I m 1 1 tmmd ■tf.,/jl. LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAICN 823 \> >! ^V '^■"^v %-i^ C ih'-^ m iu The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN IjI k. ^> BUILDING U E.PNW. OCT 2 6 i:)g2 L161— O-1096 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/adambede01eli ADAM BEDE BY GEORGE ELIOT AirrHOR OF "SCEXE.S OF CLEraCAL LIFE" '■ So that ye may have Clear images before your gladdend eves Of nature's unambitious undenvood And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when I speak of such among the flock as swerved Or fell, those only shall be singled out Upon whose lapse, or error, something more Tlian brotherly forgiveness may attend," WORDSWOBTH- IN THREE VOLUMES VOL I. WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SOXS EDINBURGH AND LONDON M D C C C L I X The Right of Ti-anslation is restrved. V.I CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME . BOOK FIRST. CHAP. PAGE I. THE WORKSHOP ^ n. THE PREACHIXG 17 ni. AFTER THE PREACHESTG 54 rV. HOME AND ITS SORROWS 66 V. THE RECTOR 94 VT. THE HALL FARM 127 VII. THE DAIRY 150 Vin. A VOCATION 160 IX. HETTY'S WORLD 176 X. DINAH VISITS LISBETH 189 XI. IN THE COTTAGE 212 Xn. IN THE WOOD 228 XIII. EVENING IN THE WOOD 249 XIV. THE RETURN HOME 259 XV. THE TWO BED-CHAMBERS 276 XYl. LINKS 301 BOOK FIRST ADAM BEDE. CHAPTER I. THE WOEKSHOP. With a single drop of iiik for a mirror, tlie Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer far-reacliing visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this droj) of ink at the end of my pen I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder in the village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteentli of June, in the year of our Lord 1799. The afternoon sun was warm on the five work- men there, busy upon doors and mndow-frames and wainscoting. A scent of pine -wood from a tent-like pile of planks outside the open door VOL. I. A 2 ADAM BEDK mingled itself with the scent of the elder-bushes which were spreading their summer snow close to the open window opposite ; the slanting sunbeams shone through the transparent shavings that flew before the steady plane, and lit up the fine grain of the oak panelling which stood propped against the wall. On a heap of those soft shavings a rough grey shepherd-dog had made himself a pleasant bed, and was lying with his nose between his fore-paws, occasionally wrinkling his brows to cast a glance at the tallest of the five workmen, who was carving a shield in the centre of a wooden mantelpiece. It was to this workman that the strong barytone belonged which was heard above the sound of plane and hammer sincrino- — "Awake, my soul, and -^vith the sun Thy daily stage of duty run ; Shake off dull sloth . . . ." Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice subsided into a low whistle ; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour — " Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear." Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, ADAM BEDE. d and the broad chest belono^ed to a laro^e-boned muscular man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so weU poised that when he drew himself up to take a more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve rolled up above the elbow showed an arm that was likely to win the prize for feats of strength ; yet the long supple hand, with its broad finger-tips, looked ready for works of skill. In his taU stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and justified his name ; but the jet-black hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap, and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent, and mobile eyebrows^ indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. Tlie face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other beauty than such as belongs to an expression of good-humoured honest intelli- gence. It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall ; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion ; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remark- able difference of expression both in form and face. ft ADAM BEDE. Setli's broad shoulders liave a slight stoop ; his eyes are grey ; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother's ; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benignant. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow. The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a co2)per from Seth ; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam. The concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, j^laced it against the wall and said — " There ! IVe finished my door to-day, any- how." The workmen all looked up ; Jim Salt, a burly red-haired man, known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise — "What ! dost think thee'st finished the door?" "Ay, sure," said Seth, with answering surprise, " what's awanting to 'tV ADAM BEDE. 5 " A loud roar of laughter from the other three work- men made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before — " Why, thee 'st forgot the panels/' The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown. " Hoorray ! '" shouted a small" lithe fellow, called "Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door. " We'll hang up th' door at fur end o' th' shop an' write on't, ' Seth Bede, the Methody, his work/ Here, Jim, lend's hould o' th' red-pot/' " Nonsense ! '' said Adam. " Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day ; you'll laugh o' th' other side o* your mouth then." " Catch me at it, Adam. It 11 be a good while afore my head's full o' th' Methodies," said Ben. "Nay, but it's often full o' drink, and that's worse." Ben, however, had now got the " red-pot " in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscrip- tion, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air. 6 ADAM BEDE. '' Let it alone, will you ? " Adam called out, lading down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder. " Let it alone, or 111 shake the soul out o' your body/' Ben shook in Adam's iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn't mean to give