good-for-nought Sorrel,
and Hetty had Sorrel's blood in her veins.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" said Martin the younger, who was sorry
to have provoked this retrospective harshness. "She'd but bad
luck. But Hetty's got as good a chance o' getting a solid, sober
husband as any gell i' this country."
After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his
pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see if she did not give
some sign of having renounced her ill-advised wish. But instead
of that, Hetty, in spite of herself, began to cry, half out of ill
temper at the denial, half out of the day's repressed sadness.
"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully,
"don't let's have any crying. Crying's for them as ha' got no
home, not for them as want to get rid o' one. What dost think?"
he continued to his wife, who now came back into the house-place,
knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that movement were a
necessary function, like the twittering of a crab's antennae.
"Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are
much older, wi' that gell forgetting to lock the pens up o'
nights. What's the matter now, Hetty? What are you crying at?"
"Why, she's been wanting to go for a lady's maid," said Mr.
Poyser. "I tell her we can do better for her nor that."
"I thought she'd got some maggot in her head, she's gone about wi'
her mouth buttoned up so all day. It's all wi' going so among
them servants at the Chase, as we war fools for letting her. She
thinks it 'ud be a finer life than being wi' them as are akin to
her and ha' brought her up sin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She
thinks there's nothing belongs to being a lady's maid but wearing
finer clothes nor she was born to, I'll be bound. It's what rag
she can get to stick on her as she's thinking on from morning till
night, as I often ask her if she wouldn't like to be the mawkin i'
the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out. I'll
never gi' my consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she's
got good friends to take care on her till she's married to
somebody better nor one o' them valets, as is neither a common man
nor a gentleman, an' must live on the fat o' the land, an's like
enough to stick his hands under his coat-tails and expect his wife
to work for him."
"Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we must have a better husband for
her nor that, and there's better at hand. Come, my wench, give
over crying and get to bed. I'll do better for you nor letting
you go for a lady's maid. Let's hear no more on't."
When Hetty was gone upstairs he said, "I canna make it out as she
should want to go away, for I thought she'd got a mind t' Adam
Bede. She's looked like it o' late."
"Eh, there's no knowing what she's got a liking to, for things
take no more hold on her than if she was a dried pea. I believe
that gell, Molly--as is aggravatin' enough, for the matter o'
that--but I believe she'd care more about leaving us and the
children, for all she's been here but a year come Michaelmas, nor
Hetty would. But she's got this notion o' being a lady's maid wi'
going among them servants--we might ha' known what it 'ud lead to
when we let her go to learn the fine work. But I'll put a stop to
it pretty quick."
"Thee'dst be sorry to part wi' her, if it wasn't for her good,"
said Mr. Poyser. "She's useful to thee i' the work."
"Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on her nor she deserves--a little hardhearted
hussy, wanting to leave us i' that way. I can't ha' had
her about me these seven year, I reckon, and done for her, and
taught her everything wi'out caring about her. An' here I'm
having linen spun, an' thinking all the while it'll make sheeting
and table-clothing for her when she's married, an' she'll live i'
the parish wi' us, and never go out of our sights--like a fool as
I am for thinking aught about her, as is no better nor a cherry
wi' a hard stone inside it."
"Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle," said Mr. Poyser,
soothingly. "She's fond on us, I'll be bound; but she's young,
an' gets things in her head as she can't rightly give account on.
Them young fillies 'ull run away often wi'-ou; knowing why."
Her uncle's answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty
besides that of disappointing her and making her cry. She knew
quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions to marriage,
and to a sober, solid husband; and when she was in her bedroom
again, the possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself to
her in a new light. In a mind where no strong sympathies are at
work, where there is no supreme sense of right to which the
agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quiet endurance,
one of the first results of sorrow is a desperate vague clutching
after any deed that will change the actual condition. Poor
Hetty's vision of consequences, at no time more than a narrow
fantastic calculation of her own probable pleasures and pains, was
now quite shut out by reckless irritation under present suffering,
and she was ready for one of those convulsive, motiveless actions
by which wretched men and women leap from a temporary sorrow into
a lifelong misery.
Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so
that it made some change in her life. She felt confident that he
would still want to marry her, and any further thought about
Adam's happiness in the matter had never yet visited her.
"Strange!" perhaps you will say, "this rush of impulse to-wards a
course that might have seemed the most repugnant to her present
state of mind, and in only the second night of her sadness!"
Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty's, struggling
amidst the serious sad destinies of a human being, are strange.
So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about
on a stormy sea. How pretty it looked with its parti-coloured
sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay!
"Let that man bear the loss who loosed it from its moorings."
But that will not save the vessel--the pretty thing that might
have been a lasting joy.
Chapter XXXII
Mrs. Poyser "Has Her Say Out"
THE next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the
Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that
very day--no less than a second appearance of the smart man in
top-boots said by some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase
Farm, by others to be the future steward, but by Mr. Casson
himself, the personal witness to the stranger's visit, pronounced
contemptuously to be nothing better than a bailiff, such as
Satchell had been before him. No one had thought of denying Mr.
Casson's testimony to the fact that he had seen the stranger;
nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating circumstances.
"I see him myself," he said; "I see him coming along by the Crabtree
Meadow on a bald-faced hoss. I'd just been t' hev a pint--it
was half after ten i' the fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg'lar
as the clock--and I says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon,
'You'll get a bit o' barley to-day, Knowles,' I says, 'if you look
about you'; and then I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the
Treddles'on road, and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see
the man i' top-boots coming along on a bald-faced hoss--I wish I
may never stir if I didn't. And I stood still till he come up,
and I says, 'Good morning, sir,' I says, for I wanted to hear the
turn of his tongue, as I might know whether he was a this-country
man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hup for the barley
this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, if we've good
luck.' And he says, 'Eh, ye may be raight, there's noo tallin','
he says, and I knowed by that"--here Mr. Casson gave a wink--"as
he didn't come from a hundred mile off. I daresay he'd think me a
hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as talks
the right language."
"The right language!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. "You're
about as near the right language as a pig's squeaking is like a
tune played on a key-bugle."
"Well, I don't know," answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile.
"I should think a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is
likely to know what's the right language pretty nigh as well as a
schoolmaster."
"Aye, aye, man," said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic
consolation, "you talk the right language for you. When Mike
Holdsworth's goat says ba-a-a, it's all right--it 'ud be unnatural
for it to make any other noise."
The rest of the party being Loamsnire men, Mr. Casson had the
laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell back on the previous
question, which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was
renewed in the churchyard, before service, the next day, with the
fresh interest conferred on all news when there is a fresh person
to hear it; and that fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his
wife said, "never went boozin' with that set at Casson's, asittin'
soakin' in drink, and looking as wise as a lot o' cod-fish
wi' red faces."
It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her
husband on their way from church concerning this problematic
stranger that Mrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted to him
when, a day or two afterwards, as she was standing at the housedoor
with her knitting, in that eager leisure which came to her
when the afternoon cleaning was done, she saw the old squire enter
the yard on his black pony, followed by John the groom. She
always cited it afterwards as a case of prevision, which really
had something more in it than her own remarkable penetration, that
the moment she set eyes on the squire she said to herself, "I
shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is a-going to take
the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him without
pay. But Poyser's a fool if he does."
Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old
squire's visits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser
had during the last twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches,
meaning even more than met the ear, which she was quite determined
to make to him the next time he appeared within the gates of the
Hall Farm, the speeches had always remained imaginary.
"Good-day, Mrs. Poyser," said the old squire, peering at her with
his short-sighted eyes--a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs.
Poyser observed, "allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a
insect, and he was going to dab his finger-nail on you."
However, she said, "Your servant, sir," and curtsied with an air
of perfect deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the
woman to misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the
catechism, without severe provocation.
"Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?"
"Yes, sir; he's only i' the rick-yard. I'll send for him in a
minute, if you'll please to get down and step in."
"Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little
matter; but you are quite as much concerned in it, if not more. I
must have your opinion too."
"Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in," said Mrs. Poyser, as
they entered the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer
to Hetty's curtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained
with gooseberry jam, stood hiding her face against the clock and
peeping round furtively.
"What a fine old kitchen this is!" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking
round admiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, wellchiselled,
polite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous.
"And you keep it so exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these
premises, do you know, beyond any on the estate."
"Well, sir, since you're fond of 'em, I should be glad if you'd
let a bit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the boarding's i' that
state as we're like to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and the
cellar, you may stan' up to your knees i' water in't, if you like
to go down; but perhaps you'd rather believe my words. Won't you
please to sit down, sir?"
"Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years,
and I hear on all hands about your fine cheese and butter," said
the squire, looking politely unconscious that there could be any
question on which he and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree. "I
think I see the door open, there. You must not be surprised if I
cast a covetous eye on your cream and butter. I don't expect that
Mrs. Satchell's cream and butter will bear comparison with yours."
"I can't say, sir, I'm sure. It's seldom I see other folks's
butter, though there's some on it as one's no need to see--the
smell's enough."
"Ah, now this I like," said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the
damp temple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. "I'm sure
I should like my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream
came from this dairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight.
Unfortunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of
damp: I'll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how
do you do? In the midst of business, I see, as usual. I've been
looking at your wife's beautiful dairy--the best manager in the
parish, is she not?"
Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat,
with a face a shade redder than usual, from the exertion of
"pitching." As he stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the
small, wiry, cool old gentleman, he looked like a prize apple by
the side of a withered crab.
"Will you please to take this chair, sir?" he said, lifting his
father's arm-chair forward a little: "you'll find it easy."
"No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs," said the old
gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the door. "Do
you know, Mrs. Poyser--sit down, pray, both of you--I've been far
from contented, for some time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy
management. I think she has not a good method, as you have."
"Indeed, sir, I can't speak to that," said Mrs. Poyser in a hard
voice, rolling and unrolling her knitting and looking icily out of
the window, as she continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser
might sit down if he liked, she thought; she wasn't going to sit
down, as if she'd give in to any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr.
Poyser, who looked and felt the reverse of icy, did sit down in
his three-cornered chair.
"And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let
the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm tired of having a
farm on my own hands--nothing is made the best of in such cases,
as you know. A satisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think
you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a
little arrangement in consequence, which will be to our mutual
advantage."
"Oh," said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of
imagination as to the nature of the arrangement.
"If I'm called upon to speak, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, after
glancing at her husband with pity at his softness, "you know
better than me; but I don't see what the Chase Farm is t' us--
we've cumber enough wi' our own farm. Not but what I'm glad to
hear o' anybody respectable coming into the parish; there's some
as ha' been brought in as hasn't been looked on i' that
character."
"You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure
you--such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the
little plan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will
find it as much to your own advantage as his."
"Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the
first offer o' the sort I've heared on. It's them as take
advantage that get advantage i' this world, I think. Folks have
to wait long enough afore it's brought to 'em."
"The fact is, Poyser," said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's
theory of worldly prosperity, "there is too much dairy land, and
too little plough land, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle's
purpose--indeed, he will only take the farm on condition of some
change in it: his wife, it appears, is not a clever dairy-woman,
like yours. Now, the plan I'm thinking of is to effect a little
exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures, you might
increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under your wife's
management; and I should request you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my
house with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the
other hand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper
Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be a good
riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn
land."
Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his
head on one side, and his mouth screwed up--apparently absorbed in
making the tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with
perfect accuracy the ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man
not to see through the whole business, and to foresee perfectly
what would be his wife's view of the subject; but he disliked
giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a point of farming
practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel, any day;
and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to him. So,
after a few moments' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly,
"What dost say?"
Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold
severity during his silence, but now she turned away her head with
a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and
spearing her knitting together with the loose pin, held it firmly
between her clasped hands.
"Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o'
your corn-land afore your lease is up, which it won't be for a
year come next Michaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more dairy
work into my hands, either for love or money; and there's nayther
love nor money here, as I can see, on'y other folks's love o'
theirselves, and the money as is to go into other folks's pockets.
I know there's them as is born t' own the land, and them as is
born to sweat on't"--here Mrs. Poyser paused to gasp a little--
"and I know it's christened folks's duty to submit to their
betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not make
a martyr o' myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and worret
myself as if I was a churn wi' butter a-coming in't, for no
landlord in England, not if he was King George himself."
"No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not," said the squire,
still confident in his own powers of persuasion, "you must not
overwork yourself; but don't you think your work will rather be
lessened than increased in this way? There is so much milk
required at the Abbey that you will have little increase of cheese
and butter making from the addition to your dairy; and I believe
selling the milk is the most profitable way of disposing of dairy
produce, is it not?"
"Aye, that's true," said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion
on a question of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not
in this case a purely abstract question.
"I daresay," said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way
towards her husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair--"I
daresay it's true for men as sit i' th' chimney-corner and make
believe as everything's cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int'
everything else. If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the
batter, it 'ud be easy getting dinner. How do I know whether the
milk 'ull be wanted constant? What's to make me sure as the house
won't be put o' board wage afore we're many months older, and then
I may have to lie awake o' nights wi' twenty gallons o' milk on my
mind--and Dingall 'ull take no more butter, let alone paying for
it; and we must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg the butcher on
our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' the measles. And
there's the fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly half a day's
work for a man an' hoss--that's to be took out o' the profits, I
reckon? But there's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and
expect to carry away the water."
"That difficulty--about the fetching and carrying--you will not
have, Mrs. Poyser," said the squire, who thought that this
entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclination to
compromise on Mrs. Poyser's part. "Bethell will do that regularly
with the cart and pony."
"Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' having
gentlefolks's servants coming about my back places, a-making love
to both the gells at once and keeping 'em with their hands on
their hips listening to all manner o' gossip when they should be
down on their knees a-scouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna
be wi' having our back kitchen turned into a public."
"Well, Poyser," said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking
as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the
proceedings and left the room, "you can turn the Hollows into
feeding-land. I can easily make another arrangement about
supplying my house. And I shall not forget your readiness to
accommodate your landlord as well as a neighbour. I know you will
be glad to have your lease renewed for three years, when the
present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who is a man of
some capital, would be glad to take both the farms, as they could
be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an old
tenant like you."
To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been
enough to complete Mrs. Poyser's exasperation, even without the
final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of
their leaving the old place where he had been bred and born--for
he believed the old squire had small spite enough for anything--
was beginning a mild remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience
he should find in having to buy and sell more stock, with, "Well,
sir, I think as it's rether hard..." when Mrs. Poyser burst in
with the desperate determination to have her say out this once,
though it were to rain notices to quit and the only shelter were
the work-house.
"Then, sir, if I may speak--as, for all I'm a woman, and there's
folks as thinks a woman's fool enough to stan' by an' look on
while the men sign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I
make one quarter o' the rent, and save another quarter--I say, if
Mr. Thurle's so ready to take farms under you, it's a pity but
what he should take this, and see if he likes to live in a house
wi' all the plagues o' Egypt in't--wi' the cellar full o' water,
and frogs and toads hoppin' up the steps by dozens--and the floors
rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bit o' cheese, and
runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect 'em to eat
us up alive--as it's a mercy they hanna eat the children long ago.
I should like to see if there's another tenant besides Poyser as
'ud put up wi' never having a bit o' repairs done till a place
tumbles down--and not then, on'y wi' begging and praying and
having to pay half--and being strung up wi' the rent as it's much
if he gets enough out o' the land to pay, for all he's put his own
money into the ground beforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to
lead such a life here as that: a maggot must be born i' the rotten
cheese to like it, I reckon. You may run away from my words,
sir," continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old squire beyond the
door--for after the first moments of stunned surprise he had got
up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had walked out
towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to get away
immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard,
and was some distance from the causeway when his master beckoned.
"You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin'
underhand ways o' doing us a mischief, for you've got Old Harry to
your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as
we're not dumb creatures to be abused and made money on by them as
ha' got the lash i' their hands, for want o' knowing how t' undo
the tackle. An' if I'm th' only one as speaks my mind, there's
plenty o' the same way o' thinking i' this parish and the next to
't, for your name's no better than a brimstone match in
everybody's nose--if it isna two-three old folks as you think o'
saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a drop o'
porridge. An' you may be right i' thinking it'll take but little
to save your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made,
wi' all your scrapin'."
There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may
be a formidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black
pony, even the gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from
being aware that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far
from him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was grinning
behind him--which was also the fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the
black-and-tan terrier, Alick's sheep-dog, and the gander hissing
at a safe distance from the pony's heels carried out the idea of
Mrs. Poyser's solo in an irnpressive quartet.
Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than
she turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which
drove them into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting,
began to knit again with her usual rapidity as she re-entered the
house.
"Thee'st done it now," said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and
uneasy, but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife's
outbreak.
"Yes, I know I've done it," said Mrs. Poyser; "but I've had my say
out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life. There's no
pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up for ever, and only
dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan't
repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as th' old
squire; and there's little likelihood--for it seems as if them as
aren't wanted here are th' only folks as aren't wanted i' th'
other world."
"But thee wutna like moving from th' old place, this Michaelmas
twelvemonth," said Mr. Poyser, "and going into a strange parish,
where thee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon us both, and upo'
Father too."
"Eh, it's no use worreting; there's plenty o' things may happen
between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be
master afore them, for what we know," said Mrs. Poyser, inclined
to take an unusually hopeful view of an embarrassment which had
been brought about by her own merit and not by other people's
fault.
"I'M none for worreting," said Mr. Poyser, rising from his threecornered
chair and walking slowly towards the door; "but I should
be loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred
and born, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind
us, I doubt, and niver thrive again."
Chapter XXXIII
More Links
THE barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went
by without waiting for the dismal black crop of beans. The apples
and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent of whey departed from
the farm-houses, and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The
woods behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a
solemn splendour under the dark low-hanging skies. Michaelmas was
come, with its fragrant basketfuls of purple damsons, and its
paler purple daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking
service and winding along between the yellow hedges, with their
bundles under their arms. But though Michaelmas was come, Mr.
Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come to the Chase Farm, and
the old squire, afler all, had been obliged to put in a new
bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that the
squire's plan had been frustrated because the Poysers had refused
to be "put upon," and Mrs. Poyser's outbreak was discussed in all
the farm-houses with a zest which was only heightened by frequent
repetition. The news that "Bony" was come back from Egypt was
comparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy was
nothing to Mrs. Poyser's repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine
had heard a version of it in every parishioner's house, with the
one exception of the Chase. But since he had always, with
marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel with Mr. Donnithorne, he
could not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old
gentleman's discomfiture with any one besides his mother, who
declared that if she were rich she should like to allow Mrs.
Poyser a pension for life, and wanted to invite her to the
parsonage that she might hear an account of the scene from Mrs.
Poyser's own lips.
"No, no, Mother," said Mr. Irwine; "it was a little bit of
irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser's part, but a magistrate like me
must not countenance irregular justice. There must be no report
spread that I have taken notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose
the little good influence I have over the old man."
"Well, I like that woman even better than her cream-cheeses," said
Mrs. Irwine. "She has the spirit of three men, with that pale
face of hers. And she says such sharp things too."
"Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a new-set razor. She's quite
original in her talk too; one of those untaught wits that help to
stock a country with proverbs. I told you that capital thing I
heard her say about Craig--that he was like a cock, who thought
the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now that's an AEsop's fable
in a sentence."
"But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out
of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?" said Mrs. Irwine.
"Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that
Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and digest his spleen rather
than turn them out. But if he should give them notice at Lady
Day, Arthur and I must move heaven and earth to mollify him. Such
old parishioners as they are must not go."
"Ah, there's no knowing what may happen before Lady day," said
Mrs. Irwine. "It struck me on Arthur's birthday that the old man
was a little shaken: he's eighty-three, you know. It's really an
unconscionable age. It's only women who have a right to live as
long as that."
"When they've got old-bachelor sons who would be forlorn without
them," said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and kissing his mother's hand.
Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband's occasional forebodings of a
notice to quit with "There's no knowing what may happen before
Lady day"--one of those undeniable general propositions which are
usually intended to convey a particular meaning very far from
undeniable. But it is really too hard upon human nature that it
should be held a criminal offence to imagine the death even of the
king when he is turned eighty-three. It is not to be believed
that any but the dullest Britons can be good subjects under that
hard condition.
Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the
Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she noticed a surprising
improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the girl got "closer tempered,
and sometimes she seemed as if there'd be no drawing a word from
her with cart-ropes," but she thought much less about her dress,
and went after the work quite eagerly, without any telling. And
it was wonderful how she never wanted to go out now--indeed, could
hardly be persuaded to go; and she bore her aunt's putting a stop
to her weekly lesson in fine-work at the Chase without the least
grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that she had set her
heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting to be a
lady's maid must have been caused by some little pique or
misunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever
Adam came to the Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits
and to talk more than at other times, though she was almost sullen
when Mr. Craig or any other admirer happened to pay a visit there.
Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which
gave way to surprise and delicious hope. Five days after
delivering Arthur's letter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm
again--not without dread lest the sight of him might be painful to
her. She was not in the house-place when he entered, and he sat
talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser for a few minutes with a heavy fear
on his heart that they might presently tell him Hetty was ill.
But by and by there came a light step that he knew, and when Mrs.
Poyser said, "Come, Hetty, where have you been?" Adam was obliged
to turn round, though he was afraid to see the changed look there
must be in her face. He almost started when he saw her smiling as
if she were pleased to see him--looking the same as ever at a
first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never
seen her in before when he came of an evening. Still, when he
looked at her again and again as she moved about or sat at her
work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she
smiled as much as she had ever done of late, but there was
something different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in
all her movements, Adam thought--something harder, older, less
child-like. "Poor thing!" he said to himself, "that's allays
likely. It's because she's had her first heartache. But she's
got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that."
As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to see
him--turning up her lovely face towards him as if she meant him to
understand that she was glad for him to come--and going about her
work in the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began
to believe that her feeling towards Arthur must have been much
slighter than he had imagined in his first indignation and alarm,
and that she had been able to think of her girlish fancy that
Arthur was in love with her and would marry her as a folly of
which she was timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had
sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would be--her
heart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man
she knew to have a serious love for her.
Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his
interpretations, and that it was altogether extremely unbecoming
in a sensible man to behave as he did--falling in love with a girl
who really had nothing more than her beauty to recommend her,
attributing imaginary virtues to her, and even condescending to
cleave to her after she had fallen in love with another man,
waiting for her kind looks as a patient trembling dog waits for
his master's eye to be turned upon him. But in so complex a thing
as human nature, we must consider, it is hard to find rules
without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensible
men fall in love with the most sensible women of their
acquaintance, see through all the pretty deceits of coquettish
beauty, never imagine themselves loved when they are not loved,
cease loving on all proper occasions, and marry the woman most
fitted for them in every respect--indeed, so as to compel the
approbation of all the maiden ladies in their neighbourhood. But
even to this rule an exception will occur now and then in the
lapse of centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part,
however, I respect him none the less--nay, I think the deep love
he had for that sweet, rounded, blossom-like, dark-eyed Hetty, of
whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the
very strength of his nature and not out of any inconsistent
weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite
music? To feel its wondrous harmonies searching the subtlest
windings of your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory
can penetrate, and binding together your whole being past and
present in one unspeakable vibration, melting you in one moment
with all the tenderness, all the love that has been scattered
through the toilsome years, concentrating in one emotion of heroic
courage or resignation all the hard-learnt lessons of selfrenouncing
sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow
and your present sorrow with all your past joy? If not, then
neither is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite
curves of a woman's cheek and neck and arms, by the liquid depths
of her beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish pout of her lips.
For the beauty of a lovely woman is like music: what can one say
more? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one
woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider
meaning than the thought that prompted them. It is more than a
woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyes--it seems to be a
far-off mighty love that has come near to us, and made speech for
itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by
something more than their prettiness--by their close kinship with
all we have known of tenderness and peace. The noblest nature
sees the most of this impersonal expression in beauty (it is
needless to say that there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and
undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason, the
noblest nature is often the most blinded to the character of the
one woman's soul that the beauty clothes. Whence, I fear, the
tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a long time to
come, in spite of mental philosophers who are ready with the best
receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.
Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his
feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise mystery in this way with
the appearance of knowledge; he called his love frankly a mystery,
as you have heard him. He only knew that the sight and memory of
her moved him deeply, touching the spring of all love and
tenderness, all faith and courage within him. How could he
imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in her? He created the
mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish,
tender.
The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling
towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must have been of
a slight kind; they were altogether wrong, and such as no man in
Arthur's position ought to have allowed himself, but they must
have had an air of playfulness about them, which had probably
blinded him to their danger and had prevented them from laying any
strong hold on Hetty's heart. As the new promise of happiness
rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousy began to die out.
Hetty was not made unhappy; he almost believed that she liked him
best; and the thought sometimes crossed his mind that the
friendship which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the
days to come, and he would not have to say "good-bye" to the grand
old woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur's.
For this new promise of happiness following so quickly on the
shock of pain had an intoxicating effect on the sober Adam, who
had all his life been used to much hardship and moderate hope.
Was he really going to have an easy lot after all? It seemed so,
for at the beginning of November, Jonathan Burge, finding it
impossible to replace Adam, had at last made up his mind to offer
him a share in the business, without further condition than that
he should continue to give his energies to it and renounce all
thought of having a separate business of his own. Son-in-law or
no son-in-law, Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted
with, and his headwork was so much more important to Burge than
his skill in handicraft that his having the management of the
woods made little difference in the value of his services; and as
to the bargains about the squire's timber, it would be easy to
call in a third person. Adam saw here an opening into a
broadening path of prosperous work such as he had thought of with
ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might come to build
a bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always said to
himself that Jonathan Burge's building buisness was like an acorn,
which might be the mother of a great tree. So he gave his hand to
Burge on that bargain, and went home with his mind full of happy
visions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps be shocked when
I say it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for
seasoning timber at a trifling expense, calculations as to the
cheapening of bricks per thousand by water-carriage, and a
favourite scheme for the strengthening of roofs and walls with a
peculiar form of iron girder. What then? Adam's enthusiasm lay
in these things; and our love is inwrought in our enthusiasm as
electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting its power by a
subtle presence.
Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for
his mother in the old one; his prospects would justify his
marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their
mother would perhaps be more contented to live apart from Adam.
But he told himself that he would not be hasty--he would not try
Hetty's feeling for him until it had had time to grow strong and
firm. However, tomorrow, after church, he would go to the Hall
Farm and tell them the news. Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it
better than a five-pound note, and he should see if Hetty's eyes
brightened at it. The months would be short with all he had to
fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him
of late must not hurry him into any premature words. Yet when he
got home and told his mother the good news, and ate his supper,
while she sat by almost crying for joy and wanting him to eat
twice as much as usual because of this good-luck, he could not
help preparing her gently for the coming change by talking of the
old house being too small for them all to go on living in it
always.
Chapter XXXIV
The Betrothal
IT was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of
November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds were high, and
the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which fluttered down
from the hedgerow elms must have fallen from pure decay.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, for she had taken
a cold too serious to be neglected; only two winters ago she had
been laid up for weeks with a cold; and since his wife did not go
to church, Mr. Poyser considered that on the whole it would be as
well for him to stay away too and "keep her company." He could
perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that determined
this conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds
that our firmest convictions are often dependent on subtle
impressions for which words are quite too coarse a medium.
However it was, no one from the Poyser family went to church that
afternoon except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was bold enough to
join them after church, and say that he would walk home with them,
though all the way through the village he appeared to be chiefly
occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them about the squirrels in
Binton Coppice, and promising to take them there some day. But
when they came to the fields he said to the boys, "Now, then,
which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' home-gate first
shall be the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the donkey.
But Tommy must have the start up to the next stile, because he's
the smallest."
Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As
soon as the boys had both set off, he looked down at Hetty and
said, "Won't you hang on my arm, Hetty?" in a pleading tone, as if
he had already asked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at
him smilingly and put her round arm through his in a moment. It
was nothing to her, putting her arm through Adam's, but she knew
he cared a great deal about having her arm through his, and she
wished him to care. Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at
the half-bare hedgerows and the ploughed field with the same sense
of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcely felt that he
was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was pressing her
arm a little--a very little. Words rushed to his lips that he
dared not utter--that he had made up his mind not to utter yet--
and so he was silent for the length of that field. The calm
patience with which he had once waited for Hetty's love, content
only with her presence and the thought of the future, had forsaken
him since that terrible shock nearly three months ago. The
agitations of jealousy had given a new restlessness to his
passion--had made fear and uncertainty too hard almost to bear.
But though he might not speak to Hetty of his love, he would tell
her about his new prospects and see if she would be pleased. So
when he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, "I'm going
to tell your uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and I
think he'll be glad to hear it too."
"What's that?" Hetty said indifferently.
"Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I'm
going to take it."
There was a change in Hetty's face, certainly not produced by any
agreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt a momentary
annoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her
uncle that Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business
any day, if he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and
the thought immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her
up because of what had happened lately, and had turned towards
Mary Burge. With that thought, and before she had time to
remember any reasons why it could not be true, came a new sense of
forsakenness and disappointment. The one thing--the one person--
her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away
from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She was
looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the tears, and
before he had finished saying, "Hetty, dear Hetty, what are you
crying for?" his eager rapid thought had flown through all the
causes conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the
true one. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge--she
didn't like him to marry--perhaps she didn't like him to marry any
one but herself? All caution was swept away--all reason for it
was gone, and Adam could feel nothing but trembling joy. He
leaned towards her and took her hand, as he said:
"I could afford to be married now, Hetty--I could make a wife
comfortable; but I shall never want to be married if you won't
have me."
Hetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had
done to Arthur that first evening in the wood, when she had
thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was a feebler
relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great dark eyes
and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more
beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant womanliness about Hetty
of late. Adam could hardly believe in the happiness of that
moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressed her arm
close against his heart as he leaned down towards her.
"Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love
and take care of as long as I live?"
Hetty did not speak, but Adam's face was very close to hers, and
she put up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. She wanted
to be caressed--she wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her
again.
Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through
the rest of the walk. He only said, "I may tell your uncle and
aunt, mayn't I, Hetty?" and she said, "Yes."
The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful
faces that evening, when Hetty was gone upstairs and Adam took the
opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather
that he saw his way to maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had
consented to have him.
"I hope you have no objections against me for her husband," said
Adam; "I'm a poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing as I can
work for."
"Objections?" said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned
forward and brought out his long "Nay, nay." "What objections can
we ha' to you, lad? Never mind your being poorish as yet; there's
money in your head-piece as there's money i' the sown field, but
it must ha' time. You'n got enough to begin on, and we can do a
deal tow'rt the bit o' furniture you'll want. Thee'st got
feathers and linen to spare--plenty, eh?"
This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was
wrapped up in a warm shawl and was too hoarse to speak with her
usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, but she
was presently unable to resist the temptation to be more explicit.
"It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen," she said,
hoarsely, "when I never sell a fowl but what's plucked, and the
wheel's a-going every day o' the week."
"Come, my wench," said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, "come and
kiss us, and let us wish you luck."
Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man.
"There!" he said, patting her on the back, "go and kiss your aunt
and your grandfather. I'm as wishful t' have you settled well as
if you was my own daughter; and so's your aunt, I'll be bound, for
she's done by you this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her
own. Come, come, now," he went on, becoming jocose, as soon as
Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, "Adam wants a kiss too,
I'll warrant, and he's a right to one now."
Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair.
"Come, Adam, then, take one," persisted Mr. Poyser, "else y' arena
half a man."
Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden--great strong fellow as
he was--and, putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently
kissed her lips.
It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were no
candles--why should there be, when the fire was so bright and was
reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted
to work on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like
contentment in the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to
her, Adam's caress, stirred no passion in her, were no longer
enough to satisfy her vanity, but they were the best her life
offered her now--they promised her some change.
There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about
the possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to
settle in. No house was empty except the one next to Will
Maskery's in the village, and that was too small for Adam now.
Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would be for Seth and his
mother to move and leave Adam in the old home, which might be
enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of space in the
woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning his mother out.
"Well, well," said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everything
to-night. We must take time to consider. You canna think o'
getting married afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but
there must be a bit o' time to make things comfortable."
"Aye, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper;
"Christian folks can't be married like cuckoos, I reckon."
"I'm a bit daunted, though," said Mr. Poyser, "when I think as we
may have notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm
twenty mile off."
"Eh," said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands
up and down, while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair,
"it's a poor tale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a
strange parish. An' you'll happen ha' double rates to pay," he
added, looking up at his son.
"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father," said Martin the
younger. "Happen the captain 'ull come home and make our peace
wi' th' old squire. I build upo' that, for I know the captain 'll
see folks righted if he can."
Chapter XXXV
The Hidden Dread
IT was a busy time for Adam--the time between the beginning of
November and the beginning of February, and he could see little of
Hetty, except on Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it
was taking him nearer and nearer to March, when they were to be
married, and all the little preparations for their new
housekeeping marked the progress towards the longed-for day. Two
new rooms had been "run up" to the old house, for his mother and
Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth had cried so
piteously at the thought of leaving Adam that he had gone to Hetty
and asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with his
mother's ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight,
Hetty said, "Yes; I'd as soon she lived with us as not." Hetty's
mind was oppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than
poor Lisbeth's ways; she could not care about them. So Adam was
consoled for the disappointment he had felt when Seth had come
back from his visit to Snowfield and said "it was no use--Dinah's
heart wasna turned towards marrying." For when he told his mother
that Hetty was willing they should all live together and there was
no more need of them to think of parting, she said, in a more
contented tone than he had heard her speak in since it had been
settled that he was to be married, "Eh, my lad, I'll be as still
as th' ould tabby, an' ne'er want to do aught but th' offal work,
as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part the platters an'
things, as ha' stood on the shelf together sin' afore thee wast
born."