in. With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left. In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and pushing him along, pinned him against the wall. But now Seth spoke. " Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right to laugh at me — I canna help laughing at myself." " I shan't loose him, till he promises to let the door alone," said Adam. "Come, Ben, lad," said Seth in a persuasive tone, "don't let's have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will have his way. You may 's weU try to turn a- waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'U leave the door alone, and make an end on't." " I binna frighted at Adam," said Ben, " but I donna mind sayin' as I'll let 't alone at yare askin', Seth." ADAM BEDE. 7 "Come, that's wise of you, Ben/' said Adam, laugliiug and relaxing his grasp. They all retui^ned to their work now ; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on retrieving that humiliation by a success in sarcasm. " "Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth," he began — " the pretty parson's face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the panel ? '' " Come and hear her, Ben," said Seth, good- humouredly ; " she's going to preach on the Green to-night ; happen ye'd get something to think on yourself then, instead o' those wicked songs ye're so fond on. Ye might get religion, and that 'ud be the best day's earnings y' ever made.'' "All i' good time for that, Seth ; 111 think about that when I'm agoin' to settle i' life ; bachelors doesn't want such heavy earnins. Happen I shall do the coortin' an' the religion both together, as ye do, Seth ; but ye wouldna ha' me get converted an' chop in atween ye an' the pretty preacher, an' carry her aff?" " No fear o' that, Ben ; she's neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you won't speak lightly on her again." 8 ADAM BEDE. " ^Yell, I n half a mind t' lia' a look at lier to- Bight, if there isn't good company at th' Holly- Bush. AMiat'll she tek for her text ? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i' time for't. Will't be, 'What come ye out for to see ? A prophetess ? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetess' — a uncommon pretty young woman." "Come, Ben," said Adam, rather sternly, "j^ou let the words o' the Bible alone ; you re going too far now." " What ! are ye a-tm^nin' roun', Adam ? I thought ye war dead again th' women preachin', a while agoo ? " "Nay, I'm not turnin' noway. I said nought about the women preachin' : I said, You let the Bible alone : you've got a jest-book, han't you, as you're rare and proud on ? Keep your dirty fingers to that." "AYhy, y'are gettin' as big a saint as Seth. Y're goin' to th' preachin' to-night, I should think. Ye '11 do finely t' lead the singin'. But I dun know what Parson Irwdne 'ull say at 's gran' favright Adam Bede a-turnin' Methody." " Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. ADAM BEDE. 9 I*m not a-goiug to turn Methodist any more nor you are — though it's like enough you'll turn to some- thing worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle wi' people's doing as they like in rehgion. That's between themselves and God, as he's said to me many a time." " Ay, ay ; but he's none so fond o' your dis- senters, for all that." " Maybe ; I'm none so fond o' Josh Tod's thick ale, but I don't hinder you from making a fool o' yourself wi't." There was a laugh at this thrust of Adam's, but Seth said, very seriously, " Nay, nay, Addy, thee mustna say as anybody's religion's like thick ale. Thee dostna believe but what the dissenters and the Methodists have got the root o' the matter as well as the church folks." " Nay, Seth, lad ; I'm not for laughing at no man's religion. Let 'em follow their consciences, that's all. Only I think it 'ud be better if their consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the church — there's a deal to be learnt there. And there's such a thing as being over-speritial ; we must have some- thing beside Gospel i' this w^orld. Look at the canals, an' th' aqueducs, an' th' coal-pit engines. 10 ADAM BEDE. and Arkwi'ight's mills there at Cromford ; a man must learn sum mat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as a man must be doing nothing all 's life but shutting 's eyes and looking what's a-going on inside him. I know a man must have the love o' God in his soul, and the Bible 's God's word. But what does the Bible say ? ^^^l"y, it says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o' look- ing at it : there's the sperrit o' God in all things and all times — weekday as well as Sunday — and i' the great works and inventions, and i' the figuring and the mechanics. And God helps us with our headpieces and our hands as well as with our souls ; and if a man does bits o' jobs out o' working hours — builds a oven for 's wife to save her from going to the bakehouse, or scrats at his bit o' garden and makes two potatoes grow istead o' one, he's doing more good, and he's just as near to God, as if he was running after some preacher and a-praying and a-groaning." " Well done, Adam ! " said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift liis planks while ADAM BEDE. II Adam was speaking ; " that's the best sarmunt I've beared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's a-bin a-plaguin' on me to build her a oven this twelvemont/' " Tliere's reason in what thee say'st, Adam/' observ^ed Seth, gravely. " But thee know'st thy- self as it's hearing the preachers thee find'st so much fault with as has turned many an idle fel- low into an industrious un. It's the preacher as empties th' alehouse ; and if a man gets religion, he'U do his work none the worse for that/' " On'y he'll lave the panels out o' th' doors sometimes, eh, Seth ? " said "VYiry Ben. " Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again me as 11 last you your Life. But it isna religion as was i' fault there ; it was Seth Bede, as was allays a wool- gathering chap, and religion hasna cm-ed him, the more's the pity." " Ne'er heed me, Seth," said Wiry Ben, " y' are a downright good-hearted chap, panels or no pan- els ; an' ye donna set up your bristles at every bit o' fun, like some o' your kin, as is mayhap chverer." " Seth, lad," said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, " thee mustna take me 12 ADAM BEDE. unkind. I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now. Some 's got one way o' looking at things and some 's got another/' " Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkind- ness," said Seth, " I know that well enough. Thee't like thy dog Gyi^ — thee bark'st at me some- times, but thee allays lick'st my hand after." All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket ; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screw-driver into his tool-basket ; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it ; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap. Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened. But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, " Look there, now ! I can't abide to see men throw away their tools i' that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i' their work, and was afraid o' doing a stroke too much/' ADAM BEDE. 13 Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, "Ay, ay, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. "When y are six an' forty like me, istid o' six an' twenty, ye wonna be so flush o' workin' for nought." " Nonsense,'' said Adam, still wrathful ; " what's age got to do with it, I wonder ? Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon. I hate to see a man's arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock's fairly struck, just as if he'd never a bit o' pride and delight in 's work. The very grindstone 'uU go on turning a bit after you loose it." " Bodderation, Adam ! " exclaimed Why Ben. " Lave a chap aloon, will 'ee. Ye war a-finding faut wi' preachers a while agoo — y' are fond enough o' preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work ; that'll 'com- modate ye — it laves ye th' moor to do." With this exit speech, which he considered eff'ec- tive. Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something. 14 ADAM BEDK " Shalt go home before thee go'st to the preach- ing ? " Adam asked, looking up. " Nay ; I've got my hat and things at Will Maskery's. I shan't be home before going for ten. I'll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she's willing. There's nobody comes with her from Poyser's, thee know'st." "Then I'll tell mother not to look for thee/' said Adam. " Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself to-night ? " said Seth, rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop. " Nay, I'm going to th' school." Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely, as he noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked uj) in his master's face with patient expectation. If Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him. " What, art ready for the basket, eh. Gyp ? " said ADAM BEDE. 15 Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he spoke to Seth. Gyp jumped and gave a short bark, as much as to say, " Of course." Poor fellow, he had not a great range of expression. The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner ; and no ofRcial, walkincr in procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trot- ting at his master's heels. On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in the evening lio;ht. The leaded windows were brioht and speckless, and the door-stone was as clean as a white boulder at ebb tide. On the door-stone stood a clean old woman, in a dark-striped linen gown, a red kerchief, and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an illusory expecta- tion of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's siofht seemed to be dim, for she did not recofmise Adam till he said, 16 ADAM BEDE. " Here's the key, Dolly ; lay it down for me in the house, will you ? " " Ay, sure ; but wunna ye come in, Adam ? Miss Mary's i' the house, an' Mester Burge 11 be back anon ; he'd be glad t' ha' ye to supper wi'm, I'll he's warrand." " No, Dolly, thank you ; I'm off home. Good evening." Adam hastened with long strides. Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the high- road leading away from the village and do^vn to the valley. As he reached the foot of the slope, an elderly horseman, -with his portmanteau strapped behind him, stopped his horse when Adam had passed him, and turned round to have another long look at the stalwart workman in paper cap, leather breeches, and dark-blue worsted stockings. Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was ex- citing, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out into the tune which had all day long been running in his head : " Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear ; For God's all-seeing eye sun'eys Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways." CHAPTER 11. THE PEEACHING. About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Aims to the churchyard gate, the inhabitants had evidently been di'awn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of louncrincf in the evenino- sunshine. The Donni- thorne Arms stood at the entrance of the village, and a small farmyard and stackyard which flanked it, indicating that there was a pretty take of land attached to the inn, gave the traveller a promise of good feed for himself and his horse, which might well console him for the ignorance in which the weatherbeaten sign left him as to the heraldic bear- ings of that ancient family, the Donnithomes. Mr Casson, the landlord, had been for some time stand- ing at the door with his hands in his pockets, VOL. I. B 18 ADAM BEDE. balancing himself on his heels and toes, and looking towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in the middle of it, which he knew to be the des- tination of certain grave-looking men and women whom he had observed passing at intervals. Mr Casson's person was by no means of that common type which can be allowed to pass without description. On a front view it appeared to consist principally of two spheres, bearing about the same relation to each other as the earth and