There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam's
sunshine: Hetty seemed unhappy sometimes. But to all his
anxious, tender questions, she replied with an assurance that she
was quite contented and wished nothing different; and the next
time he saw her she was more lively than usual. It might be that
she was a little overdone with work and anxiety now, for soon
after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken another cold, which had
brought on inflammation, and this illness had confined her to her
room all through January. Hetty had to manage everything
downstairs, and half-supply Molly's place too, while that good
damsel waited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so
entirely into her new functions, working with a grave steadiness
which was new in her, that Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was
wanting to show him what a good housekeeper he would have; but he
"doubted the lass was o'erdoing it--she must have a bit o' rest
when her aunt could come downstairs."
This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser's coming downstairs happened
in the early part of February, when some mild weather thawed the
last patch of snow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days,
soon after her aunt came down, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy
some of the wedding things which were wanting, and which Mrs.
Poyser had scolded her for neglecting, observing that she supposed
"it was because they were not for th' outside, else she'd ha'
bought 'em fast enough."
It was about ten o'clock when Hetty set off, and the slight hoarfrost
that had whitened the hedges in the early morning had
disappeared as the sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February
days have a stronger charm of hope about them than any other days
in the year. One likes to pause in the mild rays of the sun, and
look over the gates at the patient plough-horses turning at the
end of the furrow, and think that the beautiful year is all before
one. The birds seem to feel just the same: their notes are as
clear as the clear air. There are no leaves on the trees and
hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And the dark
purplish brown of the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is
beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives
or rides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often
thought so when, in foreign countries, where the fields and woods
have looked to me like our English Loamshire--the rich land tilled
with just as much care, the woods rolling down the gentle slopes
to the green meadows--I have come on sormething by the roadside
which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire: an image of a
great agony--the agony of the Cross. It has stood perhaps by the
clustering apple-blossoms, or in the broad sunshine by the
cornfield, or at a turning by the wood where a clear brook was
gurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this
world who knew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this
image of agony would seem to him strangely out of place in the
midst of this joyous nature. He would not know that hidden behind
the apple-blossoms, or among the golden corn, or under the
shrouding boughs of the wood, there might be a human heart beating
heavily with anguish--perhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing
where to turn for refuge from swift-advancing shame, understanding
no more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering
farther and farther in the nightfall on the lonely heath, yet
tasting the bitterest of life's bitterness.
Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind
the blossoming orchards; and the sound of the gurgling brook, if
you came close to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled
for your ear with a despairing human sob. No wonder man's
religion has much sorrow in it: no wonder he needs a suffering
God.
Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her
hand, is turning towards a gate by the side of the Treddleston
road, but not that she may have a more lingering enjoyment of the
sunshine and think with hope of the long unfolding year. She
hardly knows that the sun is shining; and for weeks, now, when she
has hoped at all, it has been for something at which she herself
trembles and shudders. She only wants to be out of the high-road,
that she may walk slowly and not care how her face looks, as she
dwells on wretched thoughts; and through this gate she can get
into a field-path behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great dark
eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is
desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised bride of a brave
tender man. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all
wept away in the weary night, before she went to sleep. At the
next stile the pathway branches off: there are two roads before
her--one along by the hedgerow, which will by and by lead her into
the road again, the other across the fields, which will take her
much farther out of the way into the Scantlands, low shrouded
pastures where she will see nobody. She chooses this and begins
to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thought of an
object towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in
the Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes gradually downwards,
and she leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on
there is a clump of trees on the low ground, and she is making her
way towards it. No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark
shrouded pool, so full with the wintry rains that the under boughs
of the elder-bushes lie low beneath the water. She sits down on
the grassy bank, against the stooping stem of the great oak that
hangs over the dark pool. She has thought of this pool often in
the nights of the month that has just gone by, and now at last she
is come to see it. She clasps her hands round her knees, and
leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying to guess
what sort of bed it would make for her young round limbs.
No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and if
she had, they might find her--they might find out why she had
drowned herself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go
away, go where they can't find her.
After the first on-coming of her great dread, some weeks after her
betrothal to Adam, she had waited and waited, in the blind vague
hope that something would happen to set her free from her terror;
but she could wait no longer. All the force of her nature had
been concentrated on the one effort of concealment, and she had
shrunk with irresistible dread from every course that could tend
towards a betrayal of her miserable secret. Whenever the thought
of writing to Arthur had occurred to her, she had rejected it. He
could do nothing for her that would shelter her from discovery and
scorn among the relatives and neighbours who once more made all
her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Her imagination no
longer saw happiness with Arthur, for he could do nothing that
would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else would
happen--something must happen--to set her free from this dread.
In young, childish, ignorant souls there is constantly this blind
trust in some unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to
believe that a great wretchedness will actually befall them as to
believe that they will die.
But now necessity was pressing hard upon her--now the time of her
marriage was close at hand--she could no longer rest in this blind
trust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar
eyes could detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into
the world, of which she knew nothing, made the possibility of
going to Arthur a thought which brought some comfort with it. She
felt so helpless now, so unable to fashion the future for herself,
that the prospect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it
which was stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool and
shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that he would receive
her tenderly--that he would care for her and think for her--was
like a sense of lulling warmth, that made her for the moment
indifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of
nothing but the scheme by which she should get away.
She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about
the coming marriage, which she had heard of from Seth; and when
Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, "I
wish Dinah 'ud come again now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt
when you're gone. What do you think, my wench, o' going to see
her as soon as you can be spared and persuading her to come back
wi' you? You might happen persuade her wi' telling her as her
aunt wants her, for all she writes o' not being able to come."
Hetty had not liked the thought of going to Snowfield, and felt no
longing to see Dinah, so she only said, "It's so far off, Uncle."
But now she thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext
for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got home again
that she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week
or ten days. And then, when she got to Stoniton, where nobody
knew her, she would ask for the coach that would take her on the
way to Windsor. Arthur was at Windsor, and she would go to him.
As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from the
grassy bank of the pool, took up her basket, and went on her way
to Treddleston, for she must buy the wedding things she had come
out for, though she would never want them. She must be careful
not to raise any suspicion that she was going to run away.
Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go
and see Dinah and try to bring her back to stay over the wedding.
The sooner she went the better, since the weather was pleasant
now; and Adam, when he came in the evening, said, if Hetty could
set off to-morrow, he would make time to go with her to
Treddleston and see her safe into the Stoniton coach.
"I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty," he said,
the next morning, leaning in at the coach door; "but you won't
stay much beyond a week--the time 'ull seem long."
He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand beld hers in its
grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his presence--she was
used to it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no
other love than her quiet liking for Adam! The tears rose as she
gave him the last look.
"God bless her for loving me," said Adam, as he went on his way to
work again, with Gyp at his heels.
But Hetty's tears were not for Adam--not for the anguish that
would come upon him when he found she was gone from him for ever.
They were for the misery of her own lot, which took her away from
this brave tender man who offered up his whole life to her, and
threw her, a poor helpless suppliant, on the man who would think
it a misfortune that she was obliged to cling to him.
At three o'clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to
take her, they said, to Leicester--part of the long, long way to
Windsor--she felt dimly that she might be travelling all this
weary journey towards the beginning of new misery.
Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her.
If he did not mind about her as he used to do, he had promised to
be good to her.
Book Five
Chapter XXXVI
The Journey of Hope
A LONG, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from the
familiar to the strange: that is a hard and dreary thing even to
the rich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when we
are called by duty, not urged by dread.
What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no
longer melting into vague hopes, but pressed upon by the chill of
definite fear, repeating again and again the same small round of
memories--shaping again and again the same childish, doubtful
images of what was to come--seeing nothing in this wide world but
the little history of her own pleasures and pains; with so little
money in her pocket, and the way so long and difficult. Unless
she could afford always to go in the coaches--and she felt sure
she could not, for the journey to Stoniton was more expensive than
she had expected--it was plain that she must trust to carriers'
carts or slow waggons; and what a time it would be before she
could get to the end of her journey! The burly old coachman from
Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young woman among the outside
passengers, had invited her to come and sit beside him; and
feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open the
dialogue with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off
the stones to the elaboration of one suitable in all respects.
After many cuts with his whip and glances at Hetty out of the
corner of his eye, he lifted his lips above the edge of his
wrapper and said, "He's pretty nigh six foot, I'll be bound, isna
he, now?"
"Who?" said Hetty, rather startled.
"Why, the sweetheart as you've left behind, or else him as you're
goin' arter--which is it?"
Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought
this coachman must know something about her. He must know Adam,
and might tell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to
country people to believe that those who make a figure in their
own parish are not known everywhere else, and it was equally
difficult to Hetty to understand that chance words could happen to
apply closely to her circumstances. She was too frightened to
speak.
"Hegh, hegh!" said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not so
gratifying as he had expected, "you munna take it too ser'ous; if
he's behaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass as you can get
a sweetheart any day."
Hetty's fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the
coachman made no further allusion to her personal concerns; but it
still had the effect of preventing her from asking him what were
the places on the road to Windsor. She told him she was only
going a little way out of Stoniton, and when she got down at the
inn where the coach stopped, she hastened away with her basket to
another part of the town. When she had formed her plan of going
to Windsor, she had not foreseen any difficulties except that of
getting away, and after she had overcome this by proposing the
visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meeting with Arthur and
the question how he would behave to her--not resting on any
probable incidents of the journey. She was too entirely ignorant
of traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her store
of money--her three guineas--in her pocket, she thought herself
amply provided. It was not until she found how much it cost her
to get to Stoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journey,
and then, for the first time, she felt her ignorance as to the
places that must be passed on her way. Oppressed with this new
alarm, she walked along the grim Stoniton streets, and at last
turned into a shabby little inn, where she hoped to get a cheap
lodging for the night. Here she asked the landlord if he could
tell her what places she must go to, to get to Windsor.
"Well, I can't rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London,
for it's where the king lives," was the answer. "Anyhow, you'd
best go t' Ashby next--that's south'ard. But there's as many
places from here to London as there's houses in Stoniton, by what
I can make out. I've never been no traveller myself. But how
comes a lone young woman like you to be thinking o' taking such a
journey as that?"
"I'm going to my brother--he's a soldier at Windsor," said Hetty,
frightened at the landlord's questioning look. "I can't afford to
go by the coach; do you think there's a cart goes toward Ashby in
the morning?"
"Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started
from; but you might run over the town before you found out. You'd
best set off and walk, and trust to summat overtaking you."
Every word sank like lead on Hetty's spirits; she saw the journey
stretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get to Ashby seemed a
hard thing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was
nothing to the rest of the journey. But it must be done--she must
get to Arthur. Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody who
would care for her! She who had never got up in the morning
without the certainty of seeing familiar faces, people on whom she
had an acknowledged claim; whose farthest journey had been to
Rosseter on the pillion with her uncle; whose thoughts had always
been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all the
business of her life was managed for her--this kittenlike Hetty,
who till a few months ago had never felt any other grief than that
of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girded at by her aunt
for neglecting Totty, must now make her toilsome way in
loneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing
but a tremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the
first time, as she lay down to-night in the strange hard bed, she
felt that her home had been a happy one, that her uncle had been
very good to her, that her quiet lot at Hayslope among the things
and people she knew, with her little pride in her one best gown
and bonnet, and nothing to hide from any one, was what she would
like to wake up to as a reality, and find that all the feverish
life she had known besides was a short nightmare. She thought of
all she had left behind with yearning regret for her own sake.
Her own misery filled her heart--there was no room in it for other
people's sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had
been so tender and loving. The memory of that had still a charm
for her, though it was no more than a soothing draught that just
made pain bearable. For Hetty could conceive no other existence
for herself in future than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even
with love, would have had no delights for her; still less a life
mingled with shame. She knew no romances, and had only a feeble
share in the feelings which are the source of romance, so that
well-read ladies may find it difflcult to understand her state of
mind. She was too igrorant of everything beyond the simple
notions and habits in which she had been brought up to have any
more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur would
take care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn.
He would not marry her and make her a lady; and apart from that
she could think of nothing he could give towards which she looked
with longing and ambition.
The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and
bread for her breakfast, set out to walk on the road towards
Ashby, under a leaden-coloured sky, with a narrowing streak of
yellow, like a departing hope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in
her faintness of heart at the length and difficulty of her
journey, she was most of all afraid of spending her money, and
becoming so destitute that she would have to ask people's charity;
for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud nature but of a proud
class--the class that pays the most poor-rates, and most shudders
at the idea of profiting by a poor-rate. It had not yet occurred
to her that she might get money for her locket and earrings which
she carried with her, and she applied all her small arithmetic and
knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many
rides were contained in her two guineas, and the odd shillings,
which had a melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the
other bright-flaming coin.
For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely,
always fixing on some tree or gate or projecting bush at the most
distant visible point in the road as a goal, and feeling a faint
joy when she had reached it. But when she came to the fourth
milestone, the first she had happened to notice among the long
grass by the roadside, and read that she was still only four miles
beyond Stoniton, her courage sank. She had come only this little
way, and yet felt tired, and almost hungry again in the keen
morning air; for though Hetty was accustomed to much movement and
exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks which produced
quite a different sort of fatigue from that of household activity.
As she was looking at the milestone she felt some drops falling on
her face--it was beginning to rain. Here was a new trouble which
had not entered into her sad thoughts before, and quite weighed
down by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat down on the
step of a stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of
hardship is like the first taste of bitter food--it seems for a
moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our
hunger, we take another bite and find it possible to go on. When
Hetty recovered from her burst of weeping, she rallied her
fainting courage: it was raining, and she must try to get on to a
village where she might find rest and shelter. Presently, as she
walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels behind
her; a covered waggon was coming, creeping slowly along with a
slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She waited
for it, thinking that if the waggoner were not a very sour-looking
man, she would ask him to take her up. As the waggon approached
her, the driver had fallen behind, but there was something in the
front of the big vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous
moment in her life she would not have noticed it, but now, the new
susceptibility that suffering had awakened in her caused this
object to impress her strongly. It was only a small white-andliver-
coloured spaniel which sat on the front ledge of the waggon,
with large timid eyes, and an incessant trembling in the body,
such as you may have seen in some of these small creatures. Hetty
cared little for animals, as you know, but at this moment she felt
as if the helpless timid creature had some fellowship with her,
and without being quite aware of the reason, she was less doubtful
about speaking to the driver, who now came forward--a large ruddy
man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf or mantle.
"Could you take me up in your waggon, if you're going towards
Ashby?" said Hetty. "I'll pay you for it."
"Aw," said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which
belongs to heavy faces, "I can take y' up fawst enough wi'out
bein' paid for't if you dooant mind lyin' a bit closish a-top o'
the wool-packs. Where do you coom from? And what do you want at
Ashby?"
"I come from Stoniton. I'm going a long way--to Windsor."
"What! Arter some service, or what?"
"Going to my brother--he's a soldier there."
"Well, I'm going no furder nor Leicester--and fur enough too--but
I'll take you, if you dooant mind being a bit long on the road.
Th' hosses wooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they feel the
little doog there, as I puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He
war lost, I b'lieve, an's been all of a tremble iver sin'. Come,
gi' us your basket an' come behind and let me put y' in."
To lie on the wool-packs, with a cranny left between the curtains
of the awning to let in the air, was luxury to Hetty now, and she
half-slept away the hours till the driver came to ask her if she
wanted to get down and have "some victual"; he himself was going
to eat his dinner at this "public." Late at night they reached
Leicester, and so this second day of Hetty's journey was past.
She had spent no money except what she had paid for her food, but
she felt that this slow journeying would be intolerable for her
another day, and in the morning she found her way to a coachoffice
to ask about the road to Windsor, and see if it would cost
her too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! The
distance was too great--the coaches were too dear--she must give
them up; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her
pretty anxious face, wrote down for her the names of the chief
places she must pass through. This was the only comfort she got
in Leicester, for the men stared at her as she went along the
street, and for the first time in her life Hetty wished no one
would look at her. She set out walking again; but this day she
was fortunate, for she was soon overtaken by a carrier's cart
which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of a return chaise,
with a drunken postilion--who frightened her by driving like Jehu
the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her, twisting
himself backwards on his saddle--she was before night in the heart
of woody Warwickshire: but still almost a hundred miles from
Windsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what
hard work for her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to
Stratford-on-Avon, finding Stratford set down in her list of
places, and then she was told she had come a long way out of the
right road. It was not till the fifth day that she got to Stony
Stratford. That seems but a slight journey as you look at the
map, or remember your own pleasant travels to and from the meadowy
banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty! It
seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, and hedgerows,
and dotted houses, and villages, and market-towns--all so much
alike to her indifferent eyes--must have no end, and she must go
on wandering among them for ever, waiting tired at toll-gates for
some cart to come, and then finding the cart went only a little
way--a very little way--to the miller's a mile off perhaps; and
she hated going into the public houses, where she must go to get
food and ask questions, because there were always men lounging
there, who stared at her and joked her rudely. Her body was very
weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; they had
made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dread
she had gone through at home. When at last she reached Stony
Stratford, her impatience and weariness had become too strong for
her economical caution; she determined to take the coach for the
rest of the way, though it should cost her all her remaining
money. She would need nothing at Windsor but to find Arthur.
When she had paid the fare for the last coach, she had only a
shilling; and as she got down at the sign of the Green Man in
Windsor at twelve o'clock in the middle of the seventh day, hungry
and faint, the coachman came up, and begged her to "remember him."
She put her hand in her pocket and took out the shilling, but the
tears came with the sense of exhaustion and the thought that she
was giving away her last means of getting food, which she really
required before she could go in search of Arthur. As she held out
the shilling, she lifted up her dark tear-filled eyes to the
coachman's face and said, "Can you give me back sixpence?"
"No, no," he said, gruffly, "never mind--put the shilling up
again."
The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to witness
this scene, and he was a man whose abundant feeding served to keep
his good nature, as well as his person, in high condition. And
that lovely tearful face of Hetty's would have found out the
sensitive fibre in most men.
"Come, young woman, come in," he said, "and have adrop o'
something; you're pretty well knocked up, I can see that."
He took her into the bar and said to his wife, "Here, missis, take
this young woman into the parlour; she's a little overcome"--for
Hetty's tears were falling fast. They were merely hysterical
tears: she thought she had no reason for weeping now, and was
vexed that she was too weak and tired to help it. She was at
Windsor at last, not far from Arthur.
She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat and beer
that the landlady brought her, and for some minutes she forgot
everything else in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger
and recovering from exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her
as she ate, and looked at her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had
thrown off her bonnet, and her curls had fallen down. Her face
was all the more touching in its youth and beauty because of its
weary look, and the good woman's eyes presently wandered to her
figure, which in her hurried dressing on her journey she had taken
no pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eye detects what the
familiar unsuspecting eye leaves unnoticed.
"Why, you're not very fit for travelling," she said, glancing
while she spoke at Hetty's ringless hand. "Have you come far?"
"Yes," said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more selfcommand,
and feeling the better for the food she had taken. "I've
come a good long way, and it's very tiring. But I'm better now.
Could you tell me which way to go to this place?" Here Hetty took
from her pocket a bit of paper: it was the end of Arthur's letter
on which he had written his address.
While she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to
look at her as earnestly as his wife had done. He took up the
piece of paper which Hetty handed across the table, and read the
address.
"Why, what do you want at this house?" he said. It is in the
nature of innkeepers and all men who have no pressing business of
their own to ask as many questions as possible before giving any
information.
"I want to see a gentleman as is there," said Hetty.
"But there's no gentleman there," returned the landlord. "It's
shut up--been shut up this fortnight. What gentleman is it you
want? Perhaps I can let you know where to find him."
"It's Captain Donnithorne," said Hetty tremulously, her heart
beginning to beat painfully at this disappointment of her hope
that she should find Arthur at once.
"Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit," said the landlard, slowly.
"Was he in the Loamshire Militia? A tall young officer with a
fairish skin and reddish whiskers--and had a servant by the name
o' Pym?"
"Oh yes," said Hetty; "you know him--where is he?"
"A fine sight o' miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia's
gone to Ireland; it's been gone this fortnight."
"Look there! She's fainting," said the landlady, hastening to
support Hetty, who had lost her miserable consciousness and looked
like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and
loosened her dress.
"Here's a bad business, I suspect," said the landlord, as he
brought in some water.
"Ah, it's plain enough what sort of business it is," said the
wife. "She's not a common flaunting dratchell, I can see that.
She looks like a respectable country girl, and she comes from a
good way off, to judge by her tongue. She talks something like
that ostler we had that come from the north. He was as honest a
fellow as we ever had about the house--they're all honest folks in
the north."
"I never saw a prettier young woman in my life," said the husband.
"She's like a pictur in a shop-winder. It goes to one's 'eart to
look at her."
"It 'ud have been a good deal better for her if she'd been uglier
and had more conduct," said the landlady, who on any charitable
construction must have been supposed to have more "conduct" than
beauty. "But she's coming to again. Fetch a drop more water."
Chapter XXXVII
The Journey in Despair
HETTY was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions
to be addressed to her--too ill even to think with any
distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt that
all her hope was crushed, and that instead of having found a
refuge she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness where
no goal lay before her. The sensations of bodily sickness, in a
comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the good-natured
landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite as there
is in the faint weariness which obliges a man to throw himself on
the sand instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun.
But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength necessary
for the keenness of mental suffering--when she lay the next
morning looking at the growing light which was like a cruel taskmaster
returning to urge from her a fresh round of hated hopeless
labour--she began to think what course she must take, to remember
that all her money was gone, to look at the prospect of further
wandering among strangers with the new clearness shed on it by the
experience of her journey to Windsor. But which way could she
turn? It was impossible for her to enter into any service, even
if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediate beggary
before her. She thought of a young woman who had been found
against the church wall at Hayslope one Sunday, nearly dead with
cold and hunger--a tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued
and taken to the parish. "The parish!" You can perhaps hardly
understand the effect of that word on a mind like Hetty's, brought
up among people who were somewhat hard in their feelings even
towards poverty, who lived among the fields, and had little pity
for want and rags as a cruel inevitable fate such as they
sometimes seem in cities, but held them a mark of idleness and
vice--and it was idleness and vice that brought burdens on the
parish. To Hetty the "parish" was next to the prison in obloquy,
and to ask anything of strangers--to beg--lay in the same far-off
hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life
thought it impossible she could ever come near. But now the
remembrance of that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, on
her way from church, being carried into Joshua Rann's, came back
upon her with the new terrible sense that there was very little
now to divide HER from the same lot. And the dread of bodily
hardship mingled with the dread of shame; for Hetty had the
luxurious nature of a round soft-coated pet animal.
How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and
cared for as she had always been! Her aunt's scolding about
trifles would have been music to her ears now; she longed for it;
she used to hear it in a time when she had only trifles to hide.
Could she be the same Hetty that used to make up the butter in the
dairy with the Guelder roses peeping in at the window--she, a
runaway whom her friends would not open their doors to again,
lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge that she had no
money to pay for what she received, and must offer those strangers
some of the clothes in her basket? It was then she thought of her
locket and ear-rings, and seeing her pocket lie near, she reached
it and spread the contents on the bed before her. There were the
locket and ear-rings in the little velvet-lined boxes, and with
them there was a beautiful silver thimble which Adam had bought
her, the words "Remember me" making the ornament of the border; a
steel purse, with her one shilling in it;and a small red-leather
case, fastening with a strap. Those beautiful little ear-rings,
with their delicate pearls and garnet, that she had tried in her
ears with such longing in the bright sunshine on the 30th of July!
She had no longing to put them in her ears now: her head with its
dark rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow, and the
sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was something too hard
for regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it
was because there were some thin gold rings in them, which were
also worth a little money. Yes, she could surely get some money
for her ornaments: those Arthur had given her must have cost a
great deal of money. The landlord and landlady had been good to
her; perhaps they would help her to get the money for these
things.
But this money would not keep her long. What should she do when
it was gone? Where should she go? The horrible thought of want
and beggary drove her once to think she would go back to her uncle
and aunt and ask them to forgive her and have pity on her. But
she shrank from that idea again, as she might have shrunk from
scorching metal. She could never endure that shame before her
uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge, and the servants at the Chase,
and the people at Broxton, and everybody who knew her. They
should never know what had happened to her. What could she do?
She would go away from Windsor--travel again as she had done the
last week, and get among the flat green fields with the high
hedges round them, where nobody could see her or know her; and
there, perhaps, when there was nothing else she could do, she
should get courage to drown herself in some pond like that in the
Scantlands. Yes, she would get away from Windsor as soon as
possible: she didn't like these people at the inn to know about
her, to know that she had come to look for Captain Donnithorne.
She must think of some reason to tell them why she had asked for
him.
With this thought she began to put the things back into her
pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the landlady came to
her. She had her hand on the red-leather case, when it occurred
to her that there might be something in this case which she had
forgotten--something worth selling; for without knowing what she
should do with her life, she craved the means of living as long as
possible; and when we desire eagerly to find something, we are apt
to search for it in hopeless places. No, there was nothing but
common needles and pins, and dried tulip-petals between the paper
leaves where she had written down her little money-accounts. But
on one of these leaves there was a name, which, often as she had
seen it before, now flashed on Hetty's mind like a newly
discovered message. The name was--Dinah Morris, Snowfield. There
was a text above it, written, as well as the name, by Dinah's own
hand with a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting
together and Hetty happened to have the red case lying open before
her. Hetty did not read the text now: she was only arrested by
the name. Now, for the first time, she remembered without
indifference the affectionate kindness Dinah had shown her, and
those words of Dinah in the bed-chamber--that Hetty must think of
her as a friend in trouble. Suppose she were to go to Dinah, and
ask her to help her? Dinah did not think about things as other
people did. She was a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was
always kind. She couldn't imagine Dinah's face turning away from
her in dark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice willingly speaking ill
of her, or rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not
seem to belong to that world of Hetty's, whose glance she dreaded
like scorching fire. But even to her Hetty shrank from beseeching
and confession. She could not prevail on herself to say, "I will
go to Dinah": she only thought of that as a possible alternative,
if she had not courage for death.
The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come downstairs
soon after herself, neatly dressed, and looking resolutely selfpossessed.
Hetty told her she was quite well this morning. She
had only been very tired and overcome with her journey, for she
had come a long way to ask about her brother, who had run away,
and they thought he was gone for a soldier, and Captain
Donnithorne might know, for he had been very kind to her brother
once. It was a lame story, and the landlady looked doubtfully at
Hetty as she told it; but there was a resolute air of selfreliance
about her this morning, so different from the helpless
prostration of yesterday, that the landlady hardly knew how to
make a remark that might seem like prying into other people's
affairs. She only invited her to sit down to breakfast with them,
and in the course of it Hetty brought out her ear-rings and
locket, and asked the landlord if he could help her to get money
for them. Her journey, she said, had cost her much more than she
expected, and now she had no money to get back to her friends,
which she wanted to do at once.
It was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for
she had examined the contents of Hetty's pocket yesterday, and she
and her husband had discussed the fact of a country girl having
these beautiful things, with a stronger conviction than ever that
Hetty had been miserably deluded by the fine young officer.
"Well," said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious
trifles before him, "we might take 'em to the jeweller's shop, for
there's one not far off; but Lord bless you, they wouldn't give
you a quarter o' what the things are worth. And you wouldn't like
to part with 'em?" he added, looking at her inquiringly.
"Oh, I don't mind," said Hetty, hastily, "so as I can get money to
go back."
"And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to
sell 'em," he went on, "for it isn't usual for a young woman like
you to have fine jew'llery like that."
The blood rushed to Hetty's face with anger. "I belong to
respectable folks," she said; "I'm not a thief."
"No, that you aren't, I'll be bound," said the landlady; "and
you'd no call to say that," looking indignantly at her husband.
"The things were gev to her: that's plain enough to be seen."
"I didn't mean as I thought so," said the husband, apologetically,
"but I said it was what the jeweller might think, and so he
wouldn't be offering much money for 'em."
"Well," said the wife, "suppose you were to advance some money on
the things yourself, and then if she liked to redeem 'em when she
got home, she could. But if we heard nothing from her after two
months, we might do as we liked with 'em."
I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady
had no regard whatever to the possible reward of her good nature
in the ultimate possession of the locket and ear-rings: indeed,
the effect they would have in that case on the mind of the
grocer's wife had presented itself with remarkable vividness to
her rapid imagination. The landlord took up the ornaments and
pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. He wished Hetty well,
doubtless; but pray, how many of your well-wishers would decline
to make a little gain out of you? Your landlady is sincerely
affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and will really
rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the same time
she hands you a bill by which she gains as high a percentage as
possible.
"How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?" said
the well-wisher, at length.
"Three guineas," answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out
with, for want of any other standard, and afraid of asking too
much.
"Well, I've ho objections to advance you three guineas," said the
landlord; "and if you like to send it me back and get the
jewellery again, you can, you know. The Green Man isn't going to
run away."
"Oh yes, I'll be very glad if you'll give me that," said Hetty,
relieved at the thought that she would not have to go to the
jeweller's and be stared at and questioned.
"But if you want the things again, you'll write before long," said
the landlady, "because when two months are up, we shall make up
our minds as you don't want 'em."
"Yes," said Hetty indifferently.
The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement.
The husband thought, if the ornaments were not redeemed, he could
make a good thing of it by taking them to London and selling them.
The wife thought she would coax the good man into letting her keep
them. And they were accommodating Hetty, poor thing--a pretty,
respectable-looking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They
declined to take anything for her food and bed: she was quite
welcome. And at eleven o'clock Hetty said "Good-bye" to them with
the same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the morning,
mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles back along
the way she had come.
There is a strength of self-possession which is the sign that the
last hope has departed. Despair no more leans on others than
perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be
counteracted by the sense of dependence.
Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would
make life hateful to her; and no one, she said to herself, should
ever know her misery and humiliation. No; she would not confess
even to Dinah. She would wander out of sight, and drown herself
where her body would never be found, and no one should know what
had become of her.
When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take
cheap rides in carts, and get cheap meals, going on and on without
distinct purpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the
way she had come, though she was determined not to go back to her
own country. Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind on the
grassy Warwickshire fields, with the bushy tree-studded hedgerows
that made a hiding-place even in this leafless season. She went
more slowly than she came, often getting over the stiles and
sitting for hours under the hedgerows, looking before her with
blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself at the edge of a hidden
pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wondering if it were
very painful to be drowned, and if there would be anything worse
after death than what she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines
had taken no hold on Hetty's mind. She was one of those numerous
people who have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their
catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and
yet, for any practical result of strength in life, or trust in
death, have never appropriated a single Christian idea or
Christian feeling. You would misunderstand her thoughts during
these wretched days, if you imagined that they were influenced
either by religious fears or religious hopes.
She chose to go to Stratford-on-Avon again, where she had gone
before by mistake, for she remembered some grassy fields on her
former way towards it--fields among which she thought she might
find just the sort of pool she had in her mind. Yet she took care
of her money still; she carried her basket; death seemed still a
long way off, and life was so strong in her. She craved food and
rest--she hastened towards them at the very moment she was
picturing to herself the bank from which she would leap towards
death. It was already five days since she had left Windsor, for
she had wandered about, always avoiding speech or questioning
looks, and recovering her air of proud self-dependence whenever
she was under observation, choosing her decent lodging at night,
and dressing herself neatly in the morning, and setting off on her
way steadily, or remaining under shelter if it rained, as if she
had a happy life to cherish.
And yet, even in her most self-conscious moments, the face was
sadly different from that which had smiled at itself in the old
specked glass, or smiled at others when they glanced at it
admiringly. A hard and even fierce look had come in the eyes,
though their lashes were as long as ever, and they had all their
dark brightness. And the cheek was never dimpled with smiles now.
It was the same rounded, pouting, childish prettiness, but with
all love and belief in love departed from it--the sadder for its
beauty, like that wondrous Medusa-face, with the passionate,
passionless lips.
At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a
long narrow pathway leading towards a wood. If there should be a
pool in that wood! It would be better hidden than one in the
fields. No, it was not a wood, only a wild brake, where there had
once been gravel-pits, leaving mounds and hollows studded with
brushwood and small trees. She roamed up and down, thinking there
was perhaps a pool in every hollow before she came to it, till her
limbs were weary, and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far
advanced, and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun were
setting behind it. After a little while Hetty started up again,
feeling that darkness would soon come on; and she must put off
finding the pool till to-morrow, and make her way to some shelter
for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and
might as well go in one direction as another, for aught she knew.
She walked through field after field, and no village, no house was
in sight; but there, at the corner of this pasture, there was a
break in the hedges; the land seemed to dip down a little, and two
trees leaned towards each other across the opening. Hetty's heart
gave a great heat as she thought there must be a pool there. She
walked towards it heavily over the tufted grass, with pale lips
and a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were come in
spite of herself, instead of being the object of her search.
There it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, no sound
near. She set down her basket, and then sank down herself on the
grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry depth now: by the time
it got shallow, as she remembered the pools did at Hayslope, in
the summer, no one could find out that it was her body. But then
there was her basket--she must hide that too. She must throw it
into the water--make it heavy with stones first, and then throw it
in. She got up to look about for stones, and soon brought five or
six, which she laid down beside her basket, and then sat down
again. There was no need to hurry--there was all the night to
drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She
was weary, hungry. There were some buns in her basket--three,
which she had supplied herself with at the place where she ate her
dinner. She took them out now and ate them eagerly, and then sat
still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that came
over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed
dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and presently her head
sank down on her knees. She was fast asleep.
When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was
frightened at this darkness--frightened at the long night before
her. If she could but throw herself into the water! No, not yet.
She began to walk about that she might get warm again, as if she
would have more resolution then. Oh how long the time was in that
darkness! The bright hearth and the warmth and the voices of
home, the secure uprising and lying down, the familiar fields, the
familiar people, the Sundays and holidays with their simple joys
of dress and feasting--all the sweets of her young life rushed
before her now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms towards
them across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of
Arthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her cursing would
do. She wished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life
of shame that he dared not end by death.
The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitude--out of all
human reach--became greater every long minute. It was almost as
if she were dead already, and knew that she was dead, and longed
to get back to life again. But no: she was alive still; she had
not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a strange contradictory
wretchedness and exultation: wretchedness, that she did not dare
to face death; exultation, that she was still in life--that she
might yet know light and warmth again. She walked backwards and
forwards to warm herself, beginning to discern something of the
objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed to the night--
the darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living
creature--perhaps a field-mouse--rushing across the grass. She no
longer felt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she
could walk back across the field, and get over the stile; and
then, in the very next field, she thought she remembered there was
a hovel of furze near a sheepfold. If she could get into that
hovel, she would be warmer. She could pass the night there, for
that was what Alick did at Hayslope in lambing-time. The thought
of this hovel brought the energy of a new hope. She took up her
basket and walked across the field, but it was some time before
she got in the right direction for the stile. The exercise and
the occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to her,
however, and lightened the horror of the darkness and solitude.
There were sheep in the next field, and she startled a group as
she set down her basket and got over the stile; and the sound of
their movement comforted her, for it assured her that her
impression was right--this was the field where she had seen the
hovel, for it was the field where the sheep were. Right on along
the path, and she would get to it. She reached the opposite gate,
and felt her way along its rails and the rails of the sheep-fold,
till her hand encountered the pricking of the gorsy wall.
Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped her
way, touching the prickly gorse, to the door, and pushed it open.
It was an ill-smelling close place, but warm, and there was straw
on the ground. Hetty sank down on the straw with a sense of
escape. Tears came--she had never shed tears before since she
left Windsor--tears and sobs of hysterical joy that she had still
hold of life, that she was still on the familiar earth, with the
sheep near her. The very consciousness of her own limbs was a
delight to her: she turned up her sleeves, and kissed her arms
with the passionate love of life. Soon warmth and weariness
lulled her in the midst of her sobs, and she fell continually into
dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the pool again--fancying
that she had jumped into the water, and then awaking with a start,
and wondering where she was. But at last deep dreamless sleep
came; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow against the
gorsy wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two equal
terrors, found the one relief that was possible to it--the relief
of unconsciousness.
Alas! That relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It
seemed to Hetty as if those dozen dreams had only passed into
another dream--that she was in the hovel, and her aunt was
standing over her with a candle in her hand. She trembled under
her aunt's glance, and opened her eyes. There was no candle, but
there was light in the hovel--the light of early morning through
the open door. And there was a face looking down on her; but it
was an unknown face, belonging to an elderly man in a smock-frock.
"Why, what do you do here, young woman?" the man said roughly.
Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame than she
had done in her momentary dream under her aunt's glance. She felt
that she was like a beggar already--found sleeping in that place.
But in spite of her trembling, she was so eager to account to the
man for her presence here, that she found words at once.
"I lost my way," she said. "I'm travelling--north'ard, and I got
away from the road into the fields, and was overtaken by the dark.
Will you tell me the way to the nearest village?"
She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet to
adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket.
The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without giving her
any answer, for some seconds. Then he turned away and walked
towards the door of the hovel, but it was not till he got there
that he stood still, and, turning his shoulder half-round towards
her, said, "Aw, I can show you the way to Norton, if you like.
But what do you do gettin' out o' the highroad?" he added, with a
tone of gruff reproof. "Y'ull be gettin' into mischief, if you
dooant mind."
"Yes," said Hetty, "I won't do it again. I'll keep in the road,
if you'll be so good as show me how to get to it."
"Why dooant you keep where there's a finger-poasses an' folks to
ax the way on?" the man said, still more gruffly. "Anybody 'ud
think you was a wild woman, an' look at yer."
Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more at this
last suggestion that she looked like a wild woman. As she
followed him out of the hovel she thought she would give him a
sixpence for telling her the way, and then he would not suppose
she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road to her, she put
her hand in her pocket to get the six-pence ready, and when he was
turning away, without saying good-morning, she held it out to him
and said, "Thank you; will you please to take something for your
trouble?"
He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, "I want none o'
your money. You'd better take care on't, else you'll get it stool
from yer, if you go trapesin' about the fields like a mad woman athatway."
The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held on her
way. Another day had risen, and she must wander on. It was no
use to think of drowning herself--she could not do it, at least
while she had money left to buy food and strength to journey on.
But the incident on her waking this morning heightened her dread
of that time when her money would be all gone; she would have to
sell her basket and clothes then, and she would really look like a
beggar or a wild woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy
in life she had felt in the night, after escaping from the brink
of the black cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by
the morning light, with the impression of that man's hard
wondering look at her, was as full of dread as death--it was
worse; it was a dread to which she felt chained, from which she
shrank and shrank as she did from the black pool, and yet could
find no refuge from it.
She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it. She had
still two-and-twenty shillings; it would serve her for many days
more, or it would help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, within
reach of Dinah. The thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly
now, since the experience of the night had driven her shuddering
imagination away from the pool. If it had been only going to
Dinah--if nobody besides Dinah would ever know--Hetty could have
made up her mind to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes,
would have drawn her. But afterwards the other people must know,
and she could no more rush on that shame than she could rush on
death.
She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair
to give her courage. Perhaps death would come to her, for she was
getting less and less able to bear the day's weariness. And yet--
such is the strange action of our souls, drawing us by a lurking
desire towards the very ends we dread--Hetty, when she set out
again from Norton, asked the straightest road northwards towards
Stonyshire, and kept it all that day.
Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face and the hard,
unloving, despairing soul looking out of it--with the narrow heart
and narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but her own,
and tasting that sorrow with the more intense bitterness! My
heart bleeds for her as I see her toiling along on her weary feet,
or seated in a cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road
before her, never thinking or caring whither it tends, till hunger
comes and makes her desire that a village may be near.
What will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart
from all love, caring for human beings only through her pride,
clinging to life only as the hunted wounded brute clings to it?
God preserve you and me from being the beginners of such miserty!
Chapter XXXVIII
The Quest
THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as
any other days with the family at the Hall Farm, and with Adam at
his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or
ten days at least, perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with
her, because there might then be somethung to detain them at
Snowfield. But when a fortnight had passed they began to feel a
little surprise that Hetty did not return; she must surely have
found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could have
supposed. Adam, for his part, was getting very impatient to see
her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day
(Saturday), he would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her.
There was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it was
light, and perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would
arrive pretty early at Snowfield, and bring back Hetty the next
day--Dinah too, if she were coming. It was quite time Hetty came
home, and he would afford to lose his Monday for the sake of
bringing her.
His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on
Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired him emphatically not to
come back without Hetty, for she had been quite too long away,
considering the things she had to get ready by the middle of
March, and a week was surely enough for any one to go out for
their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. Poyser had small hope of their
bringing her, unless they could make her believe the folks at
Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at Snowfield.
"Though," said Mrs. Poyser, by way of conclusion, "you might tell
her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to a
shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off
her next Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken hearts among strange
folks, and leave the children fatherless and motherless."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man
perfectly heart-whole, "it isna so bad as that. Thee't looking
rarely now, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for
Dinah t' come, for she'd help thee wi' the little uns: they took
t' her wonderful."
So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the
first mile or two, for the thought of Snowfield and the
possibility that Dinah might come again made him restless, and the
walk with Adam in the cold morning air, both in their best
clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the
last morning in February, with a low grey sky, and a slight hoarfrost
on the green border of the road and on the black hedges.
They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the
hill, and the faint twittering of the early birds. For they
walked in silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.
"Good-bye, lad," said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and
looking at him affectionately as they were about to part. "I wish
thee wast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am."
"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be
an old bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy children."
The'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely
homeward, mentally repeating one of his favourite hymns--he was
very fond of hymns:
Dark and cheerless is the morn
Unaccompanied by thee:
Joyless is the day's return
Till thy mercy's beams I see:
Till thou inward light impart,
Glad my eyes and warm my heart.
Visit, then, this soul of mine,
Pierce the gloom of sin and grief--
Fill me, Radiancy Divine,
Scatter all my unbelief.
More and more thyself display,
Shining to the perfect day.
Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne
road at sunrise that morning must have had a pleasant sight in
this tall broad-chested man, striding along with a carriage as
upright and firm as any soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at
the dark-blue hills as they began to show themselves on his way.
Seldom in Adam's life had his face been so free from any cloud of
anxiety as it was this morning; and this freedom from care, as is
usual with constructive practical minds like his, made him all the
more observant of the objects round him and all the more ready to
gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite plans and
ingenious contrivances. His happy love--the knowledge that his
steps were carrying him nearer and nearer to Hetty, who was so
soon to be his--was to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was
to his sensations: it gave him a consciousness of well-being that
made activity delightful. Every now and then there was a rush of
more intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images
than Hetty; and along with that would come a wondering
thankfulness that all this happiness was given to him--that this
life of ours had such sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout
mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of devout words, and
his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one
could hardly be stirred without the other. But after feeling had
welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would
come back with the greater vigour; and this morning it was intent
on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so
imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the
benefits that might come from the exertions of a single country
gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good
in his own district.
It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that
pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where he break-fasted.
After this, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling
woods, no more wide-branching trees near frequent homesteads, no
more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting the meagre
pastures, and dismal wide-scattered greystone houses on broken
lands where mines had been and were no longer. "A hungry land,"
said Adam to himself. "I'd rather go south'ard, where they say
it's as flat as a table, than come to live here; though if Dinah
likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfort to
folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she must look
as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th' angels in the
desert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat." And when
at last he came in sight of Snowfield, he thought it looked like a
town that was "fellow to the country," though the stream through
the valley where the great mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to
the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and unsheltered, up
the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at
present, for Seth had told him where to find Dinah. It was at a
thatched cottage outside the town, a little way from the mill--an
old cottage, standing sideways towards the road, with a little bit
of potato-ground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an elderly
couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn
where they were gone, or when they would be at home again. Dinah
might be out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have
left Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he
recognized the cottage by the roadside before him, there shone out
in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the
expectation of a near joy.
He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the
door. It was opened by a very clean old woman, with a slow
palsied shake of the head.
"Is Dinah Morris at home?" said Adam.
"Eh?...no," said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger
with a wonder that made her slower of speech than usual. "Will
you please to come in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if
recollecting herself. "Why, ye're brother to the young man as
come afore, arena ye?"
"Yes," said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother
Adam. He told me to give his respects to you and your good
master."
"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye
feature him, on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th' arm-chair. My
man isna come home from meeting."
Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman
with questions, but looking eagerly towards the narrow twisting
stairs in one corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might
have heard his voice and would come down them.
"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standing
opposite to him. "An' you didn' know she was away from home,
then?"
"No," said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away,
seeing as it's Sunday. But the other young woman--is she at home,
or gone along with Dinah?"
The old woman looked at Adam with a bewildered air.
"Gone along wi' her?" she said. "Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big
town ye may ha' heared on, where there's a many o' the Lord's
people. She's been gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent
her the money for her journey. You may see her room here," she
went on, opening a door and not noticing the effect of her words
on Adam. He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance
into the little room with its narrow bed, the portrait of Wesley
on the wall, and the few books lying on the large Bible. He had
had an irrational hope that Hetty might be there. He could not
speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an
undefined fear had seized him--something had happened to Hetty on
the journey. Still the old woman was so slow of; speech and
apprehension, that Hetty might be at Snowfield after all.
"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your
own country o' purpose to see her?"
"But Hetty--Hetty Sorrel," said Adam, abruptly; "Where is she?"
"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly.
"Is it anybody ye've heared on at Snowfield?"
"Did there come no young woman here--very young and pretty--Friday
was a fortnight, to see Dinah Morris?"
"Nay; I'n seen no young woman."
"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark
eyes and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on, and a basket on her
arm? You couldn't forget her if you saw her."
"Nay; Friday was a fortnight--it was the day as Dinah went away--
there come nobody. There's ne'er been nobody asking for her till
you come, for the folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh
dear, is there summat the matter?"
The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face.
But he was not stunned or confounded: he was thinking eagerly
where he could inquire about Hetty.
"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday
was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back. I'm afraid something
has happened to her. I can't stop. Good-bye."
He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to
the gate, watching him sadly with her shaking head as he almost
ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at the place where
the Oakbourne coach stopped.
No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any
accident happened to the coach a fortnight ago? No. And there
was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he
would walk: he couldn't stay here, in wretched inaction. But the
innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great anxiety, and entering
into this new incident with the eagerness of a man who passes a
great deal of time with his hands in his pockets looking into an
obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back to
Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart" this very evening. It was not
five o'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and
yet to get to Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper
declared that he really wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as
well go to-night; he should have all Monday before him then.
Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt to eat, put the food in
his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready
to set off. As they approached the cottage, it occurred to him
that he would do well to learn from the old woman where Dinah was
to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall Farm--he
only half-admitted the foreboding that there would be--the Poysers
might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any address,
and the old woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not
recall the name of the "blessed woman" who was Dinah's chief
friend in the Society at Leeds.
During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time
for all the conjectures of importunate fear and struggling hope.
In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to
Snowfield, the thought of Arthur had darted through Adam like a
sharp pang, but he tried for some time to ward off its return by
busying himself with modes of accounting for the alarming fact,
quite apart from that intolerable thought. Some accident had
happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance, got into a wrong
vehicle from Oakbourne: she had been taken ill, and did not want
to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fence of
vague improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct
agonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself in thinking
that she could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all
the while; and now, in her desperation at the nearness of their
marriage, she had run away. And she was gone to him. The old
indignation and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion
that Arthur had been dealing falsely--had written to Hetty--had
tempted her to come to him--being unwilling, after all, that she
should belong to another man besides himself. Perhaps the whole
thing had been contrived by him, and he had given her directions
how to follow him to Ireland--for Adam knew that Arthur had been
gone thither three weeks ago, having recently learnt it at the
Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged to
Adam, returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful
retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and confident. The
poor thing hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had
thought that she could forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn
towards the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. He
couldn't bear to blame her: she never meant to cause him this
dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man who had selfishly
played with her heart--had perhaps even deliberately lured her
away.
At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young
woman as Adam described getting out of the Treddleston coach more
than a fortnight ago--wasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass
as that in a hurry--was sure she had not gone on by the Buxton
coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of her while
he went away with the horses and had never set eyes on her again.
Adam then went straight to the house from which the Stonition
coach started: Stoniton was the most obvious place for Hetty to go
to first, whatever might be her destination, for she would hardly
venture on any but the chief coach-roads. She had been noticed
here too, and was remembered to have sat on the box by the
coachman; but the coachman could not be seen, for another man had
been driving on that road in his stead the last three or four
days. He could probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at
the inn where the coach put up. So the anxious heart-stricken
Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till morning--nay,
till eleven o'clock, when the coach started.
At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had
driven Hetty would not be in the town again till night. When he
did come he remembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke
addressed to her, quoting it many times to Adam, and observing
with equal frequency that he thought there was something more than
common, because Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he
declared, as the people had done at the inn, that he had lost
sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of the next morning
was consumed in inquiries at every house in the town from which a
coach started--(all in vain, for you know Hetty did not start from
Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)--and then in
walking out to the first toll-gates on the different lines of
road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her
there. No, she was not to be traced any farther; and the next
hard task for Adam was to go home and carry the wretched tidings
to the Hall Farm. As to what he should do beyond that, he had
come to two distinct resolutions amidst the tumult of thought and
feeling which was going on within him while he went to and fro.
He would not mention what he knew of Arthur Donnithorne's
behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for it: it was
still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure might be
an injury or an offence to her. And as soon as he had been home
and done what was necessary there to prepare for his further
absence, he would start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of
Hetty on the road, he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and
make himself certain how far he was acquainted with her movements.
Several times the thought occurred to him that he would consult
Mr. Irwine, but that would be useless unless he told him all, and
so betrayed the secret about Arthur. It seems strange that Adam,
in the incessant occupation of his mind about Hetty, should never
have alighted on the probability that she had gone to Windsor,
ignorant that Arthur was no longer there. Perhaps the reason was
that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur
uncalled; he imagined no cause that could have driven her to such
a step, after that letter written in August. There were but two
alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again
and enticed her away, or she had simply fled from her approaching
marriage with himself because she found, after all, she could not
love him well enough, and yet was afraid of her friends' anger if
she retracted.
With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to
Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days in inquiries which
had proved to be almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet,
since he would not tell the Poysers his conviction as to where
Hetty was gone, or his intention to follow her thither, he must be
able to say to them that he had traced her as far as possible.
It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached
Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his mother and Seth, and
also to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself
without undressing on a bed at the "Waggon Overthrown," and slept
hard from pure weariness. Not more than four hours, however, for
before five o'clock he set out on his way home in the faint
morning twilight. He always kept a key of the workshop door in
his pocket, so that he could let himself in; and he wished to
enter without awaking his mother, for he was anxious to avoid
telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and
asking him to tell her when it should be necessary. He walked
gently along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door; but,
as he expected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark.
It subsided when he saw Adam, holding up his finger at him to
impose silence, and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content
himself with rubbing his body against his master's legs.
Adam was too heart-sick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He
threw himself on the bench and stared dully at the wood and the
signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel
pleasure in them again, while Gyp, dimly aware that there was
something wrong with his master, laid his rough grey head on
Adam's knee and wrinkled his brows to look up at him. Hitherto,
since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constantly among strange
people and in strange places, having no associations with the
details of his daily life, and now that by the light of this new
morning he was come back to his home and surrounded by the
familiar objects that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the
reality--the hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed upon
him with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest
of drawers, which he had been making in spare moments for Hetty's
use, when his home should be hers.
Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by
Gyp's bark, and Adam heard him moving about in the room above,
dressing himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother:
he would come home to-day, surely, for the business would be
wanting him sadly by to-morrow, but it was pleasant to think he
had had a longer holiday than he had expected. And would Dinah
come too? Seth felt that that was the greatest happiness he could
look forward to for himself, though he had no hope left that she
would ever love him well enough to marry him; but he had often
said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and brother
than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always near
her, instead of living so far off!
He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the
kitchen into the workshop, intending to let out Gyp; but he stood
still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of
Adam seated listlessly on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken
blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt
in an instant what the marks meant--not drunkenness, but some
great calamity. Adam looked up at him without speaking, and Seth
moved forward towards the bench, himself trembling so that speech
did not come readily.
"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting
down on the bench beside Adam, "what is it?"
Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress
the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart swell like a child's at
this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and
sobbed.
Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his
recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed before.
"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when
Adam raised his head and was recovering himself.
"No, lad; but she's gone--gone away from us. She's never been to
Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds ever since last Friday was
a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where
she went after she got to Stoniton."
Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that
could suggest to him a reason for Hetty's going away.
"Hast any notion what she's done it for?" he said, at last.
"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it
came nigh--that must be it," said Adam. He had determined to
mention no further reason.
"I hear Mother stirring," said Seth. "Must we tell her?"
"No, not yet," said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the
hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse himself. "I can't
have her told yet; and I must set out on another journey directly,
after I've been to the village and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell
thee where I'm going, and thee must say to her I'm gone on
business as nobody is to know anything about. I'll go and wash
myself now." Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but
after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth's eyes with
a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all the money out o' the
tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll be
thine, to take care o' Mother with."
Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible
secret under all this. "Brother," he said, faintly--he never
called Adam "Brother" except in solemn moments--"I don't believe
you'll do anything as you can't ask God's blessing on."
"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but
what's a man's duty."
The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she
would only distress him by words, half of blundering affection,
half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his
wife as she had always foreseen, brought back some of his habitual
firmness and self-command. He had felt ill on his journey home--
he told her when she came down--had stayed all night at
Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad headache, that still hung
about him this morning, accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes.
He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to
his business for an hour, and give notice to Burge of his being
obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention
to any one; for he wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near
breakfast-time, when the children and servants would be in the
house-place, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about
his having returned without Hetty. He waited until the clock
struck nine before he left the work-yard at the village, and set
off, through the fields, towards the Farm. It was an immense
relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser
advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going
to the house. Mr. Poyser was walking briskly this March morning,
with a sense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast
the master's eye on the shoeing of a new cart-horse, carrying his
spud as a useful companion by the way. His surprise was great
when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to
presentiments of evil.
"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and
not brought the lasses back, after all? Where are they?"
"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate
that he wished to walk back with Mr. Poyser.
"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye
look bad. Is there anything happened?"
"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find
Hetty at Snowfield."
Mr. Poyser's good-natured face showed signs of troubled
astonishment. "Not find her? What's happened to her?" he said,
his thoughts flying at once to bodily accident.
"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never
went to Snowfield--she took the coach to Stoniton, but I can't
learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoniton coach."
"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still,
so puzzled and bewildered that the fact did not yet make itself
felt as a trouble by him.
"She must ha' done," said Adam. "She didn't like our marriage
when it came to the point--that must be it. She'd mistook her
feelings."
Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and
rooting up the grass with his spud, without knowing what he was
doing. His usual slowness was always trebled when the subject of
speech was painful. At last he looked up, right in Adam's face,
saying, "Then she didna deserve t' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i'
fault myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for her
marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye, lad--the more's the
pity: it's a sad cut-up for ye, I doubt."
Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk
for a little while, went on, "I'll be bound she's gone after
trying to get a lady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her
head half a year ago, and wanted me to gi' my consent. But I'd
thought better on her"--he added, shaking his head slowly and
sadly--"I'd thought better on her, nor to look for this, after
she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been got ready."
Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in
Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe that it might possibly be
true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to
Arthur.
"It was better it should be so," he said, as quietly as he could,
"if she felt she couldn't like me for a husband. Better run away
before than repent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if
she comes back, as she may do if she finds it hard to get on away
from home."
"I canna look on her as I've done before," said Martin decisively.
"She's acted bad by you, and by all of us. But I'll not turn my
back on her: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've
knowed on her. It'll be a hard job for me to tell her aunt. Why
didna Dinah come back wi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt
a bit."
"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this
fortnight, and I couldn't learn from th' old woman any direction
where she is at Leeds, else I should ha' brought it you."
"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser,
indignantly, "than going preaching among strange folks a-that'n."
"I must leave you now, Mr. Poyser," said Adam, "for I've a deal to
see to."
"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the
missis when I go home. It's a hard job."
"But," said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened
quiet for a week or two. I've not told my mother yet, and there's
no knowing how things may turn out."
"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why
the match is broke off, an' we may hear of her after a bit. Shake
hands wi' me, lad: I wish I could make thee amends."
There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment which
caused him to bring out those scanty words in rather a broken
fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the
two honest men grasped each other's hard hands in mutual
understanding.
There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had
told Seth to go to the Chase and leave a message for the squire,
saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a
journey--and to say as much, and no more, to any one else who made
inquiries about him. If the Poysers learned that he was gone away
again, Adam knew they would infer that he was gone in search of
Hetty.
He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now
the impulse which had frequently visited him before--to go to Mr.
Irwine, and make a confidant of him--recurred with the new force
which belongs to a last opportunity. He was about to start on a
long journey--a difficult one--by sea--and no soul would know
where he was gone. If anything happened to him? Or, if he
absolutely needed help in any matter concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine
was to be trusted; and the feeling which made Adam shrink from
telling anything which was her secret must give way before the
need there was that she should have some one else besides himself
who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity.
Towards Arthur, even though he might have incurred no new guilt,
Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's
interest called on him to speak.
"I must do it," said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread
themselves through hours of his sad journeying, now rushed upon
him in an instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering;
"it's the right thing. I can't stand alone in this way any
longer."
Chapter XXXIX
The Tidings
ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest
stride, looking at his watch with the fear that Mr. Irwine might
be gone out--hunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together
produced a state of strong excitement before he reached the
rectory gate, and outside it he saw the deep marks of a recent
hoof on the gravel.
But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and
though there was a horse against the stable door, it was not Mr.
Irwine's: it had evidently had a journey this morning, and must
belong to some one who had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at
home, then; but Adam could hardly find breath and calmness to tell
Carroll that he wanted to speak to the rector. The double
suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had begun to shake the
strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw
himself on a bench in the passage and stared absently at the clock
on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said,
but he heard the study door open--the stranger seemed to be coming
out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let the master know at
once.
Adam sat looking at the clock: the minute-hand was hurrying along
the last five minutes to ten with a loud, hard, indifferent tick,
and Adam watched the movement and listened to the sound as if he
had had some reason for doing so. In our times of bitter
suffering there are almost always these pauses, when our
consciousness is benumbed to everything but some trivial
perception or sensation. It is as if semi-idiocy came to give us
rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us in our
sleep.
Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden.
He was to go into the study immediately. "I can't think what that
strange person's come about," the butler added, from mere
incontinence of remark, as he preceded Adam to the door, "he's
gone i' the dining-room. And master looks unaccountable--as if he
was frightened." Adam took no notice of the words: he could not
care about other people's business. But when he entered the study
and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he felt in an instant that there
was a new expression in it, strangely different from the warm
friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open
on the table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed
glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to
preoccupation with some disagreeable business, for he was looking
eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's entrance were a matter of
poignant anxiety to him.
"You want to speak to me, Adam," he said, in that low
constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is determined to
suppress agitation. "Sit down here." He pointed to a chair just
opposite to him, at no more than a yard's distance from his own,
and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr.
Irwine's gave an additional unexpected difficulty to his
disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to a measure, he
was not the man to renounce it for any but imperative reasons.
"I come to you, sir," he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most
of anybody. I've something very painful to tell you--something as
it'll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o'
the wrong other people have done, you'll see I didn't speak till
I'd good reason."
Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously,
"You was t' ha' married me and Hetty Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the
fifteenth o' this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th'
happiest man i' the parish. But a dreadful blow's come upon me."
Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but
then, determined to control himself, walked to the window and
looked out.
"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was
going to Snowfield o' Friday was a fortnight, and I went last
Sunday to fetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took
the coach to Stoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now
I'm going a long journey to look for her, and I can't trust t'
anybody but you where I'm going."
Mr. Irwine came back from the window and sat down.
"Have you no idea of the reason why she went away?" he said.
"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir," said Adam.
"She didn't like it when it came so near. But that isn't all, I
doubt. There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's
somebody else concerned besides me."
A gleam of something--it was almost like relief or joy--came
across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face at that moment.
Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a little: the next
words were hard to speak. But when he went on, he lifted up his
head and looked straight at Mr. Irwine. He would do the thing he
had resolved to do, without flinching.
"You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend," he
said, "and used to be proud to think as I should pass my life i'
working for him, and had felt so ever since we were lads...."
Mr. Irwine, as if all self-control had forsaken him, grasped
Adam's arm, which lay on the table, and, clutching it tightly like
a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No,
Adam, no--don't say it, for God's sake!"
Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented
of the words that had passed his lips and sat in distressed
silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine
threw himself back in his chair, saying, "Go on--I must know it."
"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd
no right to do to a girl in her station o' life--made her presents
and used to go and meet her out a-walking. I found it out only
two days before he went away--found him a-kissing her as they were
parting in the Grove. There'd been nothing said between me and
Hetty then, though I'd loved her for a long while, and she knew
it. But I reproached him with his wrong actions, and words and
blows passed between us; and he said solemnly to me, after that,
as it had been all nonsense and no more than a bit o' flirting.
But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty he'd meant nothing,
for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn't
understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart, and I
thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to love
another man as wanted to marry her. And I gave her the letter,
and she seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd
expected...and she behaved kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she
didn't know her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back
upon her when it was too late...I don't want to blame her...I
can't think as she meant to deceive me. But I was encouraged to
think she loved me, and--you know the rest, sir. But it's on my
mind as he's been false to me, and 'ticed her away, and she's gone
to him--and I'm going now to see, for I can never go to work again
till I know what's become of her."
During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his
self-mastery in spite of the painful thoughts that crowded upon
him. It was a bitter remembrance to him now--that morning when
Arthur breakfasted with him and seemed as if he were on the verge
of a confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted to
confess. And if their words had taken another turn...if he
himself had been less fastidious about intruding on another man's
secrets...it was cruel to think how thin a film had shut out
rescue from all this guilt and misery. He saw the whole history
now by that terrible illumination which the present sheds back
upon the past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon his was
thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for the man
who sat before him--already so bruised, going forth with sad blind
resignedness to an unreal sorrow, while a real one was close upon
him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have
feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that
comes over us in the presence of a great anguish, for the anguish
he must inflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put
his hand on the arm that lay on the table, but very gently this
time, as he said solemnly:
"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life.
You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as act manfully. God
requires both tasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow
coming upon you than any you have yet known. But you are not
guilty--you have not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who
has!"
The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was
trembling suspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating, shrinking pity.
But he went on.
"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him.
She is in Stonyshire--at Stoniton."
Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have
leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid hold of his arm
again and said, persuasively, "Wait, Adam, wait." So he sat down.
"She is in a very unhappy position--one which will make it worse
for you to find her, my poor friend, than to have lost her for
ever."
Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved
again, and he whispered, "Tell me."
"She has been arrested...she is in prison."
It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of
resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his face, and he said,
loudly and sharply, "For what?"
"For a great crime--the murder of her child."
"It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his cnair and
making a stride towards the door; but he turned round again,
setting his back against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr.
Irwine. "It isn't possible. She never had a child. She can't be
guilty. WHO says it?"
"God grant she may be innocent, Adam. We can still hope she is."
"But who says she is guilty?" said Adam violently. "Tell me
everything."
"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken,
and the constable who arrested her is in the dining-room. She
will not confess her name or where she comes from; but I fear, I
fear, there can be no doubt it is Hetty. The description of her
person corresponds, only that she is said to look very pale and
ill. She had a small red-leather pocket-book in her pocket with
two names written in it--one at the beginning, 'Hetty Sorrel,
Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah Morris, Snowfield.'
She will not say which is her own name--she denies everything, and
will answer no questions, and application has been made to me, as
a magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her, for it
was thought probable that the name which stands first is her own
name."
"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said
Adam, still violently, with an effort that seemed to shake his
whole frame. "I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and
none of us know it."
"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the
crime; but we have room to hope that she did not really commit it.
Try and read that letter, Adam."
Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix
his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile went out to give
some orders. When he came back, Adam's eyes were still on the
first page--he couldn't read--he could not put the words together
and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last and
clenched his fist.
"It's HIS doing," he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his
door, not at hers. HE taught her to deceive--HE deceived me
first. Let 'em put HIM on his trial--let him stand in court
beside her, and I'll tell 'em how he got hold of her heart, and
'ticed her t' evil, and then lied to me. Is HE to go free, while
they lay all the punishment on her...so weak and young?"
The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to
poor Adam's maddened feelings. He was silent, looking at the
corner of the room as if he saw something there. Then he burst
out again, in a tone of appealing anguish, "I can't bear it...O
God, it's too hard to lay upon me--it's too hard to think she's
wicked."
Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to
utter soothing words at present, and indeed, the sight of Adam
before him, with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes
over a young face in moments of terrible emotion--the hard
bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the quivering
mouth, the furrows in the brow--the sight of this strong firm man
shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, moved him so deeply
that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless, with his eyes
vacantly fixed in this way for a minute or two; in that short
space he was living through all his love again.
"She can't ha' done it," he said, still without moving his eyes,
as if he were only talking to himself: "it was fear made her hide
it...I forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee
wast deceived too...it's gone hard wi' thee, my poor Hetty...but
they'll never make me believe it."
He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with
fierce abruptness, "I'll go to him--I'll bring him back--I'll make
him go and look at her in her misery--he shall look at her till he
can't forget it--it shall follow him night and day--as long as he
lives it shall follow him--he shan't escape wi' lies this time--
I'll fetch him, I'll drag him myself."
In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically
and looked about for his hat, quite unconscious where he was or
who was present with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now
took him by the arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No,
Adam, no; I'm sure you will wish to stay and see what good can be
done for her, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance.
The punishment will surely fall without your aid. Besides, he is
no longer in Ireland. He must be on his way home--or would be,
long before you arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for
him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go with me
to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as
soon as you can compose yourself."
While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of
the actual scene. He rubbed his hair off his forehead and
listened.
"Remember," Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, and
act for, besides yourself, Adam: there are Hetty's friends, the
good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I
can bear to think. I expect it from your strength of mind, Adam--
from your sense of duty to God and man--that you will try to act
as long as action can be of any use."
In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for
Adam's own sake. Movement, with some object before him, was the
best means of counteracting the violence of suffering in these
first hours.
"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a
moment's pause. "We have to see if it is really Hetty who is
there, you know."
"Yes, sir," said Adam, "I'll do what you think right. But the
folks at th' Hall Farm?"
"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I
shall have ascertained things then which I am uncertain about now,
and I shall return as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are
ready."
Chapter XL
The Bitter Waters Spread
MR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a post-chaise that night, and
the first words Carroll said to him, as he entered the house,
were, that Squire Donnithorne was dead--found dead in his bed at
ten o'clock that morning--and that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say
she should be awake when Mr. Irwine came home, and she begged him
not to go to bed without seeing her.
"Well, Dauphin," Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room,
"you're come at last. So the old gentleman's fidgetiness and low
spirits, which made him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really
meant something. I suppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne
was found dead in his bed this morning. You will believe my
prognostications another time, though I daresay I shan't live to
prognosticate anything but my own death."