the moon : that is to say, the lower sphere might be said, at a rough guess, to be thirteen times larger than the upper, which naturally performed the function of a mere satellite and tributary. But here the resemblance ceased, for Mr Casson's head was not at all a melan- choly-looking satellite, nor was it a "spotty globe," as Milton has irreverently called the moon ; on the con- trary, no head and face could look more sleek and healthy, and its expression, which was chiefly con- fined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the slight knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mention, was one of jolly contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be ADAM BEDE. 19 considered excessive in a man who had been butler to " the family " for fifteen years, and who, in his present high position, was necessarily very much in contact with his inferiors. How to reconcile his dignity with the satisfaction of his curiosity by walking towards the Green, was the problem that Mr Casson had been revolving in his mind for the last five minutes ; but when he had partly solved it by taking his hands out of his pockets, and thrusting them into the armholes of his waistcoat, by throw- ing his head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne Arms. " Take oflT the bridle and give him a drink, ostler," said the traveller to the lad in a smock-frock, who had come out of the yard at the sound of the horse's hoofs. " Why, what's up in your pretty village, land- lord ? " he continued, getting down. " There seems to be quite a stir.'' " It's a Methodis preaching, sir ; it's been gev hout as a young woman's a-going to preach on the 20 ADAM BEDE. Green," answered Mr Casson, in a treble and wheezy- voice, with a slightly mincing accent. "Will you please to step in, sir, an' tek somethink ? " " No, I must be getting on to Drosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I wonder, to a young woman preaching just under his nose ? " " Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here ; he lives at Brox'on, over the hill there. The parsonage here's a tumble-down place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday after- noon, sir, an' puts up his boss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store by 't. He's allays put up his boss here, sir, iver since before I bed the Donnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They're cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir ; the gentry's hard work to hun- derstand 'em. I was brought hup among the gen- try, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for ' hevn't you? ' — the gentry, you know, says 'hevn't you ' — weU, the people about here says, ' hanna yey/ It's what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heard Squu-e Donnithorne say many a time ; it's the dileck, says he." ADAM BEDE. 21 " Ay, ay," said the stranger, smiling. " I know it very well. But youVe not got many Methodists about here, surely — in this agricultural spot. I should have thought there would hardly be such a thino: as a Methodist to be found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you. The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on them." " Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's Mester Burge as owns the timber- yard over there, he underteks a good bit o' building an' repairs. An' there's the stone-pits not far off. There's plenty of emply in this country-side, sir. An' there's a fine batch o' Methodisses at Treddles'on — that's the market town about three mile off— youll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score of 'em on the Green now, as come from there. That's where our people gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in all Hayslope : that's Will Maskery, the wheehvright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the carpenterin'." " The preacher comes from Treddleston, then, does she ? " " Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she's a-visitin' here- about at Mesfer Poyser's at the Hall Farm — it's 22 ADAM BEDE. them barns an' big walnut trees, right away to the left, sir. She's own niece to Poyser's wife, an' they'll be fine an' vexed at her for making a fool of herself i' that way. But I've beared as there's no holding these Methodisses when the maggit's once got i' their head : many of 'em goes stark starin mad wi' their religion. Though this young woman's quiet enough to look at, by what I can make out ; I've not seen her myself." " WeU, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've been out of my way for the last twenty minutes, to have a look at that place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose ? " Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't there, sir ? I should know what it is, sir, for I've lived butler there a-going i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir, sir — Squire Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this 'ay-'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doins. He owns all the land about here, sir, Squire Donni- thorne does." " ^Yell, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it," said the traveller, mounting his horse ; " and one meets some fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, ADAM BEDE. 23 about half an hour ago, before I came up the hill — a carpenter, a tall broad-shouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes, marching along like a soldier. We want such fellows as he to lick the French." " Ay, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be bound — Thias Bede's son — everybody knows him here- about. He's an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sir — if you'll hexcuse me for saying so — he can walk forty mile a-day, an' lift a matter o' sixty ston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry, sir ; Captain Donnithorne an' Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a little lifted up an' peppery like." " Well, good evening to you, landlord ; I must get on." " Your servant, sir ; good evenin'." The traveller put his horse into a quick walk up the village, but when he approached the Green, the beauty of the view that lay on his right hand, the singular contrast presented by the groups of villagers with the knot of Methodists near the maple, and per- haps yet more, curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too much for his anxiety to get to the end of his journey, and he paused. 