"What have they done about Arthur?" said Mr. Irwine. "Sent a
messenger to await him at Liverpool?"
"Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear
Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at the Chase, and
making good times on the estate, like a generous-hearted fellow as
he is. He'll be as happy as a king now."
Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with
anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light words were almost
intolerable.
"What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news?
Or are you thinking of the danger for Arthur in crossing that
frightful Irish Channel at this time of year?"
"No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to
rejoice just now."
"You've been worried by this law business that you've been to
Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that you can't tell me?"
"You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to
tell you at present. Good-night: you'll sleep now you have no
longer anything to listen for."
Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet
Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return: the news of his
grandfather's death would bring him as soon as he could possibly
come. He could go to bed now and get some needful rest, before
the time came for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his
sickening news to the Hall Farm and to Adam's home.
Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank
from seeing Hetty, he could not bear to go to a distance from her
again.
"It's no use, sir," he said to the rector, "it's no use for me to
go back. I can't go to work again while she's here, and I
couldn't bear the sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll
take a bit of a room here, where I can see the prison walls, and
perhaps I shall get, in time, to bear seeing her."
Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of
the crime she was charged with, for Mr. Irwine, feeling that the
belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load,
had kept from him the facts which left no hope in his own mind.
There was not any reason for thrusting the whole burden on Adam at
once, and Mr. Irwine, at parting, only said, "If the evidence
should tell too strongly against her, Adam, we may still hope for
a pardon. Her youth and other circumstances will be a plea for
her."
"Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into
the wrong way," said Adam, with bitter earnestness. "It's right
they should know it was a fine gentleman made love to her, and
turned her head wi' notions. You'll remember, sir, you've
promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the people at the farm,
who it was as led her wrong, else they'll think harder of her than
she deserves. You'll be doing her a hurt by sparing him, and I
hold him the guiltiest before God, let her ha' done what she may.
If you spare him, I'll expose him!"
"I think your demand is just, Adam," said Mr. Irwine, "but when
you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more mercifully. I say
nothing now, only that his punishment is in other hands than
ours."
Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of
Arthur's sad part in the story of sin and sorrow--he who cared for
Arthur with fatherly affection, who had cared for him with
fatherly pride. But he saw clearly that the secret must be known
before long, even apart from Adam's determination, since it was
scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would persist to the end in her
obstinate silence. He made up his mind to withhold nothing from
the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at once, for there was no
time to rob the tidings of their suddenness. Hetty's trial must
come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton
the next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser
could escape the pain of being called as a witness, and it was
better he should know everything as long beforehand as possible.
Before ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm
was a house of mourning for a misfortune felt to be worse than
death. The sense of family dishonour was too keen even in the
kind-hearted Martin Poyser the younger to leave room for any
compassion towards Hetty. He and his father were simple-minded
farmers, proud of their untarnished character, proud that they
came of a family which had held up its head and paid its way as
far back as its name was in the parish register; and Hetty had
brought disgrace on them all--disgrace that could never be wiped
out. That was the all-conquering feeling in the mind both of
father and son--the scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised
all other sensibility--and Mr. Irwine was struck with surprise to
observe that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are
often startled by the severity of mild people on exceptional
occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be
under the yoke of traditional impressions.
"I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring
her off," said Martin the younger when Mr. Irwine was gone, while
the old grandfather was crying in the opposite chair, "but I'll
not go nigh her, nor ever see her again, by my own will. She's
made our bread bitter to us for all our lives to come, an' we
shall ne'er hold up our heads i' this parish nor i' any other.
The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's poor amends pity 'ull
make us."
"Pity?" said the grandfather, sharply. "I ne'er wanted folks's
pity i' MY life afore...an' I mun begin to be looked down on now,
an' me turned seventy-two last St. Thomas's, an' all th'
underbearers and pall-bearers as I'n picked for my funeral are i'
this parish and the next to 't....It's o' no use now...I mun be
ta'en to the grave by strangers."
"Don't fret so, father," said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very
little, being almost overawed by her husband's unusual hardness
and decision. "You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the
lads and the little un 'ull grow up in a new parish as well as i'
th' old un."
"Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now," said Mr.
Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down his round cheeks.
"We thought it 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice
this Lady day, but I must gi' notice myself now, an' see if there
can anybody be got to come an' take to the crops as I'n put i' the
ground; for I wonna stay upo' that man's land a day longer nor I'm
forced to't. An' me, as thought him such a good upright young
man, as I should be glad when he come to be our landlord. I'll
ne'er lift my hat to him again, nor sit i' the same church wi'
him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an'
pretended to be such a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a
fine friend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so
fine, an' all the while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if
he can stay i' this country any more nor we can."
"An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her,"
said the old man. "Why, they'll cast it up to the little un, as
isn't four 'ear old, some day--they'll cast it up t' her as she'd
a cousin tried at the 'sizes for murder."
"It'll be their own wickedness, then," said Mrs. Poyser, with a
sob in her voice. "But there's One above 'ull take care o' the
innicent child, else it's but little truth they tell us at church.
It'll be harder nor ever to die an' leave the little uns, an'
nobody to be a mother to 'em."
"We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is," said
Mr. Poyser; "but Adam said she'd left no direction where she'd be
at Leeds."
"Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith,"
said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her
husbands. "I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't
remember what name she called her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's
like enough to know, for she's a preaching woman as the Methodists
think a deal on."
"I'll send to Seth," said Mr. Poyser. "I'll send Alick to tell
him to come, or else to send up word o' the woman's name, an' thee
canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as
we can make out a direction."
"It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you
i' trouble," said Mrs. Poyser. "Happen it'll be ever so long on
the road, an' never reach her at last."
Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had
already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, "Eh, there's no
comfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get
Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did when my old man died. I'd
like her to come in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me.
She'd tell me the rights on't, belike--she'd happen know some good
i' all this trouble an' heart-break comin' upo' that poor lad, as
ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's life, but war better nor anybody
else's son, pick the country round. Eh, my lad...Adam, my poor
lad!"
"Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?"
said Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro.
"Fetch her?" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief,
like a crying child who hears some promise of consolation. "Why,
what place is't she's at, do they say?"
"It's a good way off, mother--Leeds, a big town. But I could be
back in three days, if thee couldst spare me."
"Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother,
an' bring me word what he's a-doin'. Mester Irwine said he'd come
an' tell me, but I canna make out so well what it means when he
tells me. Thee must go thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him.
Write a letter to Dinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin'
when nobody wants thee."
"I'm not sure where she'd be i' that big town," said Seth. "If
I'd gone myself, I could ha' found out by asking the members o'
the Society. But perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist
preacher, Leeds, o' th' outside, it might get to her; for most
like she'd be wi' Sarah Williamson."
Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs.
Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the intention of writing
himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could
suggest about the address of the letter, and warn them that there
might be some delay in the delivery, from his not knowing an exact
direction.
On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had
also a claim to be acquainted with what was likely to keep Adam
away from business for some time; and before six o'clock that
evening there were few people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not
heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had not mentioned Arthur's name to
Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all
the dark shadows cast upon it by its terrible consequences, was
presently as well known as that his grandfather was dead, and that
he was come into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motive to
keep silence towards the one or two neighbours who ventured to
come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his
trouble; and Carroll, who kept his ears open to all that passed at
the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and
found early opportunities of communicating it.
One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by
the hand without speaking for some minutes was Bartle Massey. He
had shut up his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where
he arrived about half-past seven in the evening, and, sending his
duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at that hour,
but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into the
study, where Mr. Irwine soon joined him.
"Well, Bartle?" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was
not his usual way of saluting the schoolmaster, but trouble makes
us treat all who feel with us very much alike. "Sit down."
"You know what I'm come about as well as I do, sir, I daresay,"
said Bartle.
"You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached
you...about Hetty Sorrel?"
"Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand
you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the favour of you to tell me
what's the state of the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do.
For as for that bit o' pink-and-white they've taken the trouble to
put in jail, I don't value her a rotten nut--not a rotten nut--
only for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest
man--a lad I've set such store by--trusted to, that he'd make my
bit o' knowledge go a good way in the world....Why, sir, he's the
only scholar I've had in this stupid country that ever had the
will or the head-piece for mathematics. If he hadn't had so much
hard work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher
branches, and then this might never have happened--might never
have happened."
Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated
frame of mind, and was not able to check himself on this first
occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his
moist forehead, and probably his moist eyes also.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, when this pause had given him
time to reflect, "for running on in this way about my own
feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when
there's nobody wants to listen to me. I came to hear you speak,
not to talk myself--if you'll take the trouble to tell me what the
poor lad's doing."
"Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle," said Mr. Irwine.
"The fact is, I'm very much in the same condition as you just now;
I've a great deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard
work to be quite silent about my own feelings and only attend to
others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the only
one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to
remain at Stoniton till after the trial: it will come on probably
a week to-morrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him
to do so, because I think it better he should be away from his own
home at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is
innocent--he wants to summon up courage to see her if he can; he
is unwilling to leave the spot where she is."
"Do you think the creatur's guilty, then?" said Bartle. "Do you
think they'll hang her?"
"I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very
strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies everything--denies
that she has had a child in the face of the most positive
evidence. I saw her myself, and she was obstinately silent to me;
she shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was
never so shocked in my life as at the change in her. But I trust
that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the sake of
the innocent who are involved."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to
whom he was speaking. "I beg your pardon, sir, I mean it's stuff
and nonsense for the innocent to care about her being hanged. For
my own part, I think the sooner such women are put out o' the
world the better; and the men that help 'em to do mischief had
better go along with 'em for that matter. What good will you do
by keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that 'ud feed
rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to care about it, I
don't want him to suffer more than's needful....Is he very much
cut up, poor fellow?" Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and
putting them on, as if they would assist his imagination.
"Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep," said Mr. Irwine. "He
looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence came over him now
and then yesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near
him. But I shall go to Stoniton again to-morrow, and I have
confidence enough in the strength of Adam's principle to trust
that he will be able to endure the worst without being driven to
anything rash."
Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather
than addressing Bartle Massey in the last sentence, had in his
mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance to-wards Arthur,
which was the form Adam's anguish was continually taking, might
make him seek an encounter that was likely to end more fatally
than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the
anxiety with which he looked forward to Arthur's arrival. But
Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring to suicide, and his face
wore a new alarm.
"I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir," he said, "and I hope
you'll approve of it. I'm going to shut up my school--if the
scholars come, they must go back again, that's all--and I shall go
to Stoniton and look after Adam till this business is over. I'll
pretend I'm come to look on at the assizes; he can't object to
that. What do you think about it, sir?"
"Well," said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, "there would be some
real advantages in that...and I honour you for your friendship
towards him, Bartle. But...you must be careful what you say to
him, you know. I'm afraid you have too little fellow-feeling in
what you consider his weakness about Hetty."
"Trust to me, sir--trust to me. I know what you mean. I've been
a fool myself in my time, but that's between you and me. I shan't
thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets
some good food, and put in a word here and there."
"Then," said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle's
discretion, "I think you'll be doing a good deed; and it will be
well for you to let Adam's mother and brother know that you're
going."
"Yes, sir, yes," said Bartle, rising, and taking off his
spectacles, "I'll do that, I'll do that; though the mother's a
whimpering thing--I don't like to come within earshot of her;
however, she's a straight-backed, clean woman, none of your
slatterns. I wish you good-bye, sir, and thank you for the time
you've spared me. You're everybody's friend in this business--
everybody's friend. It's a heavy weight you've got on your
shoulders."
"Good-bye, Bartle, till we meet at Stoniton, as I daresay we
shall."
Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll's
conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated tone to
Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, "Now, I
shall be obliged to take you with me, you good-for-nothing woman.
You'd go fretting yourself to death if I left you--you know you
would, and perhaps get snapped up by some tramp. And you'll be
running into bad company, I expect, putting your nose in every
hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do anything
disgraceful, I'll disown you--mind that, madam, mind that!"
Chapter XLI
The Eve of the Trial
AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in it--one
laid on the floor. It is ten o'clock on Thursday night, and the
dark wall opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might
have struggled with the light of the one dip candle by which
Bartle Massey is pretending to read, while he is really looking
over his spectacles at Adam Bede, seated near the dark window.
You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His
face has got thinner this last week: he has the sunken eyes, the
neglected beard of a man just risen from a sick-bed. His heavy
black hair hangs over his forehead, and there is no active impulse
in him which inclines him to push it off, that he may be more
awake to what is around him. He has one arm over the back of the
chair, and he seems to be looking down at his clasped hands. He
is roused by a knock at the door.
"There he is," said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening
the door. It was Mr. Irwine.
Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine
approached him and took his hand.
"I'm late, Adam," he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle
placed for him, "but I was later in setting off from Broxton than
I intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I
arrived. I have done everything now, however--everything that can
be done to-night, at least. Let us all sit down."
Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there
was no chair remaining, sat on the bed in the background.
"Have you seen her, sir?" said Adam tremulously.
"Yes, Adam; I and the chaplain have both been with her this
evening."
"Did you ask her, sir...did you say anything about me?"
"Yes," said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, "I spoke of you. I
said you wished to see her before the trial, if she consented."
As Mr. Irwine paused, Adam looked at him with eager, questioning
eyes.
"You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only
you--some fatal influence seems to have shut up her heart against
her fellow-creatures. She has scarcely said anything more than
'No' either to me or the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before
you were mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was any one
of her family whom she would like to see--to whom she could open
her mind--she said, with a violent shudder, 'Tell them not to come
near me--I won't see any of them.'"
Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There
was silence for a few minutes, and then Mr. Irwine said, "I don't
like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now
urge you strongly to go and see her to-morrow morning, even
without her consent. It is just possible, notwithstanding
appearances to the contrary, that the interview might affect her
favourably. But I grieve to say I have scarcely any hope of that.
She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned your name; she only said
'No,' in the same cold, obstinate way as usual. And if the
meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless
suffering to you--severe suffering, I fear. She is very much
changed..."
Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on
the table. But he stood still then, and looked at Mr. Irwine, as
if he had a question to ask which it was yet difficult to utter.
Bartle Massey rose quietly, turned the key in the door, and put it
in his pocket.
"Is he come back?" said Adam at last.
"No, he is not," said Mr. Irwine, quietly. "Lay down your hat,
Adam, unless you like to walk out with me for a little fresh air.
I fear you have not been out again to-day."
"You needn't deceive me, sir," said Adam, looking hard at Mr.
Irwine and speaking in a tone of angry suspicion. "You needn't be
afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to feel what she
feels. It's his work...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t'
anybody's heart to look at...I don't care what she's done...it was
him brought her to it. And he shall know it...he shall feel
it...if there's a just God, he shall feel what it is t' ha'
brought a child like her to sin and misery."
"I'm not deceiving you, Adam," said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur
Donnithorne is not come back--was not come back when I left. I
have left a letter for him: he will know all as soon as he
arrives."
"But you don't mind about it," said Adam indignantly. "You think
it doesn't matter as she lies there in shame and misery, and he
knows nothing about it--he suffers nothing."
"Adam, he WILL know--he WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a
heart and a conscience: I can't be entirely deceived in his
character. I am convinced--I am sure he didn't fall under
temptation without a struggle. He may be weak, but he is not
callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this will be a
shock of which he will feel the effects all his life. Why do you
crave vengeance in this way? No amount of torture that you could
inflict on him could benefit her."
"No--O God, no," Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again;
"but then, that's the deepest curse of all...that's what makes the
blackness of it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty...she can
never be my sweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing God had made--
smiling up at me...I thought she loved me...and was good..."
Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone,
as if he were only talking to himself; but now he said abruptly,
looking at Mr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You
don't think she is, sir? She can't ha' done it."
"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam," Mr. Irwine
answered gently. "In these cases we sometimes form our judgment
on what seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing
some small fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst:
you have no right to say that the guilt of her crime lies with
him, and that he ought to bear the punishment. It is not for us
men to apportion the shares of moral guilt and retribution. We
find it impossible to avoid mistakes even in determining who has
committed a single criminal act, and the problem how far a man is
to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of his own
deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The
evil consequences that may lie folded in a single act of selfish
indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken
some feeling less presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You
have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, when you are
calm. Don't suppose I can't enter into the anguish that drives
you into this state of revengeful hatred. But think of this: if
you were to obey your passion--for it IS passion, and you deceive
yourself in calling it justice--it might be with you precisely as
it has been with Arthur; nay, worse; your passion might lead you
yourself into a horrible crime."
"No--not worse," said Adam, bitterly; "I don't believe it's worse--
I'd sooner do it--I'd sooner do a wickedness as I could suffer
for by myself than ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand
by and see 'em punish her while they let me alone; and all for a
bit o' pleasure, as, if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd ha'
cut his hand off sooner than he'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't
foresee what's happened? He foresaw enough; he'd no right to
expect anything but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to
smooth it off wi' lies. No--there's plenty o' things folks are
hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what he
will, if he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't
half so bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things easy t'
himself and knows all the while the punishment 'll fall on
somebody else."
"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort
of wrong deed of which a man can bear the punishment alone; you
can't isolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall
not spread. Men's lives are as thoroughly blended with each other
as the air they breathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease.
I know, I feel the terrible extent of suffering this sin of
Arthur's has caused to others; but so does every sin cause
suffering to others besides those who commit it. An act of
vengeance on your part against Arthur would simply be another evil
added to those we are suffering under: you could not bear the
punishment alone; you would entail the worst sorrows on every one
who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury that
would leave all the present evils just as they were and add worse
evils to them. You may tell me that you meditate no fatal act of
vengeance, but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to
such actions, and as long as you indulge it, as long as you do not
see that to fix your mind on Arthur's punishment is revenge, and
not justice, you are in danger of being led on to the commission
of some great wrong. Remember what you told me about your
feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in the Grove."
Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the
past, and Mr. Irwine left him to his thoughts, while he spoke to
Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other
matters of an indifferent kind. But at length Adam turned round
and said, in a more subdued tone, "I've not asked about 'em at th'
Hall Farm, sir. Is Mr. Poyser coming?"
"He is come; he is in Stoniton to-night. But I could not advise
him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a very perturbed state,
and it is best he should not see you till you are calmer."
"Is Dinah Morris come to 'em, sir? Seth said they'd sent for
her."
"No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They're
afraid the letter has not reached her. It seems they had no exact
address."
Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, "I wonder if
Dinah 'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the Poysers would ha'
been sorely against it, since they won't come nigh her themselves.
But I think she would, for the Methodists are great folks for
going into the prisons; and Seth said he thought she would. She'd
a very tender way with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha'
done any good. You never saw her, sir, did you?"
"Yes, I did. I had a conversation with her--she pleased me a good
deal. And now you mention it, I wish she would come, for it is
possible that a gentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to
open her heart. The jail chaplain is rather harsh in his manner."
"But it's o' no use if she doesn't come," said Adam sadly.
"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures
for finding her out," said Mr. Irwine, "but it's too late now, I
fear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest to-night.
God bless you. I'll see you early to-morrow morning."
Chapter XLII
The Morning of the Trial
AT one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper
room; his watch lay before him on the table, as if he were
counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely
to be said by the witnesses on the trial, for he had shrunk from
all the particulars connected with Hetty's arrest and accusation.
This brave active man, who would have hastened towards any danger
or toil to rescue Hetty from an apprehended wrong or misfortune,
felt himself powerless to contemplate irremediable evil and
suffering. The susceptibility which would have been an impelling
force where there was any possibility of action became helpless
anguish when he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an
active outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur.
Energetic natures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush
away from a hopeless sufferer, as if they were hard-hearted. It
is the overmastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink
by an ungovernable instinct, as they would shrink from laceration.
Adam had brought himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she would
consent to see him, because he thought the meeting might possibly
be a good to her--might help to melt away this terrible hardness
they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will for what she
had done to him, she might open her heart to him. But this
resolution had been an immense effort--he trembled at the thought
of seeing her changed face, as a timid woman trembles at the
thought of the surgeon's knife, and he chose now to bear the long
hours of suspense rather than encounter what seemed to him the
more intolerable agony of witnessing her trial.
Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a
regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The yearning
memories, the bitter regret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling
appeals to the Invisible Right--all the intense emotions which had
filled the days and nights of the past week, and were compressing
themselves again like an eager crowd into the hours of this single
morning, made Adam look back on all the previous years as if they
had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only now awaked to
full consciousness. It seemed to him as if he had always before
thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all that he
had himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's
stroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless a great anguish
may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of
fire with a soul full of new awe and new pity.
"O God," Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked
blankly at the face of the watch, "and men have suffered like this
before...and poor helpless young things have suffered like
her....Such a little while ago looking so happy and so
pretty...kissing 'em all, her grandfather and all of 'em, and they
wishing her luck....O my poor, poor Hetty...dost think on it now?"
Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun
to whimper, and there was a sound of a stick and a lame walk on
the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all
over?
Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand
and said, "I'm just come to look at you, my boy, for the folks are
gone out of court for a bit."
Adam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speak--he could
only return the pressure of his friend's hand--and Bartle, drawing
up the other chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his
hat and his spectacles.
"That's a thing never happened to me before," he observed, "to go
out o' the door with my spectacles on. I clean forgot to take 'em
off."
The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to
respond at all to Adam's agitation: he would gather, in an
indirect way, that there was nothing decisive to communicate at
present.
"And now," he said, rising again, "I must see to your having a bit
of the loaf, and some of that wine Mr. Irwine sent this morning.
He'll be angry with me if you don't have it. Come, now," he went
on, bringing forward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine
into a cup, "I must have a bit and a sup myself. Drink a drop
with me, my lad--drink with me."
Adam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, "Tell me
about it, Mr. Massey--tell me all about it. Was she there? Have
they begun?"
"Yes, my boy, yes--it's taken all the time since I first went; but
they're slow, they're slow; and there's the counsel they've got
for her puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a
deal to do with cross-examining the witnesses and quarrelling with
the other lawyers. That's all he can do for the money they give
him; and it's a big sum--it's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow,
with an eye that 'ud pick the needles out of the hay in no time.
If a man had got no feelings, it 'ud be as good as a demonstration
to listen to what goes on in court; but a tender heart makes one
stupid. I'd have given up figures for ever only to have had some
good news to bring to you, my poor lad."
"But does it seem to be going against her?" said Adam. "Tell me
what they've said. I must know it now--I must know what they have
to bring against her."
"Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but Martin
Poyser--poor Martin. Everybody in court felt for him--it was like
one sob, the sound they made when he came down again. The worst
was when they told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was
hard work, poor fellow--it was hard work. Adam, my boy, the blow
falls heavily on him as well as you; you must help poor Martin;
you must show courage. Drink some wine now, and show me you mean
to bear it like a man."
Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of
quiet obedience, took up the cup and drank a little.
"Tell me how SHE looked," he said presently.
"Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it
was the first sight of the crowd and the judge, poor creatur. And
there's a lot o' foolish women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all
up their arms and feathers on their heads, sitting near the judge:
they've dressed themselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be
scarecrows and warnings against any man ever meddling with a woman
again. They put up their glasses, and stared and whispered. But
after that she stood like a white image, staring down at her hands
and seeming neither to hear nor see anything. And she's as white
as a sheet. She didn't speak when they asked her if she'd plead
'guilty' or 'not guilty,' and they pleaded 'not guilty' for her.
But when she heard her uncle's name, there seemed to go a shiver
right through her; and when they told him to look at her, she hung
her head down, and cowered, and hid her face in her hands. He'd
much ado to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. And the
counsellors--who look as hard as nails mostly--I saw, spared him
as much as they could. Mr. Irwine put himself near him and went
with him out o' court. Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to
be able to stand by a neighbour and uphold him in such trouble as
that."
"God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey," said Adam, in a low
voice, laying his hand on Bartle's arm.
"Aye, aye, he's good metal; he gives the right ring when you try
him, our parson does. A man o' sense--says no more than's
needful. He's not one of those that think they can comfort you
with chattering, as if folks who stand by and look on knew a deal
better what the trouble was than those who have to bear it. I've
had to do with such folks in my time--in the south, when I was in
trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to be a witness himself, by and by,
on her side, you know, to speak to her character and bringing up."
"But the other evidence...does it go hard against her!" said Adam.
"What do you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me the truth."
"Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must
come at last. The doctors' evidence is heavy on her--is heavy.
But she's gone on denying she's had a child from first to last.
These poor silly women-things--they've not the sense to know it's
no use denying what's proved. It'll make against her with the
jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate: they may be less for
recommending her to mercy, if the verdict's against her. But Mr.
Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned with the judge--you may rely
upon that, Adam."
"Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the
court?" said Adam.
"There's the chaplain o' the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp
ferrety-faced man--another sort o' flesh and blood to Mr. Irwine.
They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fag-end o' the clergy."
"There's one man as ought to be there," said Adam bitterly.
Presently he drew himself up and looked fixedly out of the window,
apparently turning over some new idea in his mind.
"Mr. Massey," he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead,
"I'll go back with you. I'll go into court. It's cowardly of me
to keep away. I'll stand by her--I'll own her--for all she's been
deceitful. They oughtn't to cast her off--her own flesh and
blood. We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none
ourselves. I used to be hard sometimes: I'll never be hard again.
I'll go, Mr. Massey--I'll go with you."
There was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented
Bartle from opposing him, even if he had wished to do so. He only
said, "Take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of
me. See, I must stop and eat a morsel. Now, you take some."
Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and
drank some wine. He was haggard and unshaven, as he had been
yesterday, but he stood upright again, and looked more like the
Adam Bede of former days.
Chapter XLIII
The Verdict
THE place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old
hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday light that fell on the
close pavement of human heads was shed through a line of high
pointed windows, variegated with the mellow tints of old painted
glass. Grim dusty armour hung in high relief in front of the dark
oaken gallery at the farther end, and under the broad arch of the
great mullioned window opposite was spread a curtain of old
tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing
indistinct dream of the past. It was a place that through the
rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of old
kings and queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but to-day all
those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast hall felt the
presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm
hearts.
But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt
hitherto, now when Adam Bede's tall figure was suddenly seen being
ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight
of the great hall, among the sleek shaven faces of other men, the
marks of suffering in his face were startling even to Mr. Irwine,
who had last seen him in the dim light of his small room; and the
neighbours from Hayslope who were present, and who told Hetty
Sorrel's story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot
to say how it moved them when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by
the head than most of the people round him, came into court and
took his place by her side.
But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position
Bartle Massey had described, her hands crossed over each other and
her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the
first moments, but at last, when the attention of the court was
withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face towards her with a
resolution not to shrink.
Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is
the likeness we see--it is the likeness, which makes itself felt
the more keenly because something else was and is not. There they
were--the sweet face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the
long dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting lips--pale and
thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she
looked as if some demon had cast a blighting glance upon her,
withered up the woman's soul in her, and left only a hard
despairing obstinacy. But the mother's yearning, that completest
type of the life in another life which is the essence of real
human love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the
debased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale, hard-looking
culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under
the apple-tree boughs--she was that Hetty's corpse, which he had
trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn
away his eyes from.
But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and
made the sense of sight less absorbing. A woman was in the
witness-box, a middle-aged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct
voice. She said, "My name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep
a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church
Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman
who came, looking ill and tired, with a basket on her arm, and
asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th of
February. She had taken the house for a public, because there was
a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't take in
lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to
go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed for one night. And
her prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about
her clothes and looks, and the trouble she seemed to be in made me
as I couldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked
her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she
was going, and where her friends were. She said she was going
home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, and
she'd had a long journey that had cost her more money than she
expected, so as she'd hardly any money left in her pocket, and was
afraid of going where it would cost her much. She had been
obliged to sell most of the things out of her basket, but she'd
thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I
shouldn't take the young woman in for the night. I had only one
room, but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay
with me. I thought she'd been led wrong, and got into trouble,
but if she was going to her friends, it would be a good work to
keep her out of further harm."
The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and
she identified the baby-clothes then shown to her as those in
which she had herself dressed the child.
"Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by
me ever since my last child was born. I took a deal of trouble
both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the
little thing and being anxious about it. I didn't send for a
doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the daytime
she must tell me the name of her friends, and where they
lived, and let me write to them. She said, by and by she would
write herself, but not to-day. She would have no nay, but she
would get up and be dressed, in spite of everything I could say.
She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what
spirit she showed. But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about
her, and towards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after Meeting
was over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house
about half-past eight o'clock. I didn't go out at the shop door,
but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only
got the ground-floor of the house, and the kitchen and bedroom
both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the
fire in the kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or
seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I thought she had
a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards
evening. I was afraid of the fever, and I thought I'd call and
ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back
with me when I went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't
fasten the door behind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with
a bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house I always
went out at the shop door. But I thought there was no danger in
leaving it unfastened that little while. I was longer than I
meant to be, for I had to wait for the woman that came back with
me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we
went in, the candle was standing burning just as I left it, but
the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her cloak
and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I
was dreadful frightened, and angry with her for going. I didn't
go to give information, because I'd no thought she meant to do any
harm, and I knew she had money in her pocket to buy her food and
lodging. I didn't like to set the constable after her, for she'd
a right to go from me if she liked."
The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him
new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the crime--her heart must
have clung to her baby--else why should she have taken it with
her? She might have left it behind. The little creature had died
naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to
death--and there might be the strongest suspicions without any
proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied with imaginary arguments
against such suspicions, that he could not listen to the crossexamination
by Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to
elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of
maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this witness
was being examined, Hetty had stood as motionless as before: no
word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next
witness's voice touched a chord that was still sensitive, she gave
a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned
away her head and looked down at her hands as before. This
witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said:
"My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's
Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last Monday, towards one
o'clock in the afternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and
about a quarter of a mile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in
a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack not far off the
stile. She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she'd be
walking on the other way. It was a regular road through the
fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman there, but
I took notice of her because she looked white and scared. I
should have thought she was a beggar-woman, only for her good
clothes. I thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business
of mine. I stood and looked back after her, but she went right on
while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the
coppice to look after some stakes. There's a road right through
it, and bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been
cut down, and some of 'em not carried away. I didn't go straight
along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a
shorter way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got far
out of the road into one of the open places before I heard a
strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but
I wasn't for stopping to look about just then. But it went on,
and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn't help
stopping to look. I began to think I might make some money of it,
if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which way it
came from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs.
And then I thought it came from the ground; and there was a lot of
timber-choppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a
trunk or two. And I looked about among them, but could find
nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up,
and I went on about my business. But when I came back the same
way pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down my
stakes to have another look. And just as I was stooping and
laying down the stakes, I saw something odd and round and whitish
lying on the ground under a nut-bush by the side of me. And I
stooped down on hands and knees to pick it up. And I saw it was a
little baby's hand."
At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly
trembling; now, for the first time, she seemed to be listening to
what a witness said.
"There was a lot of timber-choppings put together just where the
ground went hollow, like, under the bush, and the hand came out
from among them. But there was a hole left in one place and I
could see down it and see the child's head; and I made haste and
did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the child. It
had got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I
thought it must be dead. I made haste back with it out of the
wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it was dead, and I'd
better take it to the parish and tell the constable. And I said,
'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to
the coppice.' But she seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And
I took the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and
we went on to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the
young woman till dark at night, and we went and gave information
at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning,
another constable came to me, to go with him to the spot where I
found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner asitting
against the bush where I found the child; and she cried
out when she saw us, but she never offered to move. She'd got a
big piece of bread on her lap."
Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was
speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm, which rested on the
boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of his
suffering: Hetty was guilty; and he was silently calling to God
for help. He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious
when the case for the prosecution had closed--unconscious that Mr.
Irwine was in the witness-box, telling of Hetty's unblemished
character in her own parish and of the virtuous habits in which
she had been brought up. This testimony could have no influence
on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy
which her own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to
speak for her--a favour not granted to criminals in those stern
times.
At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement
round him. The judge had addressed the jury, and they were
retiring. The decisive moment was not far off Adam felt a
shuddering horror that would not let him look at Hetty, but she
had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference. All eyes were
strained to look at her, but she stood like a statue of dull
despair.
'There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing
throughout the court during this interval. The desire to listen
was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to
express in undertones. Adam sat looking blankly before him, but
he did not see the objects that were right in front of his eyes--
the counsel and attorneys talking with an air of cool business,
and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the judge--did not
see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake his head
mournfully when somebody whispered to him. The inward action was
too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong
sensation roused him.
It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour,
before the knock which told that the jury had come to their
decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is
sublime--that sudden pause of a great multitude which tells that
one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the silence seemed
to become, like the deepening night, while the jurymen's names
were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her hand,
and the jury were asked for their verdict.
"Guilty."
It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of
disappointment from some hearts that it was followed by no
recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not
with the prisoner. The unnaturalness of her crime stood out the
more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate
silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to
move her, but those who were near saw her trembling.
The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black
cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was observed behind him.
Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command
silence. If any sound were heard, it must have been the sound of
beating hearts. The judge spoke, "Hester Sorrel...."
The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she
looked up at the judge and kept her wide-open eyes fixed on him,
as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her,
there was a deep horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at
the words "and then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead," a
piercing shriek rang through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek.
Adam started to his feet and stretched out his arms towards her.
But the arms could not reach her: she had fallen down in a
fainting-fit, and was carried out of court.
Chapter XLIV
Arthur's Return
When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter
from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing his grand-father's death,
his first feeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got
to him to be with him when he died. He might have felt or wished
something at the last that I shall never know now. It was a
lonely death."
It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity
and softened memory took place of the old antagonism, and in his
busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly
along towards the home where he was now to be master, there was a
continually recurring effort to remember anything by which he
could show a regard for his grandfather's wishes, without
counteracting his own cherished aims for the good of the tenants
and the estate. But it is not in human nature--only in human
pretence--for a young man like Arthur, with a fine constitution
and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that others
think well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give them
more and more reason for that good opinion--it is not possible for
such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the
death of a very old man whom he was not fond of, to feel anything
very different from exultant joy. Now his real life was
beginning; now he would have room and opportunity for action, and
he would use them. He would show the Loamshire people what a fine
country gentleman was; he would not exchange that career for any
other under the sun. He felt himself riding over the hills in the
breezy autumn days, looking after favourite plans of drainage and
enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings as the best rider on
the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on market-days as a
first-rate landlord; by and by making speeches at election
dinners, and showing a wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the
patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of
negligent landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody
must like--happy faces greeting him everywhere on his own estate,
and the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The
Irwines should dine with him every week, and have their own
carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur
would devise, the lay-impropriator of the Hayslope tithes would
insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the vicar; and his
aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the
Chase, if she liked, in spite of her old-maidish ways--at least
until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct
background, for Arthur had not yet seen the woman who would play
the lady-wife to the first-rate country gentleman.
These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts
through hours of travelling can be compressed into a few
sentences, which are only like the list of names telling you what
are the scenes in a long long panorama full of colour, of detail,
and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not
pale abstractions, but real ruddy faces, long familiar to him:
Martin Poyser was there--the whole Poyser family.
What--Hetty?
Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hetty--not quite at ease about
the past, for a certain burning of the ears would come whenever he
thought of the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her
present lot. Mr. Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent,
telling him all the news about the old places and people, had sent
him word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry
Mary Burge, as he had thought, but pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin
Poyser and Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it--
that Adam had been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and
that now it was agreed they were to be married in March. That
stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector had
thought; it was really quite an idyllic love affair; and if it had
not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to
describe to Arthur the blushing looks and the simple strong words
with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur
would like to hear that Adam had this sort of happiness in
prospect.
Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to
satisfy his renovated life, when he had read that passage in the
letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the
December air, and greeted every one who spoke to him with an eager
gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For
the first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he was in
true boyish spirits. The load that had been pressing upon him was
gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer
his bitterness towards Adam now--could offer him his hand, and ask
to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory which
would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, and he
had been forced to tell a lie: such things make a scar, do what we
will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur
wished to be the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his
business and his future, as he had always desired before the
accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great deal more
for Adam than he should otherwise have done, when he came into the
estate; Hetty's husband had a special claim on him--Hetty herself
should feel that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the
past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really she could
not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to
marry Adam.
You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in
the panorama of Arthur's thoughts on his journey homeward. It was
March now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already
married. And now it was actually in his power to do a great deal
for them. Sweet--sweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn't
cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he was a great
fool about her still--was almost afraid of seeing her--indeed, had
not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from
her. That little figure coming towards him in the Grove, those
dark-fringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss him--
that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she
would look just the same. It was impossible to think how he could
meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this
sort of influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with
Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months, that she
should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to
his happiness in these moments than the thought of their marriage.
It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart
still beat a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he
saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam's wife, at
work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder
at the possibility of his past feelings. Thank heaven it had
turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and
interests to fill his life now, and not be in danger of playing
the fool again.
Pleasant the crack of the post-boy's whip! Pleasant the sense of
being hurried along in swift ease through English scenes, so like
those round his own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a
market-town--very much like Treddleston--where the arms of the
neighbouring lord of the manor were borne on the sign of the
principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a
market-town carrying an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till
the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more
frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a
moderate eminence, or allowed him to be aware of its parapet and
chimneys among the dense-looking masses of oaks and elms--masses
reddened now with early buds. And close at hand came the village:
the small church, with its red-tiled roof, looking humble even
among the faded half-timbered houses; the old green gravestones
with nettles round them; nothing fresh and bright but the
children, opening round eyes at the swift post-chaise; nothing
noisy and busy but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a
much prettier village Hayslope was! And it should not be
neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go on
everywhere among farm-buildings and cottages, and travellers in
post-chaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing
but admire as they went. And Adam Bede should superintend all the
repairs, for he had a share in Burge's business now, and, if he
liked, Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the
old man out in another year or two. That was an ugly fault in
Arthur's life, that affair last summer, but the future should make
amends. Many men would have retained a feeling of vindictiveness
towards Adam, but he would not--he would resolutely overcome all
littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much in
the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh and violent, and had
thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and
had real provocation. No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his
mind towards any human being: he was happy, and would make every
one else happy that came within his reach.
And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill,
like a quiet old place as it was, in the late afternoon sunlight,
and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below
them the purplish blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the
pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of the
Chase, as if anxious for the heir's return. "Poor Grandfather!
And he lies dead there. He was a young fellow once, coming into
the estate and making his plans. So the world goes round! Aunt
Lydia must feel very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be
indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido."
The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at
the Chase, for to-day was Friday, and the funeral had already been
deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the
courtyard, all the servants in the house were assembled to receive
him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A
month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have
maintained a suitable sadness in their faces, when Mr. Arthur was
come to take possession; but the hearts of the head-servants were
heavy that day for another cause than the death of the old squire,
and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles away, as
Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrel--pretty
Hetty Sorrel--whom they used to see every week. They had the
partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were
not inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt
against him by the farming tenants, but rather to make excuses for
him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of
neighbourly intercourse with the Poysers for many years, could not
help feeling that the longed-for event of the young squire's
coming into the estate had been robbed of all its pleasantness.
To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave
and sad: he himself was very much touched on seeing them all
again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was
that sort of pathetic emotion which has more pleasure than pain in
it--which is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a
good-natured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good
nature. His heart swelled agreeably as he said, "Well, Mills, how
is my aunt?"
But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever
since the death, came forward to give deferential greetings and
answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the
library, where his Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was
the only person in the house who knew nothing about Hetty. Her
sorrow as a maiden daughter was unmixed with any other thoughts
than those of anxiety about funeral arrangements and her own
future lot; and, after the manner of women, she mourned for the
father who had made her life important, all the more because she
had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in other
hearts.
But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever
done in his life before.
"Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR
loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell me how to try and
make it up to you all the rest of your life."
"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur," poor Miss Lydia began,
pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur sat down to listen with
impatient patience. When a pause came, he said:
"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to
my own room, and then I shall come and give full attention to
everything."
"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the
butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily about the entrancehall.
"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the
writing-table in your dressing-room."
On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressing-room,
but which Arthur really used only to lounge and write in, he just
cast his eyes on the writing-table, and saw that there were
several letters and packets lying there; but he was in the
uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had a long hurried
journey, and he must really refresh himself by attending to his
toilette a little, before he read his letters. Pym was there,
making everything ready for him, and soon, with a delightful
freshness about him, as if he were prepared to begin a new day, he
went back into his dressing-room to open his letters. The level
rays of the low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and
as Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their pleasant
warmth upon him, he was conscious of that quiet well-being which
perhaps you and I have felt on a sunny afternoon when, in our
brightest youth and health, life has opened a new vista for us,
and long to-morrows of activity have stretched before us like a
lovely plain which there was no need for hurrying to look at,
because it was all our own.
The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr.
Irwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once; and below the address
was written, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives." Nothing
could have been less surprising to him than a letter from Mr.
Irwine at that moment: of course, there was something he wished
Arthur to know earlier than it was possible for them to see each
other. At such a time as that it was quite natural that Irwine
should have something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with
an agreeable anticipation of soon seeing the writer.
"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I
may then be at Stoniton, whither I am called by the most painful
duty it has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that
you should know what I have to tell you without delay.
"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the
retribution that is now falling on you: any other words that I
could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side
of those in which I must tell you the simple fact.
"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the
crime of child-murder."...
Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a
single minute with a sense of violent convulsion in his whole
frame, as if the life were going out of him with horrible throbs;
but the next minute he had rushed out of the room, still clutching
the letter--he was hurrying along the corridor, and down the
stairs into the hall. Mills was still there, but Arthur did not
see him, as he passed like a hunted man across the hall and out
along the gravel. The butler hurried out after him as fast as his
elderly limbs could run: he guessed, he knew, where the young
squire was going.
When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and
Arthur was forcing himself to read the remaining words of the
letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to
him, and at that moment caught sight of Mills' anxious face in
front of him.
"Tell them I'm gone--gone to Stoniton," he said in a muffled tone
of agitation--sprang into the saddle, and set off at a gallop.
Chapter XLV
In the Prison
NEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with
his back against the smaller entrance-door of Stoniton jail,
saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain
walked away, but the elderly gentleman stood still, looking down
on the pavement and stroking his chin with a ruminating air, when
he was roused by a sweet clear woman's voice, saying, "Can I get
into the prison, if you please?"
He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few
moments without answering.
"I have seen you before," he said at last. "Do you remember
preaching on the village green at Hayslope in Loamshire?"
"Yes, sir, surely. Are you the gentleman that stayed to listen on
horseback?"
"Yes. Why do you want to go into the prison?"
"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been
condemned to death--and to stay with her, if I may be permitted.
Have you power in the prison, sir?"
"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did
you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?"
"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser.
But I was away at Leeds, and didn't know of this great trouble in
time to get here before to-day. I entreat you, sir, for the love
of our heavenly Father, to let me go to her and stay with her."
"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just
come from Leeds?"
"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to
his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of all. I beseech
you to get leave for me to be with her."
"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is
very sullen, and will scarcely make answer when she is spoken to."
"Oh, sir, it may please God to open her heart still. Don't let us
delay."
"Come, then," said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining
admission, "I know you have a key to unlock hearts."
Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they
were within the prison court, from the habit she had of throwing
them off when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and
when they entered the jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair
unthinkingly. There was no agitation visible in her, but a deep
concentrated calmness, as if, even when she was speaking, her soul
was in prayer reposing on an unseen support.
After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and
said, "The turnkey will take you to the prisoner's cell and leave
you there for the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a
light during the night--it is contrary to rules. My name is
Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, ask the jailer for
my address and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty
Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, Adam Bede. I happened
to see him at Hayslope the same evening I heard you preach, and
recognized him in court to-day, ill as he looked."
"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me
where he lodges? For my poor uncle was too much weighed down with
trouble to remember."
"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He
lodges over a tinman's shop, in the street on the right hand as
you entered the prison. There is an old school-master with him.
Now, good-bye: I wish you success."
"Farewell, sir. I am grateful to you."
As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn
evening light seemed to make the walls higher than they were by
day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a
white flower on this background of gloom. The turnkey looked
askance at her all the while, but never spoke. He somehow felt
that the sound of his own rude voice would be grating just then.
He struck a light as they entered the dark corridor leading to the
condemned cell, and then said in his most civil tone, "It'll be
pretty nigh dark in the cell a'ready, but I can stop with my light
a bit, if you like."
"Nay, friend, thank you," said Dinah. "I wish to go in alone."
"As you like," said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock
and opening the door wide enough to admit Dinah. A jet of light
from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where
Hetty was sitting on her straw pallet with her face buried in her
knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of
the lock would have been likely to waken her.
The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of
the evening sky, through the small high grating--enough to discern
human faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to
speak because Hetty might be asleep, and looking at the motionless
heap with a yearning heart. Then she said, softly, "Hetty!"
There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's frame--a start
such as might have been produced by a feeble electrical shock--but
she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger
by irrepressible emotion, "Hetty...it's Dinah."
Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty's frame,
and without uncovering her face, she raised her head a little, as
if listening.
"Hetty...Dinah is come to you."
After a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly
from her knees and raised her eyes. The two pale faces were
looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the
other full of sad yearning love. Dinah unconsciously opened her
arms and stretched them out.
"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you
think I wouldn't come to you in trouble?"
Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's face--at first like an animal
that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.
"I'm come to be with you, Hetty--not to leave you--to stay with
you--to be your sister to the last."
Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward,
and was clasped in Dinah's arms.
They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse
to move apart again. Hetty, without any distinct thought of it,
hung on this something that was come to clasp her now, while she
was sinking helpless in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in
the first sign that her love was welcomed by the wretched lost
one. The light got fainter as they stood, and when at last they
sat down on the straw pallet together, their faces had become
indistinct.
Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous
word from Hetty, but she sat in the same dull despair, only
clutching the hand that held hers and leaning her cheek against
Dinah's. It was the human contact she clung to, but she was not
the less sinking into the dark gulf.
Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that
sat beside her. She thought suffering and fear might have driven
the poor sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as
she afterwards said, that she must not hurry God's work: we are
overhasty to speak--as if God did not manifest himself by our
silent feeling, and make his love felt through ours. She did not
know how long they sat in that way, but it got darker and darker,
till there was only a pale patch of light on the opposite wall:
all the rest was darkness. But she felt the Divine presence more
and more--nay, as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the
Divine pity that was beating in her heart and was willing the
rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to speak
and find out how far Hetty was conscious of the present.
"Hetty," she said gently, "do you know who it is that sits by your
side?"
"Yes," Hetty answered slowly, "it's Dinah."
"And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm
together, and that night when I told you to be sure and think of
me as a friend in trouble?"
"Yes," said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, "But you can
do nothing for me. You can't make 'em do anything. They'll hang
me o' Monday--it's Friday now."
As Hetty said the last words, she clung closer to Dinah,
shuddering.
"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the
suffering less hard when you have somebody with you, that feels
for you--that you can speak to, and say what's in your
heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on me: you are glad to have me with
you."
"You won't leave me, Dinah? You'll keep close to me?"
"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the
last....But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell besides
me, some one close to you."
Hetty said, in a frightened whisper, "Who?"
"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and
trouble--who has known every thought you have had--has seen where
you went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds
you have tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't
follow you--when my arms can't reach you--when death has parted
us--He who is with us now, and knows all, will be with you then.
It makes no difference--whether we live or die, we are in the
presence of God."
"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me
for certain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd let me live."
"My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it's
dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care of you after
death--in that other world--some one whose love is greater than
mine--who can do everything?...If God our Father was your friend,
and was willing to save you from sin and suffering, so as you
should neither know wicked feelings nor pain again? If you could
believe he loved you and would help you, as you believe I love you
and will help you, it wouldn't be so hard to die on Monday, would
it?"
"But I can't know anything about it," Hetty said, with sullen
sadness.
"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by
trying to hide the truth. God's love and mercy can overcome all
things--our ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our
past wickedness--all things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling
to, and will not give up. You believe in my love and pity for
you, Hetty, but if you had not let me come near you, if you
wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me, you'd have shut me out
from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel my love; I
couldn't have told you what I felt for you. Don't shut God's love
out in that way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while
you have one falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't
reach you until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have done
this great wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.'
While you cling to one sin and will not part with it, it must drag
you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you to misery
here in this world, my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings
dread, and darkness, and despair: there is light and blessedness
for us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our souls then, and
teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast it off now,
Hetty--now: confess the wickedness you have done--the sin you have
been guilty of against your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down
together, for we are in the presence of God."
Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still
held each other's hands, and there was long silence. Then Dinah
said, "Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell
the truth."
Still there was silence. At last Hetty spoke, in a tone of
beseeching--
"Dinah...help me...I can't feel anything like you...my heart is
hard."
Dinah held the clinging hand, and all her soul went forth in her
voice:
"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all
sorrow: thou hast entered that black darkness where God is not,
and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather
of the fruits of thy travail and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy
hand, thou who art mighty to save to the uttermost, and rescue
this lost one. She is clothed round with thick darkness. The
fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannot stir to come to
thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is helpless.
She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour! It is a blind cry
to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy
face of love and sorrow that thou didst turn on him who denied
thee, and melt her hard heart.
"See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and
helpless, and thou didst heal them. I bear her on my arms and
carry her before thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her,
but she trembles only at the pain and death of the body. Breathe
upon her thy life-giving Spirit, and put a new fear within her--
the fear of her sin. Make her dread to keep the accursed thing
within her soul. Make her feel the presence of the living God,
who beholds all the past, to whom the darkness is as noonday; who
is waiting now, at the eleventh hour, for her to turn to him, and
confess her sin, and cry for mercy--now, before the night of death
comes, and the moment of pardon is for ever fled, like yesterday
that returneth not.
"Saviour! It is yet time--time to snatch this poor soul from
everlasting darkness. I believe--I believe in thy infinite love.
What is my love or my pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can
only clasp her in my weak arms and urge her with my weak pity.
Thou--thou wilt breathe on the dead soul, and it shall arise from
the unanswering sleep of death.
"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like
the morning, with healing on thy wings. The marks of thy agony
are upon thee--I see, I see thou art able and willing to save--
thou wilt not let her perish for ever. "Come, mighty Saviour!
Let the dead hear thy voice. Let the eyes of the blind be opened.
Let her see that God encompasses her. Let her tremble at nothing
but at the sin that cuts her off from him. Melt the hard heart.
Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her whole soul, 'Father,
I have sinned.'..."
"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck,
"I will speak...I will tell...I won't hide it any more."
But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently
from her knees and seated her on the pallet again, sitting down by
her side. It was a long time before the convulsed throat was
quiet, and even then they sat some time in stillness and darkness,
holding each other's hands. At last Hetty whispered, "I did do
it, Dinah...I buried it in the wood...the little baby...and it
cried...I heard it cry...ever such a way off...all night...and I
went back because it cried."
She paused, and then spoke hurriedly in a louder, pleading tone.
"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't die--there might somebody find
it. I didn't kill it--I didn't kill it myself. I put it down
there and covered it up, and when I came back it was gone....It
was because I was so very miserable, Dinah...I didn't know where
to go...and I tried to kill myself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I
tried so to drown myself in the pool, and I couldn't. I went to
Windsor--I ran away--did you know? I went to find him, as he might
take care of me; and he was gone; and then I didn't know what to
do. I daredn't go back home again--I couldn't bear it. I
couldn't have bore to look at anybody, for they'd have scorned me.
I thought o' you sometimes, and thought I'd come to you, for I
didn't think you'd be cross with me, and cry shame on me. I
thought I could tell you. But then the other folks 'ud come to
know it at last, and I couldn't bear that. It was partly thinking
o' you made me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so
frightened at going wandering about till I was a beggar-woman, and
had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the
farm sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah...I was so
miserable...I wished I'd never been born into this world. I
should never like to go into the green fields again--I hated 'em
so in my misery."
Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong
upon her for words.
"And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that
night, because I was so near home. And then the little baby was
born, when I didn't expect it; and the thought came into my mind
that I might get rid of it and go home again. The thought came
all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got stronger
and stronger...I longed so to go back again...I couldn't bear
being so lonely and coming to beg for want. And it gave me
strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I felt I must
do it...I didn't know how...I thought I'd find a pool, if I could,
like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And
when the woman went out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do
anything...I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go
back home, and never let 'em know why I ran away I put on my
bonnet and shawl, and went out into the dark street, with the baby
under my cloak; and I walked fast till I got into a street a good
way off, and there was a public, and I got some warm stuff to
drink and some bread. And I walked on and on, and I hardly felt
the ground I trod on; and it got lighter, for there came the moon--
oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it first looked at me out o' the
clouds--it never looked so before; and I turned out of the road
into the fields, for I was afraid o' meeting anybody with the moon
shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I could
lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut
into it, where I could make me a bed, and I lay comfortable, and
the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a
good while, for when I woke it was morning, but not very light,
and the baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off...I
thought there'd perhaps be a ditch or a pond there...and it was so
early I thought I could hide the child there, and get a long way
off before folks was up. And then I thought I'd go home--I'd get
rides in carts and go home and tell 'em I'd been to try and see
for a place, and couldn't get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I
longed so to be safe at home. I don't know how I felt about the
baby. I seemed to hate it--it was like a heavy weight hanging
round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I daredn't
look at its little hands and face. But I went on to the wood, and
I walked about, but there was no water...."
Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she
began again, it was in a whisper.
"I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I
sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I should do. And
all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nut-tree, like a little
grave. And it darted into me like lightning--I'd lay the baby
there and cover it with the grass and the chips. I couldn't kill
it any other way. And I'd done it in a minute; and, oh, it cried
so, Dinah--I couldn't cover it quite up--I thought perhaps
somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and then it wouldn't die.
And I made haste out of the wood, but I could hear it crying all
the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I was
held fast--I couldn't go away, for all I wanted so to go. And I
sat against the haystack to watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very
hungry, and I'd only a bit of bread left, but I couldn't go away.
And after ever such a while--hours and hours--the man came--him in
a smock-frock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I
made haste and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and
would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, till I came to
a village, a long way off from the wood, and I was very sick, and
faint, and hungry. I got something to eat there, and bought a
loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby crying, and
thought the other folks heard it too--and I went on. But I was so
tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the
roadside there was a barn--ever such a way off any house--like the
barn in Abbot's Close, and I thought I could go in there and hide
myself among the hay and straw, and nobody 'ud be likely to come.
I went in, and it was half full o' trusses of straw, and there was
some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind, where
nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to
sleep....But oh, the baby's crying kept waking me, and I thought
that man as looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I
must have slept a long while at last, though I didn't know, for
when I got up and went out of the barn, I didn't know whether it
was night or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting
lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I couldn't help it,
Dinah; it was the baby's crying made me go--and yet I was
frightened to death. I thought that man in the smock-frock 'ud
see me and know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all
that. I'd left off thinking about going home--it had gone out o'
my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I'd
buried the baby...I see it now. Oh Dinah! shall I allays see it?"
Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed
long before she went on.
"I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood....I
knew the way to the place...the place against the nut-tree; and I
could hear it crying at every step....I thought it was alive....I
don't know whether I was frightened or glad...I don't know what I
felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't
know what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I'd put
it there, I thought I should like somebody to find it and save it
from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone,
with fear. I never thought o' stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I
couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'ud know about the
baby. My heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or try for
anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, and
nothing 'ud ever change. But they came and took me away."
Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still
something behind; and Dinah waited, for her heart was so full that
tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a
sob, "Dinah, do you think God will take away that crying and the
place in the wood, now I've told everything?"
"Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and
pray to the God of all mercy."
Chapter XLVI
The Hours of Suspense
ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing
for morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a
short absence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see
you."
Adam was seated with is back towards the door, but he started up
and turned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look.
His face was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it
before, but he was washed and shaven this Sunday morning.
"Is it any news?" he said.
"Keep yourself quiet, my lad," said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not
what you're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from
the prison. She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know
if you think well to see her, for she has something to say to you
about that poor castaway; but she wouldn't come in without your
leave, she said. She thought you'd perhaps like to go out and
speak to her. These preaching women are not so back'ard
commonly," Bartle muttered to himself.
"Ask her to come in," said Adam.
He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah
entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at
once the great change that had come since the day when she had
looked up at the tall man in the cottage. There was a trembling
in her clear voice as she put her hand into his and said, "Be
comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not forsaken her."
"Bless you for coming to her," Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me
word yesterday as you was come."
They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before
each other in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his
spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he
recovered himself first, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit
down," placing the chair for her and retiring to his old seat on
the bed.
"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down," said Dinah, "for I must
hasten back. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came
for, Adam Bede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and
bid her farewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is
meet you should see her to-day, rather than in the early morning,
when the time will be short."
Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.
"It won't be," he said, "it'll be put off--there'll perhaps come a
pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite
give it up."
"That's a blessed thought to me," said Dinah, her eyes filling
with tears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so
fast."
"But let what will be," she added presently. "You will surely
come, and let her speak the words that are in her heart. Although
her poor soul is very dark and discerns little beyond the things
of the flesh, she is no longer hard. She is contrite, she has
confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given way, and
she leans on me for help and desires to be taught. This fills me
with trust, for I cannot but think that the brethren sometimes err
in measuring the Divine love by the sinner's knowledge. She is
going to write a letter to the friends at the Hall Farm for me to
give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were here, she
said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to
forgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come
back with me."
"I can't," Adam said. "I can't say good-bye while there's any
hope. I'm listening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but
that. It can't be as she'll die that shameful death--I can't
bring my mind to it."
He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window,
while Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two
he turned round and said, "I will come, Dinah...to-morrow
morning...if it must be. I may have more strength to bear it, if
I know it must be. Tell her, I forgive her; tell her I will come--
at the very last."
"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart," said
Dinah. "I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she
clings now, and was not willing to let me out of her sight. She
used never to make any return to my affection before, but now
tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly
Father comfort you and strengthen you to bear all things." Dinah
put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in silence.
Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door
for her, but before he could reach it, she had said gently,
"Farewell, friend," and was gone, with her light step down the
stairs.
"Well," said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them
into his pocket, "if there must be women to make trouble in the
world, it's but fair there should be women to be comforters under
it; and she's one--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but
there's no getting a woman without some foolishness or other."
Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,
heightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal
moment, was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of
his promises that he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster
watched too.
"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep
more or less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground.
Let me keep thee company in trouble while I can."
It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would
sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short
space from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face,
and no sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the
table, or the falling of a cinder from the fire which the
schoolmaster carefully tended. Sometimes he would burst out into
vehement speech, "If I could ha' done anything to save her--if my
bearing anything would ha' done any good...but t' have to sit
still, and know it, and do nothing...it's hard for a man to
bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if it hadn't been
for HIM....O God, it's the very day we should ha' been married."
"Aye, my lad," said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavy--it's heavy. But
you must remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a
notion she'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't
think she could have got hardened in that little while to do what
she's done."
"I know--I know that," said Adam. "I thought she was loving and
tender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How
could I think any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and
I'd married her, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she
might never ha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--
my having a bit o' trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to
this."
"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have
come. The smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--
you must have time. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll
rise above it all and be a man again, and there may good come out
of this that we don't see."
"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't
alter th' evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o'
people, as if there was a way o' making amends for everything.
They'd more need be brought to see as the wrong they do can never
be altered. When a man's spoiled his fellow-creatur's life, he's
no right to comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it.
Somebody else's good doesn't alter her shame and misery."
"Well, lad, well," said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in
contrast with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of
contradiction, "it's likely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old
fellow, and it's a good many years since I was in trouble myself.
It's easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient."
"Mr. Massey," said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I
owe you something different; but you mustn't take it ill of me."
"Not I, lad--not I."
So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the
growing light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink
of despair. There would soon be no more suspense.
"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey," said Adam, when he saw
the hand of his watch at six. "If there's any news come, we shall
hear about it."
The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction,
through the streets. Adam tried not to think where they were
going, as they hurried past him in that short space between his
lodging and the prison gates. He was thankful when the gates shut
him in from seeing those eager people.
No; there was no news come--no pardon--no reprieve.
Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring
himself to send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice
caught his ear: he could not shut out the words.
"The cart is to set off at half-past seven."
It must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help.
In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell.
Dinah had sent him word that she could not come to him; she could
not leave Hetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the
meeting.
He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his
senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a
moment after the door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.
But he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes
lifted up to him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how
sad they looked! The last time they had met his was when he
parted from her with his heart full of joyous hopeful love, and
they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled,
childish face. The face was marble now; the sweet lips were
pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were all gone--all
but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of all was
the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes looking
at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him
from the dead to tell him of her misery.
She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's.
It seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that
contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face
looked like a visible pledge of the Invisible Mercy.
When the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--
she felt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with
fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose
face seemed to reflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image
of the dreadful past and the dreadful present. She trembled more
as she looked at him.
"Speak to him, Hetty," Dinah said; "tell him what is in your
heart."
Hetty obeyed her, like a little child.
"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you
forgive me...before I die?"
Adam answered with a half-sob, "Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I
forgave thee long ago."
It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish
of meeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her
voice uttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been
less strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming
unbearable, and the rare tears came--they had never come before,
since he had hung on Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.
Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love
that she had once lived in the midst of was come near her again.
She kept hold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said
timidly, "Will you kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so
wicked?"
Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they
gave each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting.
"And tell him," Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell
him...for there's nobody else to tell him...as I went after him
and couldn't find him...and I hated him and cursed him once...but
Dinah says I should forgive him...and I try...for else God won't
forgive me."
There was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being
turned in the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw
indistinctly that there were several faces there. He was too
agitated to see more--even to see that Mr. Irwine's face was one
of them. He felt that the last preparations were beginning, and
he could stay no longer. Room was silently made for him to
depart, and he went to his chamber in loneliness, leaving Bartle
Massey to watch and see the end.
Chapter XLVII
The Last Moment
IT was a sight that some people remembered better even than their
own sorrows--the sight in that grey clear morning, when the fatal
cart with the two young women in it was descried by the waiting
watching multitude, cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of
a deliberately inflicted sudden death.
All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman
who had brought the obstinate criminal to confess, and there was
as much eagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hetty.
But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty had
caught sight of the vast crowd in the distance, she had clutched
Dinah convulsively.
"Close your eyes, Hetty," Dinah said, "and let us pray without
ceasing to God."
And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the
midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her soul with the
wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling creature
that clung to her and clutched her as the only visible sign of
love and pity.
Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a
sort of awe--she did not even know how near they were to the fatal
spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud
shout hideous to her ear, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty's
shriek mingled with the sound, and they clasped each other in
mutual horror.
But it was not a shout of execration--not a yell of exultant
cruelty.
It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a
horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The horse is hot and
distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks
as if his eyes were glazed by madness, and he saw nothing but what
was unseen by others. See, he has something in his hand--he is
holding it up as if it were a signal.
The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his
hand a hard-won release from death.
Chapter XLVIII
A nother Meeting in the Wood
THE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite
points towards the same scene, drawn thither by a common memory.
The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men
were.
The old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will
had been read, and now in the first breathing-space, Arthur
Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he might look
fixedly at the new future before him and confirm himself in a sad
resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove.
Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and to-day he
had not left home, except to go to the family at the Hall Farm and
tell them everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had
agreed with the Poysers that he would follow them to their new
neighbourhood, wherever that might be, for he meant to give up the
management of the woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he
would wind up his business with Jonathan Burge and settle with his
mother and Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he
felt bound by a mutual sorrow.
"Seth and me are sure to find work," he said. "A man that's got
our trade at his finger-ends is at home everywhere; and we must
make a new start. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's
told me, since I came home, she'd made up her mind to being buried
in another parish, if I wished it, and if I'd be more comfortable
elsewhere. It's wonderful how quiet she's been ever since I came
back. It seems as if the very greatness o' the trouble had
quieted and calmed her. We shall all be better in a new country,
though there's some I shall be loath to leave behind. But I won't
part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble's
made us kin."
"Aye, lad," said Martin. "We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's
name. But I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough for folks not to
find out as we've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er
the seas, and were like to be hanged. We shall have that flyin'
up in our faces, and our children's after us."
That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on
Adam's energies for him to think of seeing others, or re-entering
on his old occupations till the morrow. "But to-morrow," he said
to himself, "I'll go to work again. I shall learn to like it
again some time, maybe; and it's right whether I like it or not."
This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow:
suspense was gone now, and he must bear the unalterable. He was
resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible
to avoid him. He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for
Hetty had seen Arthur. And Adam distrusted himself--he had
learned to dread the violence of his own feeling. That word of
Mr. Irwine's--that he must remember what he had felt after giving
the last blow to Arthur in the Grove--had remained with him.
These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged
with strong feeling, were continually recurring, and they always
called up the image of the Grove--of that spot under the
overarching boughs where he had caught sight of the two bending
figures, and had been possessed by sudden rage.
"I'll go and see it again to-night for the last time," he said;
"it'll do me good; it'll make me feel over again what I felt when
I'd knocked him down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon
as I'd done it, before I began to think he might be dead."
In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards
the same spot at the same time.
Adam had on his working-dress again, now, for he had thrown off
the other with a sense of relief as soon as he came home; and if
he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have
been taken, with his pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam
Bede who entered the Grove on that August evening eight months
ago. But he had no basket of tools, and he was not walking with
the old erectness, looking keenly round him; his hands were thrust
in his side pockets, and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground.
He had not long entered the Grove, and now he paused before a
beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary mark of his
youth--the sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest,
strongest feelings had left him. He felt sure they would never
return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of
affection at the remembrance of that Arthur Donnithorne whom he
had believed in before he had come up to this beech eight months
ago. It was affection for the dead: THAT Arthur existed no
longer.
He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the
beech stood at a turning in the road, and he could not see who was
coming until the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood
before him at only two yards' distance. They both started, and
looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last fortnight,
Adam had imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing
him with words that should be as harrowing as the voice of
remorse, forcing upon him a just share in the misery he had
caused; and often, too, he had told himself that such a meeting
had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always
seen Arthur, as he had met him on that evening in the Grove,
florid, careless, light of speech; and the figure before him
touched him with the signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering
was--he could not lay a cruel finger on a bruised man. He felt no
impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just than
reproach. Arthur was the first to speak.
"Adam," he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met
here, for I wished to see you. I should have asked to see you tomorrow."
He paused, but Adam said nothing.
"I know it is painful to you to meet me," Arthur went on, "but it
is not likely to happen again for years to come."
"No, sir," said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to
you to-morrow, as it would be better all dealings should be at an
end between us, and somebody else put in my place."
Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort
that he spoke again.
"It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't
want to lessen your indignation against me, or ask you to do
anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me
to lessen the evil consequences of the past, which is
unchangeable. I don't mean consequences to myself, but to others.
It is but little I can do, I know. I know the worst consequences
will remain; but something may be done, and you can help me. Will
you listen to me patiently?"
"Yes, sir," said Adam, after some hesitation; "I'll hear what it
is. If I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger 'ull mend
nothing, I know. We've had enough o' that."
"I was going to the Hermitage," said Arthur. "Will you go there
with me and sit down? We can talk better there."
The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together,
for Arthur had locked up the key in his desk. And now, when he
opened the door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket;
there was the chair in the same place where Adam remembered
sitting; there was the waste-paper basket full of scraps, and deep
down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, there was the little pink
silk handkerchief. It would have been painful to enter this place
if their previous thoughts had been less painful.
They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur
said, "I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into the army."
Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this
announcement--ought to have a movement of sympathy towards him.
But Adam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his
face unchanged.
"What I want to say to you," Arthur continued, "is this: one of my
reasons for going away is that no one else may leave Hayslope--may
leave their home on my account. I would do anything, there is no
sacrifice I would not make, to prevent any further injury to
others through my--through what has happened."
Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had
anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in them that notion of
compensation for irretrievable wrong, that self-soothing attempt
to make evil bear the same fruits as good, which most of all
roused his indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look
painful facts right in the face as Arthur was to turn away his
eyes from them. Moreover, he had the wakeful suspicious pride of
a poor man in the presence of a rich man. He felt his old
severity returning as he said, "The time's past for that, sir. A
man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong;
sacrifices won't undo it when it's done. When people's feelings
have got a deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours."
"Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I
meant that? But the Poysers--Mr. Irwine tells me the Poysers mean
to leave the place where they have lived so many years--for
generations. Don't you see, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they
could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them away,
it would be much better for them in the end to remain on the old
spot, among the friends and neighbours who know them?"
"That's true," said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings
are not so easily overcome. It'll be hard for Martin Poyser to go
to a strange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on
the Hall Farm, and his father before him; but then it 'ud be
harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the
thing's to be made any other than hard. There's a sort o' damage,
sir, that can't be made up for."
Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings
dominant in him this evening, his pride winced under Adam's mode
of treating him. Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too
obliged to renounce his most cherished hopes? It was now as it
had been eight months ago--Adam was forcing Arthur to feel more
intensely the irrevocableness of his own wrong-doing. He was
presenting the sort of resistance that was the most irritating to
Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued by the
same influence that had subdued Adam's when they first confronted
each other--by the marks of suffering in a long familiar face.
The momentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a
great deal from Adam, to whom he had been the occasion of bearing
so much; but there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his
tone as he said, "But people may make injuries worse by
unreasonable conduct--by giving way to anger and satisfying that
for the moment, instead of thinking what will be the effect in the
future.
"If I were going to stay here and act as landlord," he added
presently, with still more eagerness--"if I were careless about
what I've done--what I've been the cause of, you would have some
excuse, Adam, for going away and encouraging others to go. You
would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil worse.
But when I tell you I'm going away for years--when you know what
that means for me, how it cuts off every plan of happiness I've
ever formed--it is impossible for a sensible man like you to
believe that there is any real ground for the Poysers refusing to
remain. I know their feeling about disgrace--Mr. Irwine has told
me all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of
this idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of their neighbours,
and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in
his efforts--if you would stay yourself and go on managing the old
woods."
Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know
that's a good work to do for the sake of other people, besides the
owner. And you don't know but that they may have a better owner
soon, whom you will like to work for. If I die, my cousin
Tradgett will have the estate and take my name. He is a good
fellow."
Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to
feel that this was the voice of the honest warm-hearted Arthur
whom he had loved and been proud of in old days; but nearer
memories would not be thrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw
an answer in his face that induced him to go on, with growing
earnestness.
"And then, if you would talk to the Poysers--if you would talk the
matter over with Mr. Irwine--he means to see you to-morrow--and
then if you would join your arguments to his to prevail on them
not to go....I know, of course, that they would not accept any
favour from me--I mean nothing of that kind--but I'm sure they
would suffer less in the end. Irwine thinks so too. And Mr.
Irwine is to have the chief authority on the estate--he has
consented to undertake that. They will really be under no man but
one whom they respect and like. It would be the same with you,
Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain
that could incline you to go."
Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with
some agitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so towards you, I
know. If you were in my place and I in yours, I should try to
help you to do the best."
Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground.
Arthur went on, "Perhaps you've never done anything you've had
bitterly to repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be
more generous. You would know then that it's worse for me than
for you."
Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of
the windows, looking out and turning his back on Adam, as he
continued, passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see
her yesterday? Shan't I carry the thought of her about with me as
much as you will? And don't you think you would suffer more if
you'd been in fault?"
There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's
mind was not easily decided. Facile natures, whose emotions have
little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward
resistance he overcame before he rose from his seat and turned
towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met
the sad but softened look with which Adam said, "It's true what
you say, sir. I'm hard--it's in my nature. I was too hard with
my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t' everybody but
her. I felt as if nobody pitied her enough--her suffering cut
into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard
with her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But
feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me unfair to you.
I've known what it is in my life to repent and feel it's too late.
I felt I'd been too harsh to my father when he was gone from me--I
feel it now, when I think of him. I've no right to be hard
towards them as have done wrong and repent."
Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is
resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he is bound to say; but he
went on with more hesitation.
"I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked me--but
if you're willing to do it now, for all I refused then..."
Arthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and
with that action there was a strong rush, on both sides, of the
old, boyish affection.
"Adam," Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would
never have happened if I'd known you loved her. That would have
helped to save me from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to
injure her. I deceived you afterwards--and that led on to worse;
but I thought it was forced upon me, I thought it was the best
thing I could do. And in that letter I told her to let me know if
she were in any trouble: don't think I would not have done
everything I could. But I was all wrong from the very first, and
horrible wrong has come of it. God knows, I'd give my life if I
could undo it."
They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said,
tremulously, "How did she seem when you left her, sir?"
"Don't ask me, Adam," Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I
should go mad with thinking of her looks and what she said to me,
and then, that I couldn't get a full pardon--that I couldn't save
her from that wretched fate of being transported--that I can do
nothing for her all those years; and she may die under it, and
never know comfort any more."
"Ah, sir," said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain
merged in sympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll often be thinking o'
the same thing, when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray
God to help you, as I pray him to help me."
"But there's that sweet woman--that Dinah Morris," Arthur said,
pursuing his own thoughts and not knowing what had been the sense
of Adam's words, "she says she shall stay with her to the very
last moment--till she goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if
she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; I
don't know what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will
see her when she comes back. I could say nothing to her
yesterday--nothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her," Arthur
went on hurriedly, as if he wanted to hide the emotion with which
he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked
you to give her this in remembrance of me--of the man to whom she
is the one source of comfort, when he thinks of...I know she
doesn't care about such things--or anything else I can give her
for its own sake. But she will use the watch--I shall like to
think of her using it."
"I'll give it to her, sir," Adam said, "and tell her your words.
She told me she should come back to the people at the Hall Farm."
"And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur,
reminded of the subject which both of them had forgotten in the
first interchange of revived friendship. "You will stay yourself,
and help Mr. Irwine to carry out the repairs and improvements on
the estate?"
"There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of,"
said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, "and that was what made me
hang back longer. You see, it's the same with both me and the
Poysers: if we stay, it's for our own worldly interest, and it
looks as if we'd put up with anything for the sake o' that. I
know that's what they'll feel, and I can't help feeling a little
of it myself. When folks have got an honourable independent
spirit, they don't like to do anything that might make 'em seem
base-minded."
"But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a
reason strong enough against a course that is really more
generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be known--it
shall be made known, that both you and the Poysers stayed at my
entreaty. Adam, don't try to make things worse for me; I'm
punished enough without that."
"No, sir, no," Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful
affection. "God forbid I should make things worse for you. I
used to wish I could do it, in my passion--but that was when I
thought you didn't feel enough. I'll stay, sir, I'll do the best
I can. It's all I've got to think of now--to do my work well and
make the world a bit better place for them as can enjoy it."
"Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine to-morrow,
and consult with him about everything."
"Are you going soon, sir?" said Adam.
"As soon as possible--after I've made the necessary arrangements.
Good-bye, Adam. I shall think of you going about the old place."
"Good-bye, sir. God bless you."
The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage,
feeling that sorrow was more bearable now hatred was gone.
As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the
waste-paper basket and took out the little pink silk handkerchief.
Book Six
Chapter XLIX
At the Hall Farm
THE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801--more than eighteen
months after that parting of Adam and Arthur in the Hermitage--was
on the yard at the Hall Farm; and the bull-dog was in one of his
most excited moments, for it was that hour of the day when the
cows were being driven into the yard for their afternoon milking.
No wonder the patient beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places,
for the alarming din of the bull-dog was mingled with more distant
sounds which the timid feminine creatures, with pardonable
superstition, imagined also to have some relation to their own
movements--with the tremendous crack of the waggoner's whip, the
roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the waggon, as it
left the rick-yard empty of its golden load.
The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this
hour on mild days she was usually standing at the house door, with
her knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened
to a keener interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once
kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was about to undergo the
preventive punishment of having her hinder-legs strapped.
To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the
arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah,
who was stitching Mr. Poyser's shirt-collars, and had borne
patiently to have her thread broken three times by Totty pulling
at her arm with a sudden insistence that she should look at
"Baby," that is, at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long
skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her small chair at Dinah's
side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek with much
fervour. Totty is larger by more than two years' growth than when
you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her
pinafore. Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to
heighten the family likeness between her and Dinah. In other
respects there is little outward change now discernible in our old
friends, or in the pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak
and pewter.
"I never saw the like to you, Dinah," Mrs. Poyser was saying,
"when you've once took anything into your head: there's no more
moving you than the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I
don't believe that's religion; for what's the Sermon on the Mount
about, as you're so fond o' reading to the boys, but doing what
other folks 'ud have you do? But if it was anything unreasonable
they wanted you to do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to
'em, or letting 'em slap you i' the face, I daresay you'd be ready
enough. It's only when one 'ud have you do what's plain common
sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinate th' other way."
"Nay, dear Aunt," said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with
her work, "I'm sure your wish 'ud be a reason for me to do
anything that I didn't feel it was wrong to do."
"Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should
like to know, i' staying along wi' your own friends, as are th'
happier for having you with 'em an' are willing to provide for
you, even if your work didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o'
sparrow's victual y' eat and the bit o' rag you put on? An' who
is it, I should like to know, as you're bound t' help and comfort
i' the world more nor your own flesh and blood--an' me th' only
aunt you've got above-ground, an' am brought to the brink o' the
grave welly every winter as comes, an' there's the child as sits
beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an' the
grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull miss
you so as never was--a-lighting his pipe an' waiting on him, an'
now I can trust you wi' the butter, an' have had all the trouble
o' teaching you, and there's all the sewing to be done, an' I must
have a strange gell out o' Treddles'on to do it--an' all because
you must go back to that bare heap o' stones as the very crows fly
over an' won't stop at."
"Dear Aunt Rachel," said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face,
"it's your kindness makes you say I'm useful to you. You don't
really want me now, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work,
and you're in good health now, by the blessing of God, and my
uncle is of a cheerful countenance again, and you have neighbours
and friends not a few--some of them come to sit with my uncle
almost daily. Indeed, you will not miss me; and at Snowfield
there are brethren and sisters in great need, who have none of
those comforts you have around you. I feel that I am called back
to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn again
towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word
of life to the sinful and desolate."
"You feel! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic
glance at the cows, "that's allays the reason I'm to sit down wi',
when you've a mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to
be preaching for more than you're preaching now? Don't you go
off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday a-preaching and praying?
An' haven't you got Methodists enow at Treddles'on to go and look
at, if church-folks's faces are too handsome to please you? An'
isn't there them i' this parish as you've got under hand, and
they're like enough to make friends wi' Old Harry again as soon as
your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranage--she'll be
flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be
bound. She'll no more go on in her new ways without you than a
dog 'ull stand on its hind-legs when there's nobody looking. But
I suppose it doesna matter so much about folks's souls i' this
country, else you'd be for staying with your own aunt, for she's
none so good but what you might help her to be better."
There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser's voice just then,
which she did not wish to be noticed, so she turned round hastily
to look at the clock, and said: "See there! It's tea-time; an' if
Martin's i' the rick-yard, he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my
chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and then you go out into
the rick-yard and see if Father's there, and tell him he mustn't
go away again without coming t' have a cup o' tea; and tell your
brothers to come in too."
Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set
out the bright oak table and reached down the tea-cups.
"You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' their
work," she began again; "it's fine talking. They're all the same,
clever or stupid--one can't trust 'em out o' one's sight a minute.
They want somebody's eye on 'em constant if they're to be kept to
their work. An' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the
winter before last? Who's to look after 'em then, if you're gone?
An' there's that blessed child--something's sure t' happen to her--
they'll let her tumble into the fire, or get at the kettle wi'
the boiling lard in't, or some mischief as 'ull lame her for life;
an' it'll be all your fault, Dinah."
"Aunt," said Dinah, "I promise to come back to you in the winter
if you're ill. Don't think I will ever stay away from you if
you're in real want of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own
soul that I should go away from this life of ease and luxury in
which I have all things too richly to enjoy--at least that I
should go away for a short space. No one can know but myself what
are my inward needs, and the besetments I am most in danger from.
Your wish for me to stay is not a call of duty which I refuse to
hearken to because it is against my own desires; it is a
temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature
should become like a mist in my soul shutting out the heavenly
light."
"It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury,"
said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread and butter. "It's true
there's good victual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I
don't provide enough and to spare, but if there's ever a bit o'
odds an' ends as nobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it
out...but look there! There's Adam Bede a-carrying the little un
in. I wonder how it is he's come so early."
Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at
her darling in a new position, with love in her eyes but reproof
on her tongue.
"Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should be
ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she'll break your arm, such a
big gell as that; set her down--for shame!"
"Nay, nay," said Adam, "I can lift her with my hand--I've no need
to take my arm to it."
Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white
puppy, was set down at the door-place, and the mother enforced her
reproof with a shower of kisses.
"You're surprised to see me at this hour o' the day," said Adam.
"Yes, but come in," said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; "there's
no bad news, I hope?"
"No, nothing bad," Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put
out his hand to her. She had laid down her work and stood up,
instinctively, as he approached her. A faint blush died away from
her pale cheek as she put her hand in his and looked up at him
timidly.
"It's an errand to you brought me, Dinah," said Adam, apparently
unconscious that he was holding her hand all the while; "mother's
a bit ailing, and she's set her heart on your coming to stay the
night with her, if you'll be so kind. I told her I'd call and ask
you as I came from the village. She overworks herself, and I
can't persuade her to have a little girl t' help her. I don't
know what's to be done."
Adam released Dinah's hand as he ceased speaking, and was
expecting an answer, but before she had opened her lips Mrs.
Poyser said, "Look there now! I told you there was folks enow t'
help i' this parish, wi'out going further off. There's Mrs. Bede
getting as old and cas'alty as can be, and she won't let anybody
but you go a-nigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield have learnt
by this time to do better wi'out you nor she can."
"I'll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don't want
anything done first, Aunt," said Dinah, folding up her work.
"Yes, I do want something done. I want you t' have your tea,
child; it's all ready--and you'll have a cup, Adam, if y' arena in
too big a hurry."
"Yes, I'll have a cup, please; and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm
going straight home, for I've got a lot o' timber valuations to
write out."
"Why, Adam, lad, are you here?" said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and
coatless, with the two black-eyed boys behind him, still looking
as much like him as two small elephants are like a large one.
"How is it we've got sight o' you so long before foddering-time?"
"I came on an errand for Mother," said Adam. "She's got a touch
of her old complaint, and she wants Dinah to go and stay with her
a bit."
"Well, we'll spare her for your mother a little while," said Mr.
Poyser. "But we wonna spare her for anybody else, on'y her
husband."
"Husband!" said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal
period of the boyish mind. "Why, Dinah hasn't got a husband."
"Spare her?" said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seed-cake on the table
and then seating herself to pour out the tea. "But we must spare
her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but for her own
megrims. Tommy, what are you doing to your little sister's doll?
Making the child naughty, when she'd be good if you'd let her.
You shanna have a morsel o' cake if you behave so."
Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by
turning Dolly's skirt over her bald head and exhibiting her
truncated body to the general scorn--an indignity which cut Totty
to the heart.
"What do you think Dinah's been a-telling me since dinner-time?"
Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her husband.
"Eh! I'm a poor un at guessing," said Mr. Poyser.
"Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i' the
mill, and starve herself, as she used to do, like a creatur as has
got no friends."
Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant
astonishment; he only looked from his wife to Dinah, who had now
seated herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly
playfulness, and was busying herself with the children's tea. If
he had been given to making general reflections, it would have
occurred to him that there was certainly a change come over Dinah,
for she never used to change colour; but, as it was, he merely
observed that her face was flushed at that moment. Mr. Poyser
thought she looked the prettier for it: it was a flush no deeper
than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came because her
uncle was looking at her so fixedly; but there is no knowing, for
just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, "Why, I hoped
Dinah was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up the
notion o' going back to her old country."
"Thought! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "and so would anybody else ha'
thought, as had got their right end up'ards. But I suppose you
must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's ill
guessing what the bats are flying after."
"Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from
us?" said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over his tea-cup. "It's like
breaking your word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but
you'd make this your home."
"Nay, Uncle," said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. "When I first
came, I said it was only for a time, as long as I could be of any
comfort to my aunt."
"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?"
said Mrs. Poyser. "If you didna mean to stay wi' me, you'd better
never ha' come. Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it."
"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views.
"Thee mustna say so; we should ha' been ill off wi'out her, Lady
day was a twelvemont'. We mun be thankful for that, whether she
stays or no. But I canna think what she mun leave a good home
for, to go back int' a country where the land, most on't, isna
worth ten shillings an acre, rent and profits."
"Why, that's just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she can
give a reason," said Mrs. Poyser. "She says this country's too
comfortable, an' there's too much t' eat, an' folks arena
miserable enough. And she's going next week. I canna turn her,
say what I will. It's allays the way wi' them meek-faced people;
you may's well pelt a bag o' feathers as talk to 'em. But I say
it isna religion, to be so obstinate--is it now, Adam?"
Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her
by any matter relating to herself, and, anxious to relieve her, if
possible, he said, looking at her affectionately, "Nay, I can't
find fault with anything Dinah does. I believe her thoughts are
better than our guesses, let 'em be what they may. I should ha'
been thankful for her to stay among us, but if she thinks well to
go, I wouldn't cross her, or make it hard to her by objecting. We
owe her something different to that."
As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just
too much for Dinah's susceptible feelings at this moment. The
tears came into the grey eyes too fast to be hidden and she got up
hurriedly, meaning it to be understood that she was going to put
on her bonnet.
"Mother, what's Dinah crying for?" said Totty. "She isn't a
naughty dell."
"Thee'st gone a bit too fur," said Mr. Poyser. "We've no right t'
interfere with her doing as she likes. An' thee'dst be as angry
as could be wi' me, if I said a word against anything she did."
"Because you'd very like be finding fault wi'out reason," said
Mrs. Poyser. "But there's reason i' what I say, else I shouldna
say it. It's easy talking for them as can't love her so well as
her own aunt does. An' me got so used to her! I shall feel as
uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she's gone from me. An' to
think of her leaving a parish where she's so looked on. There's
Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as if she was a lady, for all her
being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggot o' preaching in her head--
God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to call it so."
"Aye," said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; "but thee dostna tell Adam
what he said to thee about it one day. The missis was saying,
Adam, as the preaching was the only fault to be found wi' Dinah,
and Mr. Irwine says, 'But you mustn't find fault with her for
that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget she's got no husband to preach to.
I'll answer for it, you give Poyser many a good sermon.' The
parson had thee there," Mr. Poyser added, laughing unctuously. "I
told Bartle Massey on it, an' he laughed too."
"Yes, it's a small joke sets men laughing when they sit a-staring
at one another with a pipe i' their mouths," said Mrs. Poyser.
"Give Bartle Massey his way and he'd have all the sharpness to
himself. If the chaff-cutter had the making of us, we should all
be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin
Dinah, and see what she's doing, and give her a pretty kiss."
This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certain
threatening symptoms about the corners of the mouth; for Tommy, no
longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his
forefingers and turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that
she felt to be disagreeably personal.
"You're rare and busy now--eh, Adam?" said Mr. Poyser. "Burge's
getting so bad wi' his asthmy, it's well if he'll ever do much
riding about again."
"Yes, we've got a pretty bit o' building on hand now," said Adam,
"what with the repairs on th' estate, and the new houses at
Treddles'on."
"I'll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit
o' land is for him and Mary to go to," said Mr. Poyser. "He'll be
for laying by business soon, I'll warrant, and be wanting you to
take to it all and pay him so much by th' 'ear. We shall see you
living on th' hill before another twelvemont's over."
"Well," said Adam, "I should like t' have the business in my own
hands. It isn't as I mind much about getting any more money.
We've enough and to spare now, with only our two selves and
mother; but I should like t' have my own way about things--I could
try plans then, as I can't do now."
"You get on pretty well wi' the new steward, I reckon?" said Mr.
Poyser.
"Yes, yes; he's a sensible man enough; understands farming--he's
carrying on the draining, and all that, capital. You must go some
day towards the Stonyshire side and see what alterations they're
making. But he's got no notion about buildings. You can so
seldom get hold of a man as can turn his brains to more nor one
thing; it's just as if they wore blinkers like th' horses and
could see nothing o' one side of 'em. Now, there's Mr. Irwine has
got notions o' building more nor most architects; for as for th'
architects, they set up to be fine fellows, but the most of 'em
don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrelling
with a door. My notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit
o' taste makes the best architect for common things; and I've ten
times the pleasure i' seeing after the work when I've made the
plan myself."
Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam's discourse
on building, but perhaps it suggested to him that the building of
his corn-rick had been proceeding a little too long without the
control of the master's eye, for when Adam had done speaking, he
got up and said, "Well, lad, I'll bid you good-bye now, for I'm
off to the rick-yard again."
Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a
little basket in her hand, preceded by Totty.
"You're ready, I see, Dinah," Adam said; "so we'll set off, for
the sooner I'm at home the better."
"Mother," said Totty, with her treble pipe, "Dinah was saying her
prayers and crying ever so."
"Hush, hush," said the mother, "little gells mustn't chatter."
Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on
the white deal table and desired her to kiss him. Mr. and Mrs.
Poyser, you perceive, had no correct principles of education.
"Come back to-morrow if Mrs. Bede doesn't want you, Dinah," said
Mrs. Poyser: "but you can stay, you know, if she's ill."
So, when the good-byes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall
Farm together.
Chapter L
In the Cottage
ADAM did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the
lane. He had never yet done so, often as they had walked
together, for he had observed that she never walked arm-in-arm
with Seth, and he thought, perhaps, that kind of support was not
agreeable to her. So they walked apart, though side by side, and
the close poke of her little black bonnet hid her face from him.
"You can't be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home,
Dinah?" Adam said, with the quiet interest of a brother, who has
no anxiety for himself in the matter. "It's a pity, seeing
they're so fond of you."
"You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for
them and care for their welfare goes, but they are in no present
need. Their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back
to my old work, in which I found a blessing that I have missed of
late in the midst of too abundant worldly good. I know it is a
vain thought to flee from the work that God appoints us, for the
sake of finding a greater blessing to our own souls, as if we
could choose for ourselves where we shall find the fulness of the
Divine Presence, instead of seeking it where alone it is to be
found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I have a clear
showing that my work lies elsewhere--at least for a time. In the
years to come, if my aunt's health should fail, or she should
otherwise need me, I shall return."
"You know best, Dinah," said Adam. "I don't believe you'd go
against the wishes of them that love you, and are akin to you,
without a good and sufficient reason in your own conscience. I've
no right to say anything about my being sorry: you know well
enough what cause I have to put you above every other friend I've
got; and if it had been ordered so that you could ha' been my
sister, and lived with us all our lives, I should ha' counted it
the greatest blessing as could happen to us now. But Seth tells
me there's no hope o' that: your feelings are different, and
perhaps I'm taking too much upon me to speak about it."
Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some
yards, till they came to the stone stile, where, as Adam had
passed through first and turned round to give her his hand while
she mounted the unusually high step, she could not prevent him
from seeing her face. It struck him with surprise, for the grey
eyes, usually so mild and grave, had the bright uneasy glance
which accompanies suppressed agitation, and the slight flush in
her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, was heightened to
a deep rose-colour. She looked as if she were only sister to
Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some
moments, and then he said, "I hope I've not hurt or displeased you
by what I've said, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too free. I've no
wish different from what you see to be best, and I'm satisfied for
you to live thirty mile off, if you think it right. I shall think
of you just as much as I do now, for you're bound up with what I
can no more help remembering than I can help my heart beating."
Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she
presently said, "Have you heard any news from that poor young man,
since we last spoke of him?"
Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him
as she had seen him in the prison.
"Yes," said Adam. "Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him
yesterday. It's pretty certain, they say, that there'll be a
peace soon, though nobody believes it'll last long; but he says he
doesn't mean to come home. He's no heart for it yet, and it's
better for others that he should keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks
he's in the right not to come. It's a sorrowful letter. He asks
about you and the Poysers, as he always does. There's one thing
in the letter cut me a good deal: 'You can't think what an old
fellow I feel,' he says; 'I make no schemes now. I'm the best
when I've a good day's march or fighting before me.'"
"He's of a rash, warm-hearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have
always felt great pity," said Dinah. "That meeting between the
brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid
and distrustful, notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour,
has always touched me greatly. Truly, I have been tempted
sometimes to say that Jacob was of a mean spirit. But that is our
trial: we must learn to see the good in the midst of much that is
unlovely."
"Ah," said Adam, "I like to read about Moses best, in th' Old
Testament. He carried a hard business well through, and died when
other folks were going to reap the fruits. A man must have
courage to look at his life so, and think what'll come of it after
he's dead and gone. A good solid bit o' work lasts: if it's only
laying a floor down, somebody's the better for it being done well,
besides the man as does it."
They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal,
and in this way they went on till they passed the bridge across
the Willow Brook, when Adam turned round and said, "Ah, here's
Seth. I thought he'd be home soon. Does he know of you're going,
Dinah?"
"Yes, I told him last Sabbath."
Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on
Sunday evening, a circumstance which had been very unusual with
him of late, for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week
seemed long to have outweighed the pain of knowing she would never
marry him. This evening he had his habitual air of dreamy
benignant contentment, until he came quite close to Dinah and saw
the traces of tears on her delicate eyelids and eyelashes. He
gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam was evidently quite
outside the current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he wore his
everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to let Dinah
see that he had noticed her face, and only said, "I'm thankful
you're come, Dinah, for Mother's been hungering after the sight of
you all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the
morning."
When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her armchair,
too tired with setting out the evening meal, a task she
always performed a long time beforehand, to go and meet them at
the door as usual, when she heard the approaching footsteps.
"Coom, child, thee't coom at last," she said, when Dinah went
towards her. "What dost mane by lavin' me a week an' ne'er
coomin' a-nigh me?"
"Dear friend," said Dinah, taking her hand, "you're not well. If
I'd known it sooner, I'd have come."
"An' how's thee t' know if thee dostna coom? Th' lads on'y know
what I tell 'em. As long as ye can stir hand and foot the men
think ye're hearty. But I'm none so bad, on'y a bit of a cold
sets me achin'. An' th' lads tease me so t' ha' somebody wi' me
t' do the work--they make me ache worse wi' talkin'. If thee'dst
come and stay wi' me, they'd let me alone. The Poysers canna want
thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet off, an' let me look at
thee."
Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was
taking off her bonnet, and looked at her face as one looks into a
newly gathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity
and gentleness.
"What's the matter wi' thee?" said Lisbeth, in astonishment;
"thee'st been a-cryin'."
"It's only a grief that'll pass away," said Dinah, who did not
wish just now to call forth Lisbeth's remonstrances by disclosing
her intention to leave Hayslope. "You shall know about it
shortly--we'll talk of it to-night. I shall stay with you tonight."
Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole
evening to talk with Dinah alone; for there was a new room in the
cottage, you remember, built nearly two years ago, in the
expectation of a new inmate; and here Adam always sat when he had
writing to do or plans to make. Seth sat there too this evening,
for he knew his mother would like to have Dinah all to herself.
There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the
cottage. On one side there was the broad-shouldered, largefeatured,
hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief,
with her dim-eyed anxious looks turned continually on the lily
face and the slight form in the black dress that were either
moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated close by the
old woman's arm-chair, holding her withered hand, with eyes lifted
up towards her to speak a language which Lisbeth understood far
better than the Bible or the hymn-book. She would scarcely listen
to reading at all to-night. "Nay, nay, shut the book," she said.
"We mun talk. I want t' know what thee was cryin' about. Hast
got troubles o' thy own, like other folks?"
On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like
each other in the midst of their unlikeness: Adam with knit brows,
shaggy hair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his "figuring";
Seth, with large rugged features, the close copy of his brother's,
but with thin, wavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as often as
not looking vaguely out of the window instead of at his book,
although it was a newly bought book--Wesley's abridgment of Madame
Guyon's life, which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth
had said to Adam, "Can I help thee with anything in here to-night?
I don't want to make a noise in the shop."
"No, lad," Adam answered, "there's nothing but what I must do
myself. Thee'st got thy new book to read."
And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused
after drawing a line with his ruler, looked at his brother with a
kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew "th' lad liked to sit
full o' thoughts he could give no account of; they'd never come t'
anything, but they made him happy," and in the last year or so,
Adam had been getting more and more indulgent to Seth. It was
part of that growing tenderness which came from the sorrow at work
within him.
For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard
and delighting in his work after his inborn inalienable nature,
had not outlived his sorrow--had not felt it slip from him as a
temporary burden, and leave him the same man again. Do any of us?
God forbid. It would be a poor result of all our anguish and our
wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it--
if we could return to the same blind loves, the same selfconfident
blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the
same frivolous gossip over blighted human lives, the same feeble
sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth
irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful
that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible force, only
changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into
sympathy--the one poor word which includes all our best insight
and our best love. Not that this transformation of pain into
sympathy had completely taken place in Adam yet. There was still
a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist as long as
her pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which he must
think of as renewed with the light of every new morning. But we
get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all
that, losing our sensibility to it. It becomes a habit of our
lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease as
possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission, and we are
contented with our day when we have been able to bear our grief in
silence and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such
periods that the sense of our lives having visible and invisible
relations, beyond any of which either our present or prospective
self is the centre, grows like a muscle that we are obliged to
lean on and exert.
That was Adam's state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow.
His work, as you know, had always been part of his religion, and
from very early days he saw clearly that good carpentry was God's
will--was that form of God's will that most immediately concerned
him. But now there was no margin of dreams for him beyond this
daylight reality, no holiday-time in the working-day world, no
moment in the distance when duty would take off her iron glove and
breast-plate and clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no
picture of the future but one made up of hard-working days such as
he lived through, with growing contentment and intensity of
interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could never be
anything to him but a living memory--a limb lopped off, but not
gone from consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving
was all the while gaining new force within him; that the new
sensibilities bought by a deep experience were so many new fibres
by which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, that his nature
should intertwine with another. Yet he was aware that common
affection and friendship were more precious to him than they used
to be--that he clung more to his mother and Seth, and had an
unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or imagination of any small
addition to their happiness. The Poysers, too--hardly three or
four days passed but he felt the need of seeing them and
interchanging words and looks of friendliness with them. He would
have felt this, probably, even if Dinah had not been with them,
but he had only said the simplest truth in telling Dinah that he
put her above all other friends in the world. Could anything be
more natural? For in the darkest moments of memory the thought of
her always came as the first ray of returning comfort. The early
days of gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually turned into soft
moonlight by her presence; and in the cottage, too, for she had
come at every spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who
had been stricken with a fear that subdued even her querulousness
at the sight of her darling Adam's grief-worn face. He had become
used to watching her light quiet movements, her pretty loving ways
to the children, when he went to the Hall Farm; to listen for her
voice as for a recurrent music; to think everything she said and
did was just right, and could not have been better. In spite of
his wisdom, he could not find fault with her for her
overindulgence of the children, who had managed to convert Dinah
the preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had often trembled
a little, into a convenient household slave--though Dinah herself
was rather ashamed of this weakness, and had some inward conflict
as to her departure from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was
one thing that might have been better; she might have loved Seth
and consented to marry him. He felt a little vexed, for his
brother's sake, and he could not help thinking regretfully how
Dinah, as Seth's wife, would have made their home as happy as it
could be for them all--how she was the one being that would have
soothed their mother's last days into peacefulness and rest.
"It's wonderful she doesn't love th' lad," Adam had said sometimes
to himself, "for anybody 'ud think he was just cut out for her.
But her heart's so taken up with other things. She's one o' those
women that feel no drawing towards having a husband and children
o' their own. She thinks she should be filled up with her own
life then, and she's been used so to living in other folks's
cares, she can't bear the thought of her heart being shut up from
'em. I see how it is, well enough. She's cut out o' different
stuff from most women: I saw that long ago. She's never easy but
when she's helping somebody, and marriage 'ud interfere with her
ways--that's true. I've no right to be contriving and thinking it
'ud be better if she'd have Seth, as if I was wiser than she is--
or than God either, for He made her what she is, and that's one o'
the greatest blessings I've ever had from His hands, and others
besides me."
This self-reproof had recurred strongly to Adam's mind when he
gathered from Dinah's face that he had wounded her by referring to
his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to
put into the strongest words his confidence in her decision as
right--his resignation even to her going away from them and
ceasing to make part of their life otherwise than by living in
their thoughts, if that separation were chosen by herself. He
felt sure she knew quite well enough how much he cared to see her
continually--to talk to her with the silent consciousness of a
mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she should hear
anything but self-renouncing affection and respect in his
assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet there
remained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite
the right thing--that, somehow, Dinah had not understood him.
Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning,
for she was downstairs about five o'clock. So was Seth, for,
through Lisbeth's obstinate refusal to have any woman-helper in
the house, he had learned to make himself, as Adam said, "very
handy in the housework," that he might save his mother from too
great weariness; on which ground I hope you will not think him
unmanly, any more than you can have thought the gallant Colonel
Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his invalid sister. Adam,
who had sat up late at his writing, was still asleep, and was not
likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfast-time. Often as Dinah
had visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never
slept in the cottage since that night after Thias's death, when,
you remember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a
modified approval to her porridge. But in that long interval
Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness, and this
morning, since Seth was there to help, she was bent on bringing
everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that would have
satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far from that standard
at present, for Lisbeth's rheumatism had forced her to give up her
old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. When the kitchen
was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had been
writing the night before, to see what sweeping and dusting were
needed there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning
air, and the smell of the sweet-brier, and the bright low-slanting
rays of the early sun, which made a glory about her pale face and
pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to
herself in a very low tone--like a sweet summer murmur that you
have to listen for very closely--one of Charles Wesley's hymns:
Eternal Beam of Light Divine,
Fountain of unexhausted love,
In whom the Father's glories shine,
Through earth beneath and heaven above;
Jesus! the weary wanderer's rest,
Give me thy easy yoke to bear;
With steadfast patience arm my breast,
With spotless love and holy fear.
Speak to my warring passions, "Peace!"
Say to my trembling heart, "Be still!"
Thy power my strength and fortress is,
For all things serve thy sovereign will.
She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever
lived in Mrs. Poyser's household, you would know how the duster
behaved in Dinah's hand--how it went into every small corner, and
on every ledge in and out of sight--how it went again and again
round every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under and over
everything that lay on the table, till it came to Adam's papers
and rulers and the open desk near them. Dinah dusted up to the
very edge of these and then hesitated, looking at them with a
longing but timid eye. It was painful to see how much dust there
was among them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth's
step just outside the open door, towards which her back was
turned, and said, raising her clear treble, "Seth, is your brother
wrathful when his papers are stirred?"
"Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places," said
a deep strong voice, not Seth's.
It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating
chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and for the instant
felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and
dared not look round, but stood still, distressed because she
could not say good-morning in a friendly way. Adam, finding that
she did not look round so as to see the smile on his face, was
afraid she had thought him serious about his wrathfulness, and
went up to her, so that she was obliged to look at him.
"What! You think I'm a cross fellow at home, Dinah?" he said,
smilingly.
"Nay," said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, "not so. But you
might be put about by finding things meddled with; and even the
man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful sometimes."
"Come, then," said Adam, looking at her affectionately, "I'll help
you move the things, and put 'em back again, and then they can't
get wrong. You're getting to be your aunt's own niece, I see, for
particularness."
They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered
herself sufficiently to think of any remark, and Adam looked at
her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him
somehow lately; she had not been so kind and open to him as she
used to be. He wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he
was himself with doing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did
not look at him--it was easy for her to avoid looking at the tall
man--and when at last there was no more dusting to be done and no
further excuse for him to linger near her, he could bear it no
longer, and said, in rather a pleading tone, "Dinah, you're not
displeased with me for anything, are you? I've not said or done
anything to make you think ill of me?"
The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new
course to her feeling. She looked up at him now, quite earnestly,
almost with the tears coming, and said, "Oh, no, Adam! how could
you think so?"
"I couldn't bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to
you," said Adam. "And you don't know the value I set on the very
thought of you, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I
said I'd be content for you to go, if you thought right. I meant,
the thought of you was worth so much to me, I should feel I ought
to be thankful, and not grumble, if you see right to go away. You
know I do mind parting with you, Dinah?"
"Yes, dear friend," said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak
calmly, "I know you have a brother's heart towards me, and we
shall often be with one another in spirit; but at this season I am
in heaviness through manifold temptations. You must not mark me.
I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is a trial--
the flesh is weak."
Adam saw that it pained her to be obliged to answer.
"I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah," he said. "I'll say no
more. Let's see if Seth's ready with breakfast now."
That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that
you, too, have been in love--perhaps, even, more than once, though
you may not choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so,
you will no more think the slight words, the timid looks, the
tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each other
gradually, like two little quivering rain-streams, before they
mingle into one--you will no more think these things trivial than
you will think the first-detected signs of coming spring trivial,
though they be but a faint indescribable something in the air and
in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on
the hedge-row branches. Those slight words and looks and touches
are part of the soul's language; and the finest language, I
believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as "light,"
"sound," "stars," "music"--words really not worth looking at, or
hearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust." It is
only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably
great and beautiful. I am of opinion that love is a great and
beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs
of it will not be chips and sawdust to you: they will rather be
like those little words,"light" and "music," stirring the longwinding
fibres of your memory and enriching your present with your
most precious past.
Chapter LI
Sunday Morning
LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious
enough to detain Dinah another night from the Hall Farm, now she
had made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the
friends must part. "For a long while," Dinah had said, for she
had told Lisbeth of her resolve.
"Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again,"
said Lisbeth. "Long while! I'n got no long while t' live. An' I
shall be took bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come a-nigh me,
an' I shall die a-longing for thee."
That had been the key-note of her wailing talk all day; for Adam
was not in the house, and so she put no restraint on her
complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again and
again to the question, why she must go away; and refusing to
accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but whim and
"contrairiness"; and still more, by regretting that she "couldna'
ha' one o' the lads" and be her daughter.
"Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth," she said. "He isna cliver
enough for thee, happen, but he'd ha' been very good t' thee--he's
as handy as can be at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's
as fond o' the Bible an' chappellin' as thee art thysen. But
happen, thee'dst like a husband better as isna just the cut o'
thysen: the runnin' brook isna athirst for th' rain. Adam 'ud ha'
done for thee--I know he would--an' he might come t' like thee
well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubborn as th' iron
bar--there's no bending him no way but's own. But he'd be a fine
husband for anybody, be they who they will, so looked-on an' so
cliver as he is. And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good
on'y a look o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me."
Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions
by finding little tasks of housework that kept her moving about,
and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet
to go. It touched Dinah keenly to say the last good-bye, and
still more to look round on her way across the fields and see the
old woman still standing at the door, gazing after her till she
must have been the faintest speck in the dim aged eyes. "The God
of love and peace be with them," Dinah prayed, as she looked back
from the last stile. "Make them glad according to the days
wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years wherein they have
seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; let me
have no will but thine."
Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop
near Seth, who was busying himself there with fitting some bits of
turned wood he had brought from the village into a small work-box,
which he meant to give to Dinah before she went away.
"Thee't see her again o' Sunday afore she goes," were her first
words. "If thee wast good for anything, thee'dst make her come in
again o' Sunday night wi' thee, and see me once more."
"Nay, Mother," said Seth. "Dinah 'ud be sure to come again if she
saw right to come. I should have no need to persuade her. She
only thinks it 'ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in
to say good-bye over again."
"She'd ne'er go away, I know, if Adam 'ud be fond on her an' marry
her, but everything's so contrairy," said Lisbeth, with a burst of
vexation.
Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his
mother's face. "What! Has she said anything o' that sort to
thee, Mother?" he said, in a lower tone.
"Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to
wait till folks say things afore they find 'em out."
"Well, but what makes thee think so, Mother? What's put it into
thy head?"
"It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so
hollow as it must get in, an' nought to put it there. I know
she's fond on him, as I know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an'
that's anoof. An' he might be willin' to marry her if he know'd
she's fond on him, but he'll ne'er think on't if somebody doesna
put it into's head."
His mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not
quite a new thought to Seth, but her last words alarmed him, lest
she should herself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure
about Dinah's feeling, and he thought he was sure about Adam's.
"Nay, Mother, nay," he said, earnestly, "thee mustna think o'
speaking o' such things to Adam. Thee'st no right to say what
Dinah's feelings are if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing
but mischief to say such things to Adam. He feels very grateful
and affectionate toward Dinah, but he's no thoughts towards her
that 'ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don't believe
Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't think she'll marry at all."
"Eh," said Lisbeth, impatiently. "Thee think'st so 'cause she
wouldna ha' thee. She'll ne'er marry thee; thee mightst as well
like her t' ha' thy brother."
Seth was hurt. "Mother," he said, in a remonstrating tone, "don't
think that of me. I should be as thankful t' have her for a
sister as thee wouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more
thoughts about myself in that thing, and I shall take it hard if
ever thee say'st it again."
"Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi' sayin' things arena
as I say they are."
"But, Mother," said Seth, "thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by
telling Adam what thee think'st about her. It 'ud do nothing but
mischief, for it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same
to her. And I'm pretty sure he feels nothing o' the sort."
"Eh, donna tell me what thee't sure on; thee know'st nought about
it. What's he allays goin' to the Poysers' for, if he didna want
t' see her? He goes twice where he used t' go once. Happen he
knowsna as he wants t' see her; he knowsna as I put salt in's
broth, but he'd miss it pretty quick if it warna there. He'll
ne'er think o' marrying if it isna put into's head, an' if
thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put him up to't an' not
let her go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her to make a
bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man under the
white thorn."
"Nay, Mother," said Seth, "thee mustna think me unkind, but I
should be going against my conscience if I took upon me to say
what Dinah's feelings are. And besides that, I think I should
give offence to Adam by speaking to him at all about marrying; and
I counsel thee not to do't. Thee may'st be quite deceived about
Dinah. Nay, I'm pretty sure, by words she said to me last
Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry."
"Eh, thee't as contrairy as the rest on 'em. If it war summat I
didna want, it 'ud be done fast enough."
Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop,
leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she should disturb Adam's mind
about Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting
that, since Adam's trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about
speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would hardly
dare to approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did,
he hoped Adam would not take much notice of what she said.
Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in
restraint by timidity, and during the next three days, the
intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were
too rare and short to cause her any strong temptation. But in her
long solitary hours she brooded over her regretful thoughts about
Dinah, till they had grown very near that point of unmanageable
strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out of their secret
nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when Seth went
away to chapel at Treddleston, the dangerous opportunity came.
Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth,
for as there was no service at Hayslope church till the afternoon,
Adam was always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation
in which she could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had
always a better dinner than usual to prepare for her sons--very
frequently for Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away the
entire day--and the smell of the roast meat before the clear fire
in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday
manner, her darling Adam seated near her in his best clothes,
doing nothing very important, so that she could go and stroke her
hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and
smile, while Gyp, rather jealous, poked his muzzle up between
them--all these things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise.
The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large
pictured Bible, and this morning it lay open before him on the
round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite
of the fire, because he knew his mother liked to have him with
her, and it was the only day in the week when he could indulge her
in that way. You would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible.
He never opened it on a weekday, and so he came to it as a holiday
book, serving him for history, biography, and poetry. He held one
hand thrust between his waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to
turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you would have
seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semiarticulation--
it was when he came to a speech that he could fancy
himself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people;
then his eyebrows would be raised, and the corners of his mouth
would quiver a little with sad sympathy--something, perhaps old
Isaac's meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other times,
over the New Testament, a very solemn look would come upon his
face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious
assent, or just lift up his hand and let it fall again. And on
some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was very
fond, the son of Sirach's keen-edged words would bring a delighted
smile, though he also enjoyed the freedom of occasionally
differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles
quite well, as became a good churchman.
Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat
opposite to him and watched him, till she could rest no longer
without going up to him and giving him a caress, to call his
attention to her. This morning he was reading the Gospel
according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been standing close by
him for some minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than
usual this morning, and looking down at the large page with silent
wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was encouraged to
continue this caress, because when she first went up to him, he
had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her affectionately
and say, "Why, Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty this morning.
Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I love
thee the best." Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say
so many things. And now there was a new leaf to be turned over,
and it was a picture--that of the angel seated on the great stone
that has been rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had
one strong association in Lisbeth's memory, for she had been
reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner
turned the page, and lifted the book sideways that they might look
at the angel, than she said, "That's her--that's Dinah."
Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said,
"It is a bit like her; but Dinah's prettier, I think."
"Well, then, if thee think'st her so pretty, why arn't fond on
her?"
Adam looked up in surprise. "Why, Mother, dost think I don't set
store by Dinah?"
"Nay," said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling
that she had broken the ice, and the waters must flow, whatever
mischief they might do. "What's th' use o' settin' store by
things as are thirty mile off? If thee wast fond enough on her,
thee wouldstna let her go away."
"But I've no right t' hinder her, if she thinks well," said Adam,
looking at his book as if he wanted to go on reading. He foresaw
a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again
in the chair opposite to him, as she said:
"But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy." Lisbeth
dared not venture beyond a vague phrase yet.
"Contrairy, mother?" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety.
"What have I done? What dost mean?"
"Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thy
figurin, an' thy work," said Lisbeth, half-crying. "An' dost
think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut
out o' timber? An' what wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody
to take care on thee as thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable
i' the mornin'?"
"What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?" said Adam, vexed at this
whimpering. "I canna see what thee't driving at. Is there
anything I could do for thee as I don't do?"
"Aye, an' that there is. Thee might'st do as I should ha'
somebody wi' me to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me when I'm bad,
an' be good to me."
"Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th'
house t' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o'
work to do. We can afford it--I've told thee often enough. It
'ud be a deal better for us."
"Eh, what's the use o' talking o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st
one o' th' wenches out o' th' village, or somebody from
Treddles'on as I ne'er set eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a
shift an' get into my own coffln afore I die, nor ha' them folks
to put me in."
Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost
severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning.
But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after
scarcely a minute's quietness she began again.
"Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me.
It isna many folks I send for t' come an' see me. I reckon. An'
thee'st had the fetchin' on her times enow."
"Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know," said Adam. "But it's no use
setting thy mind on what can't be. If Dinah 'ud be willing to
stay at Hayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her
aunt's house, where they hold her like a daughter, and where she's
more bound than she is to us. If it had been so that she could
ha' married Seth, that 'ud ha' been a great blessing to us, but we
can't have things just as we like in this life. Thee must try and
make up thy mind to do without her."
"Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for
thee; an' nought shall ma' me believe as God didna make her an'
send her there o' purpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her
bein' a Methody! It 'ud happen wear out on her wi' marryin'."
Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He
understood now what she had been aiming at from the beginning of
the conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as
she had ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so
entirely new an idea. The chief point, however, was to chase away
the notion from his mother's mind as quickly as possible.
"Mother," he said, gravely, "thee't talking wild. Don't let me
hear thee say such things again. It's no good talking o' what can
never be. Dinah's not for marrying; she's fixed her heart on a
different sort o' life."
"Very like," said Lisbeth, impatiently, "very like she's none for
marr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t' marry wonna ax her. I
shouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther if he'd ne'er axed me;
an' she's as fond o' thee as e'er I war o' Thias, poor fellow."
The blood rushed to Adam's face, and for a few moments he was not
quite conscious where he was. His mother and the kitchen had
vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up
towards his. It seemed as if there were a resurrection of his
dead joy. But he woke up very speedily from that dream (the
waking was chill and sad), for it would have been very foolish in
him to believe his mother's words--she could have no ground for
them. He was prompted to express his disbelief very strongly--
perhaps that he might call forth the proofs, if there were any to
be offered.
"What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no
foundation for 'em? Thee know'st nothing as gives thee a right to
say that."
"Then I knowna nought as gi'es me a right to say as the year's
turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i' th' morning.
She isna fond o' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry
HIM? But I can see as she doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes
tow'rt Seth. She makes no more o' Seth's coming a-nigh her nor if
he war Gyp, but she's all of a tremble when thee't a-sittin' down
by her at breakfast an' a-looking at her. Thee think'st thy
mother knows nought, but she war alive afore thee wast born."
"But thee canstna be sure as the trembling means love?" said Adam
anxiously.
"Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what
should she do but love thee? Thee't made to be loved--for where's
there a straighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein'
a Methody? It's on'y the marigold i' th' parridge."
Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at
the book on the table, without seeing any of the letters. He was
trembling like a gold-seeker who sees the strong promise of gold
but sees in the same moment a sickening vision of disappointment.
He could not trust his mother's insight; she had seen what she
wished to see. And yet--and yet, now the suggestion had been made
to him, he remembered so many things, very slight things, like the
stirring of the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to
him some confirmation of his mother's words.
Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, "An' thee't find
out as thee't poorly aff when she's gone. Thee't fonder on her
nor thee know'st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp's
follow thee."
Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and
went out into the fields.
The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we
should know was not summer's, even if there were not the touches
of yellow on the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which
has more than autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning
sunshine, which still leaves the dew-crystals on the fine gossamer
webs in the shadow of the bushy hedgerows.
Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which
this new thought of Dinah's love had taken possession of him, with
an overmastering power that made all other feelings give way
before the impetuous desire to know that the thought was true.
Strange, that till that moment the possibility of their ever being
lovers had never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing
suddenly went out towards that possibility. He had no more doubt
or hesitation as to his own wishes than the bird that flies
towards the opening through which the daylight gleams and the
breath of heaven enters.
The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him
with resignation to the disappointment if his mother--if he
himself--proved to be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by
gentle encouragement of his hopes. Her love was so like that calm
sunshine that they seemed to make one presence to him, and he
believed in them both alike. And Dinah was so bound up with the
sad memories of his first passion that he was not forsaking them,
but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his
love for her had grown out of that past: it was the noon of that
morning.
But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite
contented of late, and there was no selfish jealousy in him; he
had never been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had
he seen anything of what their mother talked about? Adam longed
to know this, for he thought he could trust Seth's observation
better than his mother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to
see Dinah, and, with this intention in his mind, he walked back to
the cottage and said to his mother, "Did Seth say anything to thee
about when he was coming home? Will he be back to dinner?"
"Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to
Treddles'on. He's gone somewhere else a-preachin' and a-prayin'."
"Hast any notion which way he's gone?" said Adam.
"Nay, but he aften goes to th' Common. Thee know'st more o's
goings nor I do."
Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with
walking about the near fields and getting sight of him as soon as
possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for
Seth would scarcely be at home much before their dinner-time,
which was twelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his
reading again, and he sauntered along by the brook and stood
leaning against the stiles, with eager intense eyes, which looked
as if they saw something very vividly; but it was not the brook or
the willows, not the fields or the sky. Again and again his
vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own
feeling, at the strength and sweetness of this new love--almost
like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds in himself
for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that
the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so
few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or
are not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their
larger experience, their deeper-rooted affections? The boy's
flutelike voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield
a richer deeper music.
At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam
hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and thought something
unusual must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said
plainly enough that it was nothing alarming.
"Where hast been?" said Adam, when they were side by side.
"I've been to the Common," said Seth. "Dinah's been speaking the
Word to a little company of hearers at Brimstone's, as they call
him. They're folks as never go to church hardly--them on the
Common--but they'll go and hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking
with power this forenoon from the words, 'I came not to call the
righteous, but sinners to repentance.' And there was a little
thing happened as was pretty to see. The women mostly bring their
children with 'em, but to-day there was one stout curly headed
fellow about three or four year old, that I never saw there
before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I
was praying, and while we was singing, but when we all sat down
and Dinah began to speak, th' young un stood stock still all at
once, and began to look at her with's mouth open, and presently he
ran away from's mother and went to Dinah, and pulled at her, like
a little dog, for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him
up and held th' lad on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he
was as good as could be till he went to sleep--and the mother
cried to see him."
"It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself," said Adam, "so
fond as the children are of her. Dost think she's quite fixed
against marrying, Seth? Dost think nothing 'ud turn her?"
There was something peculiar in his brother's tone, which made
Seth steal a glance at his face before he answered.
"It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her," he answered.
"But if thee mean'st it about myself, I've given up all thoughts
as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's
enough."
"But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to
be willing to marry 'em?" said Adam rather shyly.
"Well," said Seth, after some hesitation, "it's crossed my mind
sometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud let no fondness for
the creature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had
marked out for her. If she thought the leading was not from Him,
she's not one to be brought under the power of it. And she's
allays seemed clear about that--as her work was to minister t'
others, and make no home for herself i' this world."
"But suppose," said Adam, earnestly, "suppose there was a man as
'ud let her do just the same and not interfere with her--she might
do a good deal o' what she does now, just as well when she was
married as when she was single. Other women of her sort have
married--that's to say, not just like her, but women as preached
and attended on the sick and needy. There's Mrs. Fletcher as she
talks of."
A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying
his hand on Adam's shoulder, said, "Why, wouldst like her to marry
THEE, Brother?"
Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, "Wouldst
be hurt if she was to be fonder o' me than o' thee?"
"Nay," said Seth warmly, "how canst think it? Have I felt thy
trouble so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?"
There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth
said, "I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think of her for a wife."
"But is it o' any use to think of her?" said Adam. "What dost
say? Mother's made me as I hardly know where I am, with what
she's been saying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah
feels for me more than common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But
I'm afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if thee'st
seen anything."
"It's a nice point to speak about," said Seth, "and I'm afraid o'
being wrong; besides, we've no right t' intermeddle with people's
feelings when they wouldn't tell 'em themselves."
Seth paused.
"But thee mightst ask her," he said presently. "She took no
offence at me for asking, and thee'st more right than I had, only
thee't not in the Society. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are
for keeping the Society so strict to themselves. She doesn't mind
about making folks enter the Society, so as they're fit t' enter
the kingdom o' God. Some o' the brethren at Treddles'on are
displeased with her for that."
"Where will she be the rest o' the day?" said Adam.
"She said she shouldn't leave the farm again to-day," said Seth,
"because it's her last Sabbath there, and she's going t' read out
o' the big Bible wi' the children."
Adam thought--but did not say--"Then I'll go this afternoon; for
if I go to church, my thoughts 'ull be with her all the while.
They must sing th' anthem without me to-day."
Chapter LII
Adam and Dinah
IT was about three o'clock when Adam entered the farmyard and
roused Alick and the dogs from their Sunday dozing. Alick said
everybody was gone to church "but th' young missis"--so he called
Dinah--but this did not disappoint Adam, although the "everybody"
was so liberal as to include Nancy the dairymaid, whose works of
necessity were not unfrequently incompatible with church-going.
There was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all
closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed quieter than usual.
Adam heard the water gently dripping from the pump--that was the
only sound--and he knocked at the house door rather softly, as was
suitable in that stillness.
The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with
the great surprise of seeing Adam at this hour, when she knew it
was his regular practice to be at church. Yesterday he would have
said to her without any difficulty, "I came to see you, Dinah: I
knew the rest were not at home." But to-day something prevented
him from saying that, and he put out his hand to her in silence.
Neither of them spoke, and yet both wished they could speak, as
Adam entered, and they sat down. Dinah took the chair she had
just left; it was at the corner of the table near the window, and
there was a book lying on the table, but it was not open. She had
been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of clear
fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite her, in Mr.
Poyser's three-cornered chair.
"Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?" Dinah said,
recovering herself. "Seth said she was well this morning."
"No, she's very hearty to-day," said Adam, happy in the signs of
Dinah's feeling at the sight of him, but shy.
"There's nobody at home, you see," Dinah said; "but you'll wait.
You've been hindered from going to church to-day, doubtless."
"Yes," Adam said, and then paused, before he added, "I was
thinking about you: that was the reason."
This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he
thought Dinah must understand all he meant. But the frankness of
the words caused her immediately to interpret them into a renewal
of his brotherly regrets that she was going away, and she answered
calmly, "Do not be careful and troubled for me, Adam. I have all
things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am
not seeking my own will in going."
"But if things were different, Dinah," said Adam, hesitatingly.
"If you knew things that perhaps you don't know now...."
Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he
reached a chair and brought it near the corner of the table where
she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraid--and the next
moment her thoughts flew to the past: was it something about those
distant unhappy ones that she didn't know?
Adam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which
had now a self-forgetful questioning in them--for a moment he
forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to
tell her what he meant.
"Dinah," he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, "I
love you with my whole heart and soul. I love you next to God who
made me."
Dinah's lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled
violently under the shock of painful joy. Her hands were cold as
death between Adam's. She could not draw them away, because he
held them fast.
"Don't tell me you can't love me, Dinah. Don't tell me we must
part and pass our lives away from one another."
The tears were trembling in Dinah's eyes, and they fell before she
could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low voice.
"Yes, dear Adam, we must submit to another Will. We must part."
"Not if you love me, Dinah--not if you love me," Adam said
passionately. "Tell me--tell me if you can love me better than a
brother?"
Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt
to achieve any end by a deceptive concealment. She was recovering
now from the first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam with
simple sincere eyes as she said, "Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn
strongly towards you; and of my own will, if I had no clear
showing to the contrary, I could find my happiness in being near
you and ministering to you continually. I fear I should forget to
rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear I should forget the
Divine presence, and seek no love but yours."
Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other in
delicious silence--for the first sense of mutual love excludes
other feelings; it will have the soul all to itself.
"Then, Dinah," Adam said at last, "how can there be anything
contrary to what's right in our belonging to one another and
spending our lives together? Who put this great love into our
hearts? Can anything be holier than that? For we can help one
another in everything as is good. I'd never think o' putting
myself between you and God, and saying you oughtn't to do this and
you oughtn't to do that. You'd follow your conscience as much as
you do now."
"Yes, Adam," Dinah said, "I know marriage is a holy state for
those who are truly called to it, and have no other drawing; but
from my chilhood upwards I have been led towards another path; all
my peace and my joy have come from having no life of my own, no
wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in God and those of
his creatures whose sorrows and joys he has given me to know.
Those have been very blessed years to me, and I feel that if I was
to listen to any voice that would draw me aside from that path, I
should be turning my back on the light that has shone upon me, and
darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not bless each
other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and if I yearned,
when it was too late, after that better part which had once been
given me and I had put away from me."
"But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and if you
love me so as to be willing to be nearer to me than to other
people, isn't that a sign that it's right for you to change your
life? Doesn't the love make it right when nothing else would?"
"Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for now, since
you tell me of your strong love towards me, what was clear to me
has become dark again. I felt before that my heart was too
strongly drawn towards you, and that your heart was not as mine;
and the thought of you had taken hold of me, so that my soul had
lost its freedom, and was becoming enslaved to an earthly
affection, which made me anxious and careful about what should
befall myself. For in all other affection I had been content with
any small return, or with none; but my heart was beginning to
hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt that I
must wrestle against that as a great temptation, and the command
was clear that I must go away."
"But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better than
you love me...it's all different now. You won't think o' going.
You'll stay, and be my dear wife, and I shall thank God for giving
me my life as I never thanked him before."
"Adam, it's hard to me to turn a deaf ear...you know it's hard;
but a great fear is upon me. It seems to me as if you were
stretching out your arms to me, and beckoning me to come and take
my ease and live for my own delight, and Jesus, the Man of
Sorrows, was standing looking towards me, and pointing to the
sinful, and suffering, and afflicted. I have seen that again and
again when I have been sitting in stillness and darkness, and a
great terror has come upon me lest I should become hard, and a
lover of self, and no more bear willingly the Redeemer's cross."
Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through her.
"Adam," she went on, "you wouldn't desire that we should seek a
good through any unfaithfulness to the light that is in us; you
wouldn't believe that could be a good. We are of one mind in
that."
"Yes, Dinah," said Adam sadly, "I'll never be the man t' urge you
against your conscience. But I can't give up the hope that you
may come to see different. I don't believe your loving me could
shut up your heart--it's only adding to what you've been before,
not taking away from it. For it seems to me it's the same with
love and happiness as with sorrow--the more we know of it the
better we can feel what other people's lives are or might be, and
so we shall only be more tender to 'em, and wishful to help 'em.
The more knowledge a man has, the better he'll do's work; and
feeling's a sort o' knowledge."
Dinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of
something visible only to herself. Adam went on presently with
his pleading, "And you can do almost as much as you do now. I
won't ask you to go to church with me of a Sunday. You shall go
where you like among the people, and teach 'em; for though I like
church best, I don't put my soul above yours, as if my words was
better for you to follow than your own conscience. And you can
help the sick just as much, and you'll have more means o' making
'em a bit comfortable; and you'll be among all your own friends as
love you, and can help 'em and be a blessing to 'em till their
dying day. Surely, Dinah, you'd be as near to God as if you was
living lonely and away from me."
Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still holding her
hands and looking at her with almost trembling anxiety, when she
turned her grave loving eyes on his and said, in rather a sad
voice, "Adam there is truth in what you say, and there's many of
the brethren and sisters who have greater strength than I have,
and find their hearts enlarged by the cares of husband and
kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so with me, for
since my affections have been set above measure on you, I have had
less peace and joy in God. I have felt as it were a division in
my heart. And think how it is with me, Adam. That life I have
led is like a land I have trodden in blessedness since my
childhood; and if I long for a moment to follow the voice which
calls me to another land that I know not, I cannot but fear that
my soul might hereafter yearn for that early blessedness which I
had forsaken; and where doubt enters there is not perfect love. I
must wait for clearer guidance. I must go from you, and we must
submit ourselves entirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes
required to lay our natural lawful affections on the altar."
Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah's was not the voice of
caprice or insincerity. But it was very hard for him; his eyes
got dim as he looked at her.
"But you may come to feel satisfied...to feel that you may come to
me again, and we may never part, Dinah?"
"We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty will be made
clear. It may be when I have entered on my former life, I shall
find all these new thoughts and wishes vanish, and become as
things that were not. Then I shall know that my calling is not
towards marriage. But we must wait."
"Dinah," said Adam mournfully, "you can't love me so well as I
love you, else you'd have no doubts. But it's natural you
shouldn't, for I'm not so good as you. I can't doubt it's right
for me to love the best thing God's ever given me to know."
"Nay, Adam. It seems to me that my love for you is not weak, for
my heart waits on your words and looks, almost as a little child
waits on the help and tenderness of the strong on whom it depends.
If the thought of you took slight hold of me, I should not fear
that it would be an idol in the temple. But you will strengthen
me--you will not hinder me in seeking to obey to the uttermost."
"Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I'll
speak no word to disturb you."
They went out and walked towards the fields, where they would meet
the family coming from church. Adam said, "Take my arm, Dinah,"
and she took it. That was the only change in their manner to each
other since they were last walking together. But no sadness in
the prospect of her going away--in the uncertainty of the issue--
could rob the sweetness from Adam's sense that Dinah loved him.
He thought he would stay at the Hall Farm all that evening. He
would be near her as long as he could.
"Hey-day! There's Adam along wi' Dinah," said Mr. Poyser, as he
opened the far gate into the Home Close. "I couldna think how he
happened away from church. Why," added good Martin, after a
moment's pause, "what dost think has just jumped into my head?"
"Summat as hadna far to jump, for it's just under our nose. You
mean as Adam's fond o' Dinah."
"Aye! hast ever had any notion of it before?"
"To be sure I have," said Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if
possible, to be taken by surprise. "I'm not one o' those as can
see the cat i' the dairy an' wonder what she's come after."
"Thee never saidst a word to me about it."
"Well, I aren't like a bird-clapper, forced to make a rattle when
the wind blows on me. I can keep my own counsel when there's no
good i' speaking."
"But Dinah 'll ha' none o' him. Dost think she will?"
"Nay," said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard against a
possible surprise, "she'll never marry anybody, if he isn't a
Methodist and a cripple."
"It 'ud ha' been a pretty thing though for 'em t' marry," said
Martin, turning his head on one side, as if in pleased
contemplation of his new idea. "Thee'dst ha' liked it too,
wouldstna?"
"Ah! I should. I should ha' been sure of her then, as she
wouldn't go away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty mile off, and
me not got a creatur to look to, only neighbours, as are no kin to
me, an' most of 'em women as I'd be ashamed to show my face, if my
dairy things war like their'n. There may well be streaky butter
i' the market. An' I should be glad to see the poor thing settled
like a Christian woman, with a house of her own over her head; and
we'd stock her well wi' linen and feathers, for I love her next to
my own children. An' she makes one feel safer when she's i' the
house, for she's like the driven snow: anybody might sin for two
as had her at their elbow."
"Dinah," said Tommy, running forward to meet her, "mother says
you'll never marry anybody but a Methodist cripple. What a silly
you must be!" a comment which Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah
with both arms, and dancing along by her side with incommodious
fondness.
"Why, Adam, we missed you i' the singing to-day," said Mr. Poyser.
"How was it?"
"I wanted to see Dinah--she's going away so soon," said Adam.
"Ah, lad! Can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find her a good
husband somewhere i' the parish. If you'll do that, we'll forgive
you for missing church. But, anyway, she isna going before the
harvest supper o' Wednesday, and you must come then. There's
Bartle Massey comin', an' happen Craig. You'll be sure an' come,
now, at seven? The missis wunna have it a bit later."
"Aye," said Adam, "I'll come if I can. But I can't often say what
I'll do beforehand, for the work often holds me longer than I
expect. You'll stay till the end o' the week, Dinah?"
"Yes, yes!" said Mr. Poyser. "We'll have no nay."
"She's no call to be in a hurry," observed Mrs. Poyser.
"Scarceness o' victual 'ull keep: there's no need to be hasty wi'
the cooking. An' scarceness is what there's the biggest stock of
i' that country."
Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked of
other things through the rest of the walk, lingering in the
sunshine to look at the great flock of geese grazing, at the new
corn-ricks, and at the surprising abundance of fruit on the old
pear-tree; Nancy and Molly having already hastened home, side by
side, each holding, carefully wrapped in her pocket-handkerchief,
a prayer-book, in which she could read little beyond the large
letters and the Amens.
Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk
through the fields from "afternoon church"--as such walks used to
be in those old leisurely times, when the boat, gliding sleepily
along the canal, was the newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday
books had most of them old brown-leather covers, and opened with
remarkable precision always in one place. Leisure is gone--gone
where the spinning-wheels are gone, and the pack-horses, and the
slow waggons, and the pedlars, who brought bargains to the door on
sunny afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that
the great work of the steam-engine is to create leisure for
mankind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for eager
thought to rush in. Even idleness is eager now--eager for
amusement; prone to excursion-trains, art museums, periodical
literature, and exciting novels; prone even to scientific
theorizing and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old Leisure was
quite a different personage. He only read one newspaper, innocent
of leaders, and was free from that periodicity of sensations which
we call post-time. He was a contemplative, rather stout
gentleman, of excellent digestion; of quiet perceptions,
undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his inability to know the
causes of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived
chiefly in the country, among pleasant seats and homesteads, and
was fond of sauntering by the fruit-tree wall and scenting the
apricots when they were warmed by the morning sunshine, or of
sheltering himself under the orchard boughs at noon, when the
summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of weekday services,
and thought none the worse of the Sunday sermon if it allowed him
to sleep from the text to the blessing; liking the afternoon
service best, because the prayers were the shortest, and not
ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broadbacked
like himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or
port-wine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms and lofty
aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He
fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate his dinners, and slept
the sleep of the irresponsible, for had he not kept up his
character by going to church on the Sunday afternoons?
Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our
modern standard. He never went to Exeter Hall, or heard a popular
preacher, or read Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus.
Chapter LIII
The Harvest Supper
As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six
o'clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the last load of barley
winding its way towards the yard-gate of the Hall Farm, and heard
the chant of "Harvest Home!" rising and sinking like a wave.
Fainter and fainter, and more musical through the growing
distance, the falling dying sound still reached him, as he neared
the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shone right on the
shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscious sheep
into bright spots of light; shone on the windows of the cottage
too, and made them a-flame with a glory beyond that of amber or
amethyst. It was enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great
temple, and that the distant chant was a sacred song.
"It's wonderful," he thought, "how that sound goes to one's heart
almost like a funeral bell, for all it tells one o' the joyfullest
time o' the year, and the time when men are mostly the
thankfullest. I suppose it's a bit hard to us to think anything's
over and gone in our lives; and there's a parting at the root of
all our joys. It's like what I feel about Dinah. I should never
ha' come to know that her love 'ud be the greatest o' blessings to
me, if what I counted a blessing hadn't been wrenched and torn
away from me, and left me with a greater need, so as I could crave
and hunger for a greater and a better comfort."
He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to
accompany her as far as Oakbourne; and then he would ask her to
fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the
last best hope that had been born to him must be resigned like the
rest. The work he had to do at home, besides putting on his best
clothes, made it seven before he was on his way again to the Hall
Farm, and it was questionable whether, with his longest and
quickest strides, he should be there in time even for the roast
beef, which came after the plum pudding, for Mrs. Poyser's supper
would be punctual.
Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans
when Adam entered the house, but there was no hum of voices to
this accompaniment: the eating of excellent roast beef, provided
free of expense, was too serious a business to those good farmlabourers
to be performed with a divided attention, even if they
had had anything to say to each other--which they had not. And
Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, was too busy with his
carving to listen to Bartle Massey's or Mr. Craig's ready talk.
"Here, Adam," said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to
see that Molly and Nancy did their duty as waiters, "here's a
place kept for you between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor
tale you couldn't come to see the pudding when it was whole."
Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinah
was not there. He was almost afraid of asking about her; besides,
his attention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the
hope that Dinah was in the house, though perhaps disinclined to
festivities on the eve of her departure.
It was a goodly sight--that table, with Martin Poyser's round
good-humoured face and large person at the head of it helping his
servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty
plates came again. Martin, though usually blest with a good
appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef to-night--it was so
pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving and see how
the others enjoyed their supper; for were they not men who, on all
the days of the year except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their
cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank
their beer out of wooden bottles--with relish certainly, but with
their mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to
ducks than to human bipeds. Martin Poyser had some faint
conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and
fresh-drawn ale. He held his head on one side and screwed up his
mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched half-witted Tom
Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his second
plateful of beef. A grin of delight broke over Tom's face as the
plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which
he held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers. But the delight
was too strong to continue smouldering in a grin--it burst out the
next instant in a long-drawn "haw, haw!" followed by a sudden
collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on
the prey. Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent
unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she too
had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in
a glance of good-natured amusement.
"Tom Saft" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the
part of the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies
by his success in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of
the flail, which falls quite at random, but nevertheless smashes
an insect now and then. They were much quoted at sheep-shearing
and haymaking times, but I refrain from recording them here, lest
Tom's wit should prove to be like that of many other bygone
jesters eminent in their day--rather of a temporary nature, not
dealing with the deeper and more lasting relations of things.
Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and
labourers, thinking with satisfaction that they were the best
worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale,
for example (Beale, probably, if the truth were known, but he was
called Bale, and was not conscious of any claim to a fifth
letter), the old man with the close leather cap and the network of
wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was there any man in Loamshire
who knew better the "natur" of all farming work? He was one of
those invaluable labourers who can not only turn their hand to
everything, but excel in everything they turn their hand to. It
is true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time, and he
walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the, most
reverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that
the object of his reverence was his own skill, towards which he
performed some rather affecting acts of worship. He always
thatched the ricks--for if anything were his forte more than
another, it was thatching--and when the last touch had been put to
the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some distance
from the farm, would take a walk to the rick-yard in his best
clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a due
distance, to contemplate his own thatching walking about to get
each rick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along,
with his eyes upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden
globes at the summits of the beehive ricks, which indeed were gold
of the best sort, you might have imagined him to be engaged in
some pagan act of adoration. Kester was an old bachelor and
reputed to have stockings full of coin, concerning which his
master cracked a joke with him every pay-night: not a new
unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried many
times before and had worn well. "Th' young measter's a merry
mon," Kester frequently remarked; for having begun his career by
frightening away the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one,
he could never cease to account the reigning Martin a young
master. I am not ashamed of commemorating old Kester. You and I
are indebted to the hard hands of such men--hands that have long
ago mingled with the soil they tilled so faithfully, thriftily
making the best they could of the earth's fruits, and receiving
the smallest share as their own wages.
Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was
Alick, the shepherd and head-man, with the ruddy face and broad
shoulders, not on the best terms with old Kester; indeed, their
intercourse was confined to an occasional snarl, for though they
probably differed little concerning hedging and ditching and the
treatment of ewes, there was a profound difference of opinion
between them as to their own respective merits. When Tityrus and
Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, they are not
sentimentally polite to each other. Alick, indeed, was not by any
means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl
in it, and his broad-shouldered aspect something of the bull-dog
expression--"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't meddle with
you." But he was honest even to the splitting of an oat-grain
rather than he would take beyond his acknowledged share, and as
"close-fisted" with his master's property as if it had been his
own--throwing very small handfuls of damaged barley to the
chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination
painfully with a sense of profusion. Good-tempered Tim, the
waggoner, who loved his horses, had his grudge against Alick in
the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other, and never
looked at each other, even over their dish of cold potatoes; but
then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all
mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than
transient fits of unfriendliness. The bucolic character at
Hayslope, you perceive, was not of that entirely genial, merry,
broad-grinning sort, apparently observed in most districts visited
by artists. The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight on a
field-labourer's face, and there was seldom any gradation between
bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every labourer so honest as
our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser's men,
there is that big Ben Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but
detected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in his
pockets--an action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could
hardly be ascribed to absence of mind. However, his master had
forgiven him, and continued to employ him, for the Tholoways had
lived on the Common time out of mind, and had always worked for
the Poysers. And on the whole, I daresay, society was not much
the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the treadmill,
for his views of depredation were narrow, and the House of
Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast
beef to-night with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more
than a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the last
harvest supper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's
suspicious eye, for ever upon him, was an injury to his innocence.
But NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn,
leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking-cans, and
the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks,
pleasant to behold. NOW, the great ceremony of the evening was to
begin--the harvest-song, in which every man must join. He might
be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with
closed lips. The movement was obliged to be in triple time; the
rest was ad libitum.
As to the origin of this song--whether it came in its actual state
from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected
by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is
a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me
to the former hypothesis, though I am not blind to the
consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from that
consensus of many minds which was a condition of primitive
thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. Some will perhaps
think that they detect in the first quatrain an indication of a
lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in imaginative vigour,
have supplied by the feeble device of iteration. Others, however,
may rather maintain that this very iteration is an original
felicity, to which none but the most prosaic minds can be
insensible.
The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony.
(That is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot
reform our forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain,
sung decidedly forte, no can was filled.
Here's a health unto our master,
The founder of the feast;
Here's a health unto our master
And to our mistress!
And may his doings prosper,
Whate'er he takes in hand,
For we are all his servants,
And are at his command.
But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung
fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table, which gave the effect
of cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was
bound to empty it before the chorus ceased.
Then drink, boys, drink!
And see ye do not spill,
For if ye do, ye shall drink two,
For 'tis our master's will.
When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steadyhanded
manliness, it was the turn of old Kester, at his right
hand--and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint
under the stimulus of the chorus. Tom Saft--the rogue--took care
to spill a little by accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously,
Tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty.
To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of
obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!" should have such an
immediate and often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would
have seen that all faces were at present sober, and most of them
serious--it was the regular and respectable thing for those
excellent farm-labourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and
gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine-glasses. Bartle
Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what
sort of evening it was at an early stage in the ceremony, and had
not finished his contemplation until a silence of five minutes
declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to begin again
for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret of the boys and
Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious
thumping of the table, towards which Totty, seated on her father's
knee, contributed with her small might and small fist.
When Bartle re-entered, however, there appeared to be a general
desire for solo music after the choral. Nancy declared that Tim
the waggoner knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i'
the stable," whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim,
lad, let's hear it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head,
and said he couldn't sing, but this encouraging invitation of the
master's was echoed all round the table. It was a conversational
opportunity: everybody could say, "Come, Tim," except Alick, who
never relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last,
Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began to give emphasis to his
speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, said, "Let
me alooan, will ye? Else I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye wonna like."
A good-tempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was not to
be urged further.
"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to
show that he was not discomfited by this check. "Sing 'My loove's
a roos wi'out a thorn.'"
The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted
expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior
intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not
indifferent to Ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and
rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a
symptom of yielding. And for some time the company appeared to be
much in earnest about the desire to hear David's song. But in
vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellar at present,
and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet.
Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken a
political turn. Mr. Craig was not above talking politics
occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight
than on specific information. He saw so far beyond the mere facts
of a case that really it was superfluous to know them.
"I'm no reader o' the paper myself," he observed to-night, as he
filled his pipe, "though I might read it fast enough if I liked,
for there's Miss Lyddy has 'em and 's done with 'em i' no time.
But there's Mills, now, sits i' the chimney-corner and reads the
paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when he's got to th'
end on't he's more addle-headed than he was at the beginning.
He's full o' this peace now, as they talk on; he's been reading
and reading, and thinks he's got to the bottom on't. 'Why, Lor'
bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no more into this thing nor
you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell you what it
is: you think it'll be a fine thing for the country. And I'm not
again' it--mark my words--I'm not again' it. But it's my opinion
as there's them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies
to us nor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back; for as
for the mounseers, you may skewer half-a-dozen of 'em at once as
if they war frogs.'"
"Aye, aye," said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much
intelligence and edification, "they ne'er ate a bit o' beef i'
their lives. Mostly sallet, I reckon."
"And says I to Mills," continued Mr. Craig, "'Will you try to make
me believe as furriners like them can do us half th' harm them
ministers do with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn
'em all away and govern by himself, he'd see everything righted.
He might take on Billy Pitt again if he liked; but I don't see
myself what we want wi' anybody besides King and Parliament. It's
that nest o' ministers does the mischief, I tell you.'"
"Ah, it's fine talking," observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated
near her husband, with Totty on her lap--"it's fine talking. It's
hard work to tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots
on."
"As for this peace," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side
in a dubitative manner and giving a precautionary puff to his pipe
between each sentence, "I don't know. Th' war's a fine thing for
the country, an' how'll you keep up prices wi'out it? An' them
French are a wicked sort o' folks, by what I can make out. What
can you do better nor fight 'em?"
"Ye're partly right there, Poyser," said Mr. Craig, "but I'm not
again' the peace--to make a holiday for a bit. We can break it
when we like, an' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so
much o' his cliverness. That's what I says to Mills this morning.
Lor' bless you, he sees no more through Bony!...why, I put him up
to more in three minutes than he gets from's paper all the year
round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knows his business, or arn't
I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To be sure y' are, Craig,' says he--
he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a butler, but weak i' the
head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; would it be
any use my being a first-rate gardener if I'd got nought but a
quagmire to work on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's
just what it is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit
cliver--he's no Frenchman born, as I understand--but what's he got
at's back but mounseers?'"
Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this
triumphant specimen of Socratic argument, and then added, thumping
the table rather fiercely, "Why, it's a sure thing--and there's
them 'ull bear witness to't--as i' one regiment where there was
one man a-missing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and
they fit him as the shell fits the walnut, and you couldn't tell
the monkey from the mounseers!"
"Ah! Think o' that, now!" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with
the political bearings of the fact and with its striking interest
as an anecdote in natural history.
"Come, Craig," said Adam, "that's a little too strong. You don't
believe that. It's all nonsense about the French being such poor
sticks. Mr. Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says
they've plenty o' fine fellows among 'em. And as for knowledge,
and contrivances, and manufactures, there's a many things as we're
a fine sight behind 'em in. It's poor foolishness to run down
your enemies. Why, Nelson and the rest of 'em 'ud have no merit
i' beating 'em, if they were such offal as folks pretend."
Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this
opposition of authorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony was not to be
disputed; but, on the other hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and
his view was less startling. Martin had never "heard tell" of the
French being good for much. Mr. Craig had found no answer but
such as was implied in taking a long draught of ale and then
looking down fixedly at the proportions of his own leg, which he
turned a little outward for that purpose, when Bartle Massey
returned from the fireplace, where he had been smoking his first
pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his
forefinger into the canister, "Why, Adam, how happened you not to
be at church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The anthem
went limping without you. Are you going to disgrace your
schoolmaster in his old age?"
"No, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you
where I was. I was in no bad company."
"She's gone, Adam--gone to Snowfield," said Mr. Poyser, reminded
of Dinah for the first time this evening. "I thought you'd ha'
persuaded her better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go
yesterday forenoon. The missis has hardly got over it. I thought
she'd ha' no sperrit for th' harvest supper."
Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come
in, but she had had "no heart" to mention the bad news.
"What!" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. "Was there a woman
concerned? Then I give you up, Adam."
"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle," said Mr. Poyser.
"Come now, you canna draw back; you said once as women wouldna ha'
been a bad invention if they'd all been like Dinah."
"I meant her voice, man--I meant her voice, that was all," said
Bartle. "I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool
in my ears. As for other things, I daresay she's like the rest o'
the women--thinks two and two 'll come to make five, if she cries
and bothers enough about it."
"Aye, aye!" said Mrs. Poyser; "one 'ud think, an' hear some folks
talk, as the men war 'cute enough to count the corns in a bag o'
wheat wi' only smelling at it. They can see through a barn-door,
they can. Perhaps that's the reason THEY can see so little o'
this side on't."
Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as
much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now.
"Ah!" said Bartle sneeringly, "the women are quick enough--they're
quick enough. They know the rights of a story before they hear
it, and can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em
himself."
"Like enough," said Mrs. Poyser, "for the men are mostly so slow,
their thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can only catch 'em by the
tail. I can count a stocking-top while a man's getting's tongue
ready an' when he outs wi' his speech at last, there's little
broth to be made on't. It's your dead chicks take the longest
hatchin'. Howiver, I'm not denyin' the women are foolish: God
Almighty made 'em to match the men."
"Match!" said Bartle. "Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a
man says a word, his wife 'll match it with a contradiction; if
he's a mind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon;
if he laughs, she'll match him with whimpering. She's such a
match as the horse-fly is to th' horse: she's got the right venom
to sting him with--the right venom to sting him with."
"Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "I know what the men like--a poor soft,
as 'ud simper at 'em like the picture o' the sun, whether they did
right or wrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she
didna know which end she stood uppermost, till her husband told
her. That's what a man wants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make
sure o' one fool as 'ull tell him he's wise. But there's some men
can do wi'out that--they think so much o' themselves a'ready. An'
that's how it is there's old bachelors."
"Come, Craig," said Mr. Poyser jocosely, "you mun get married
pretty quick, else you'll be set down for an old bachelor; an' you
see what the women 'ull think on you."
"Well," said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and
setting a high value on his own compliments, "I like a cleverish
woman--a woman o' sperrit--a managing woman."
"You're out there, Craig," said Bartle, dryly; "you're out there.
You judge o' your garden-stuff on a better plan than that. You
pick the things for what they can excel in--for what they can
excel in. You don't value your peas for their roots, or your
carrots for their flowers. Now, that's the way you should choose
women. Their cleverness 'll never come to much--never come to
much--but they make excellent simpletons, ripe and strongflavoured."
"What dost say to that?" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back
and looking merrily at his wife.
"Say!" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her
eye. "Why, I say as some folks' tongues are like the clocks as
run on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because
there's summat wrong i' their own inside..."
Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a further
climax, if every one's attention had not at this moment been
called to the other end of the table, where the lyricism, which
had at first only manifested itself by David's sotto voce
performance of "My love's a rose without a thorn," had gradually
assumed a rather deafening and complex character. Tim, thinking
slightly of David's vocalization, was impelled to supersede that
feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of "Three Merry Mowers,"
but David was not to be put down so easily, and showed himself
capable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful
whether the rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old
Kester, with an entirely unmoved and immovable aspect, suddenly
set up a quavering treble--as if he had been an alarum, and the
time was come for him to go off.
The company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocal
entertainment very much as a matter of course, being free from
musical prejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put
his fingers in his ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever
since he had heard Dinah was not in the house, rose and said he
must bid good-night.
"I'll go with you, lad," said Bartle; "I'll go with you before my
ears are split."
"I'll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr.
Massey," said Adam.
"Aye, aye!" said Bartle; "then we can have a bit o' talk together.
I never get hold of you now."
"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out," said Martin Poyser.
"They'll all go soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay past
ten."
But Adam was resolute, so the good-nights were said, and the two
friends turned out on their starlight walk together.
"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home," said
Bartle. "I can never bring her here with me for fear she should
be struck with Mrs. Poyser's eye, and the poor bitch might go
limping for ever after."
"I've never any need to drive Gyp back," said Adam, laughing. "He
always turns back of his own head when he finds out I'm coming
here."
"Aye, aye," said Bartle. "A terrible woman!--made of needles,
made of needles. But I stick to Martin--I shall always stick to
Martin. And he likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion
made on purpose for 'em."
"But she's a downright good-natur'd woman, for all that," said
Adam, "and as true as the daylight. She's a bit cross wi' the
dogs when they offer to come in th' house, but if they depended on
her, she'd take care and have 'em well fed. If her tongue's keen,
her heart's tender: I've seen that in times o' trouble. She's one
o' those women as are better than their word."
"Well, well," said Bartle, "I don't say th' apple isn't sound at
the core; but it sets my teeth on edge--it sets my teeth on edge."
Chapter LIV
The Meeting on the Hill
ADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather
than discouragement from it. She was fearful lest the strength of
her feeling towards him should hinder her from waiting and
listening faithfully for the ultimate guiding voice from within.
"I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though," he thought. "And
yet even that might disturb her a bit, perhaps. She wants to be
quite quiet in her old way for a while. And I've no right to be
impatient and interrupting her with my wishes. She's told me what
her mind is, and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean
another. I'll wait patiently."
That was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the
first two or three weeks on the nourishment it got from the
remembrance of Dinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is
a wonderful amount of sustenance in the first few words of love.
But towards the middle of October the resolution began to dwindle
perceptibly, and showed dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The
weeks were unusually long: Dinah must surely have had more than
enough time to make up her mind. Let a woman say what she will
after she has once told a man that she loves him, he is a little
too flushed and exalted with that first draught she offers him to
care much about the taste of the second. He treads the earth with
a very elastic step as he walks away from her, and makes light of
all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory gets
sadly diluted with time, and is not strong enough to revive us.
Adam was no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear
that perhaps Dinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon
her for any new feeling to triumph. If she had not felt this, she
would surely have written to him to give him some comfort; but it
appeared that she held it right to discourage him. As Adam's
confidence waned, his patience waned with it, and he thought he
must write himself. He must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful
doubt longer than was needful. He sat up late one night to write
her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its
effect. It would be worse to have a discouraging answer by letter
than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her
will.
You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of
Dinah, and when that sort of hunger reaches a certain stage, a
lover is likely to still it though he may have to put his future
in pawn.
But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not
be displeased with him for it. She had not forbidden him to go.
She must surely expect that he would go before long. By the
second Sunday in October this view of the case had become so clear
to Adam that he was already on his way to Snowfield, on horseback
this time, for his hours were precious now, and he had borrowed
Jonathan Burge's good nag for the journey.
What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often
been to Oakbourne and back since that first journey to Snowfield,
but beyond Oakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the
meagre trees, seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that
painful past which he knew so well by heart. But no story is the
same to us after a lapse of time--or rather, we who read it are no
longer the same interpreters--and Adam this morning brought with
him new thoughts through that grey country, thoughts which gave an
altered significance to its story of the past.
That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which
rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that has blighted or
crushed another, because it has been made a source of unforeseen
good to ourselves. Adam could never cease to mourn over that
mystery of human sorrow which had been brought so close to him; he
could never thank God for another's misery. And if I were capable
of that narrow-sighted joy in Adam's behalf, I should still know
he was not the man to feel it for himself. He would have shaken
his head at such a sentiment and said, "Evil's evil, and sorrow's
sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrapping it up in other
words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I should
think all square when things turn out well for me."
But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad
experience has brought us is worth our own personal share of pain.
Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it
would be possible for a man with cataract to regret the painful
process by which his dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had
been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of
higher feeling within us is like the growth of faculty, bringing
with it a sense of added strength. We can no more wish to return
to a narrower sympathy than a painter or a musician can wish to
return to his cruder manner, or a philosopher to his less complete
formula.
Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind
this Sunday morning, as he rode along in vivid recollection of the
past. His feeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life
with her, had been the distant unseen point towards which that
hard journey from Snowfield eighteen months ago had been leading
him. Tender and deep as his love for Hetty had been--so deep that
the roots of it would never be torn away--his love for Dinah was
better and more precious to him, for it was the outgrowth of that
fuller life which had come to him from his acquaintance with deep
sorrow. "It's like as if it was a new strength to me," he said to
himself, "to love her and know as she loves me. I shall look t'
her to help me to see things right. For she's better than I am--
there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as
gives you a sort o' liberty, as if you could walk more fearless,
when you've more trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've
always been thinking I knew better than them as belonged to me,
and that's a poor sort o' life, when you can't look to them
nearest to you t' help you with a bit better thought than what
you've got inside you a'ready."
It was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came in
sight of the grey town on the hill-side and looked searchingly
towards the green valley below, for the first glimpse of the old
thatched roof near the ugly red mill. The scene looked less harsh
in the soft October sunshine than it had in the eager time of
early spring, and the one grand charm it possessed in common with
all wide-stretching woodless regions--that it filled you with a
new consciousness of the overarching sky--had a milder, more
soothing influence than usual, on this almost cloudless day.
Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the
delicate weblike clouds had gradually melted away into the clear
blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring
him, with its looks alone, of all he longed to know.
He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got
down from his horse and tied it at the little gate, that he might
ask where she was gone to-day. He had set his mind on following
her and bringing her home. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet
about three miles off, over the hill, the old woman told him--had
set off directly after morning chapel, to preach in a cottage
there, as her habit was. Anybody at the town would tell him the
way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horse again and rode to
the town, putting up at the old inn and taking a hasty dinner
there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whose
friendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon
as possible and set out towards Sloman's End. With all his haste
it was nearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought
that as Dinah had gone so early, she would perhaps already be near
returning. The little, grey, desolate-looking hamlet, unscreened
by sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and
as he came near he could hear the sound of voices singing a hymn.
"Perhaps that's the last hymn before they come away," Adam
thought. "I'll walk back a bit and turn again to meet her,
farther off the village." He walked back till he got nearly to
the top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loose stone,
against the low wall, to watch till he should see the little black
figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose this
spot, almost at the top of the hill, because it was away from all
eyes--no house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep near--no
presence but the still lights and shadows and the great embracing
sky.
She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at
least watching for her and thinking of her, while the afternoon
shadows lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the
little black figure coming from between the grey houses and
gradually approaching the foot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought,
but Dinah was really walking at her usual pace, with a light quiet
step. Now she was beginning to wind along the path up the hill,
but Adam would not move yet; he would not meet her too soon; he
had set his heart on meeting her in this assured loneliness. And
now he began to fear lest he should startle her too much. "Yet,"
he thought, "she's not one to be overstartled; she's always so
calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for anything."
What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she
had found complete repose without him, and had ceased to feel any
need of his love. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope
pauses with fluttering wings.
But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone
wall. It happened that just as he walked forward, Dinah had
paused and turned round to look back at the village--who does not
pause and look back in mounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with
the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be best for
her to hear his voice before she saw him. He came within three
paces of her and then said, "Dinah!" She started without looking
round, as if she connected the sound with no place. "Dinah!" Adam
said again. He knew quite well what was in her mind. She was so
accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual monitions
that she looked for no material visible accompaniment of the
voice.
But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning
love it was that the mild grey eyes turned on the strong dark-eyed
man! She did not start again at the sight of him; she said
nothing, but moved towards him so that his arm could clasp her
round.
And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam
was content, and said nothing. It was Dinah who spoke first.
"Adam," she said, "it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to
yours that it is but a divided life I live without you. And this
moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled
with the same love. I have a fulness of strength to bear and do
our heavenly Father's Will that I had lost before."
Adam paused and looked into her sincere eyes.
"Then we'll never part any more, Dinah, till death parts us."
And they kissed each other with a deep joy.
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that
they are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour,
to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in
all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories
at the moment of the last parting?
Chapter LV
Marriage Bells
IN little more than a month after that meeting on the hill--on a
rimy morning in departing November--Adam and Dinah were married.
It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's
men had a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and most of those who had
a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think
there was hardly an inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in
this history and still resident in the parish on this November
morning who was not either in church to see Adam and Dinah
married, or near the church door to greet them as they came forth.
Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates
in their carriage (for they had a carriage now) to shake hands
with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the
absence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills,
and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on them to represent "the
family" at the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was
quite lined with familiar faces, many of them faces that had first
looked at Dinah when she preached on the Green. And no wonder
they showed this eager interest on her marriage morning, for
nothing like Dinah and the history which had brought her and Adam
Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the memory of man.
Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though
she did not exactly know why; for, as her cousin Wiry Ben, who
stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away,
and if Bessy was in low spirits, the best thing for her to do was
to follow Dinah's example and marry an honest fellow who was ready
to have her. Next to Bessy, just within the church door, there
were the Poyser children, peeping round the corner of the pews to
get a sight of the mysterious ceremony; Totty's face wearing an
unusual air of anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come
back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no married
people were young.
I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly
ended and Adam led Dinah out of church. She was not in black this
morning, for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk
of incurring bad luck, and had herself made a present of the
wedding dress, made all of grey, though in the usual Quaker form,
for on this point Dinah could not give way. So the lily face
looked out with sweet gravity from under a grey Quaker bonnet,
neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips trembling a little
under the weight of solemn feelings. Adam, as he pressed her arm
to his side, walked with his old erectness and his head thrown
rather backward as if to face all the world better. But it was
not because he was particularly proud this morning, as is the wont
of bridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little
reference to men's opinion of it. There was a tinge of sadness in
his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.
There were three other couples, following the bride and
bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery as a bright
fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid;
then came Seth serenely happy, with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and
last of all Bartle Massey, with Lisbeth--Lisbeth in a new gown and
bonnet, too busy with her pride in her son and her delight in
possessing the one daughter she had desired to devise a single
pretext for complaint.
Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's
earnest request, under protest against marriage in general and the
marriage of a sensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr.
Poyser had a joke against him after the wedding dinner, to the
effect that in the vestry he had given the bride one more kiss
than was necessary.
Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this
good morning's work of joining Adam and Dinah. For he had seen
Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest
from that painful seed-time could there be than this? The love
that had brought hope and comfort in the hour of despair, the love
that had found its way to the dark prison cell and to poor Hetty's
darker soul--this strong gentle love was to be Adam's companion
and helper till death.
There was much shaking of hands mingled with "God bless you's" and
other good wishes to the four couples, at the churchyard gate, Mr.
Poyser answering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue,
for he had all the appropriate wedding-day jokes at his command.
And the women, he observed, could never do anything but put finger
in eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to
speak as the neighbours shook hands with her, and Lisbeth began to
cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was
getting young again.
Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join
in the ringing of the bells this morning, and, looking on with
some contempt at these informal greetings which required no
official co-operation from the clerk, began to hum in his musical
bass, "Oh what a joyful thing it is," by way of preluding a little
to the effect he intended to produce in the wedding psalm next
Sunday.
"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur," said Mr. Irwine to
his mother, as they drove off. "I shall write to him the first
thing when we get home."
Epilogue
IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut
up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's timber-yard, which used to
be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on
the pleasant house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch,
very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the keys on that
June evening nine years ago.
There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and
shading her eyes with her hands as she looks for something in the
distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and
her pale auburn hair are very dazzling. But now she turns away
from the sunlight and looks towards the door.
We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at
all altered--only a little fuller, to correspond to her more
matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in the
plain black dress.
"I see him, Seth," Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let
us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come with Mother."
The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature
with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little more than four years
old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's.
"Come, Uncle Seth," said Dinah.
"Aye, aye, we're coming," Seth answered from within, and presently
appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by
the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused
some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle's shoulder.
"Better take him on thy arm, Seth," said Dinah, looking fondly at
the stout black-eyed fellow. "He's troublesome to thee so."
"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so
for a bit." A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming
his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to
walk by Dinah's side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's
children, was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness.
"Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the
adjoining field. "I can't catch sight of him anywhere."
"Between the hedges by the roadside," said Dinah. "I saw his hat
and his shoulder. There he is again."
"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be
seen," said Seth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother used to be.
She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner
than other folks, for all her eyes got dim."
"He's been longer than he expected," said Dinah, taking Arthur's
watch from a small side pocket and looking at it; "it's nigh upon
seven now."
"Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, "and
the meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish. Why, it's getting
on towards eight years since they parted."
"Yes," said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the
thought of the change he should see in the poor young man, from
the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have
changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was
coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow."
"See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and
pointing, "there's Father coming--at the far stile."
Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost
speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam patted her head and
lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of
agitation on his face as she approached him, and he put her arm
within his in silence.
"Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when
Addy stretched out his arms--ready, with the usual baseness of
infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some
rarer patronage at hand.
"It's cut me a good deal, Dinah," Adam said at last, when they
were walking on.
"Didst find him greatly altered?" said Dinah.
"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him
anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he looks sadly. However,
the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own country air.
He's all sound in th' inside; it's only the fever shattered him
so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did
when he was a lad. It's wonderful how he's always had just the
same sort o' look when he smiles."
"I've never seen him smile, poor young man," said Dinah.
"But thee wilt see him smile, to-morrow," said Adam. "He asked
after thee the first thing when he began to come round, and we
could talk to one another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said,
'I remember her face so well.' I told him 'no,'" Adam continued,
looking fondly at the eyes that were turned towards his, "only a
bit plumper, as thee'dst a right to be after seven year. 'I may
come and see her to-morrow, mayn't I?' he said; 'I long to tell
her how I've thought of her all these years.'"
"Didst tell him I'd always used the watch?" said Dinah.
"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a
woman a bit like thee. 'I shall turn Methodist some day,' he
said, 'when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I
said, 'Nay, sir, you can't do that, for Conference has forbid the
women preaching, and she's given it up, all but talking to the
people a bit in their houses.'"
"Ah," said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point,
"and a sore pity it was o' Conference; and if Dinah had seen as I
did, we'd ha' left the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no
bonds on Christian liberty."
"Nay, lad, nay," said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong.
There's no rules so wise but what it's a pity for somebody or
other. Most o' the women do more harm nor good with their
preaching--they've not got Dinah's gift nor her sperrit--and she's
seen that, and she thought it right to set th' example o'
submitting, for she's not held from other sorts o' teaching. And
I agree with her, and approve o' what she did."
Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely
alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at once, said, "Didst
remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle
and aunt entrusted to thee?"
"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day
after to-morrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we were talking about
it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee
to-morrow. He said--and he's in the right of it--as it'll be bad
for him t' have his feelings stirred with seeing many people one
after another. 'We must get you strong and hearty,' he said,
'that's the first thing to be done Arthur, and then you shall have
your own way. But I shall keep you under your old tutor's thumb
till then.' Mr. Irwine's fine and joyful at having him home
again."
Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very
cutting when we first saw one another. He'd never heard about
poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters
missed him on his journey. The first thing he said to me, when
we'd got hold o' one another's hands was, 'I could never do
anything for her, Adam--she lived long enough for all the
suffering--and I'd thought so of the time when I might do
something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me
once, "There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up for."'"
"Why, there's Mr. and Mrs. Poyser coming in at the yard gate,"
said Seth.
"So there is," said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser.
Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a hard day for thee."
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
Other Works by George Eliot
Scenes of Clerical Life 1857 Stories
Adam Bede 1859 Novel
The Mill on the Floss 1860 Novel
Silas Marner 1861 Novel
Romola 1863 Novel
Felix Holt the Radical 1866 Novel
How Lisa Loved the King 1867 Poems
The Spanish Gypsy 1868 Poem
Middlemarch 1872 Novel
The Legend of Jubal 1874 Poem
Daniel Deronda 1876 Novel
Impressions of Theophrastus Such 1879 Essays
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