24 ADAM BEDE. The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the churchyard gate ; but on the opposite, north-western side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently-swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulating district of Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged, lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother ; and in two or three hours' ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with hedgerows and long meadow- grass and thick corn ; and where at every turn he came upon some fine old country-seat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from ADAM BEDE. 25 a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and dark-red tiles. It was just such a picture as this last that Hayslope church had made to the traveller as he began to mount the gentle slope leading to its pleasant uplands, and now from his station near the Green he had before him in one view nearly all the other typical features of this pleasant land. High up against the horizon were the huge conical masses of hill, like giant mounds intended to fortify this reirion of corn and o-rass ao:ainst the keen and hungry winds of the north ; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not detected by sight ; wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in them- selves — left for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April noon- day, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a more advanced line of hanmntc woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet deepened into the uniform leafy curtain of high summer, but still showing the warm tints of the young oak and the tender green of the 26 ADAM BEDE. ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had rolled down and hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the better care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them. Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling slope of meadow would not let our traveller see them from the \dllage green. He saw instead a foreground which was just as lovely — the level sun- light lying like transparent gold among the gently- curving stems of the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the white umbels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows. It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lino-erino; looks at the flower-sprinkled tresses of the meadows. He might have seen other beauties in the land- scape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward, beyond Jonathan Burge's pasture and woodyard towards the green cornfields and walnut trees of the HaU Farm ; but apparently there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand- Every generation in the village was ADAM BEDE. 27 there, from " old Feyther Taft " in his brown worst- ed night-cap, who was bent nearly double, but seemed tough enough to keep on his legs a long while, leaning on his short stick, down to the babies with their little round heads lolling forward in quilted linen caps. Now and then there was a new arrival ; perhaps a slouching labourer, who, having eaten his supper, came out to look at the unusual scene with a slow bovine gaze, willing to hear what any one had to say in explanation of it, but by no means excited enough to ask a question. But all took care not to join the Methodists on the Green, and identify themselves in that way with the expectant audience, for there was not one of them that would not have disclaimed the imputa- tion of having come out to hear the '' preacher- woman,'' — they had only come out to see " what war a-goin' on, like." The men were chiefly gathered in the neighbourhood of the blacksmith's shop. But do not imagine them gathered in a knot. Villagers never swarm : a whisper is unknown among them, and they seem almost as incapable of an undertone as a cow or a stag. Your true rustic turns his back on his interlocutor, throwing a question over his shoulder as if he meant to run away from the answer, 28 ADAM BEDE. and walking a step or two farther oif when the in- terest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was by no means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranaae, the blacksmith himself, who stood with his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the door-post, and occasionally sending forth a bellowing laugh at his own jokes, giving them a marked preference over the sarcasms of Wiry Ben, who had renounced the pleasures of the Holly Bush for the sake of seeing life under a new form. But both styles of wit were treated with equal contempt by Mr Joshua Eann. Mr Eann's leathern apron and subdued griminess can leave no one in any doubt that he is the village shoemaker; the thrusting out of his chin and stomach, and the twirling of his thumbs, are more subtle indications, intended to prepare unwary strangers for the discovery that they are in the presence of the parish clerk. " Old Joshway," as he is irreverently called by his neighbours, is in a state of simmering indignation ; but he has not yet opened his lips except to say in a resounding bass undertone, like the tuning of a violoncello, " Sehon, King of the Amorites : for His mercy en dure th for ever ; and Og the King of Basan : for His mercy ADAM BEDE. 29 endureth for ever/' — a quotation which may seem to have slight bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a natural sequence. !Mr Rami was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up "^ith his own sonorous utterance of the responses, his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon. The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could examine more closely the quaker-like costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Un- derneath the maple there was a small cart which had been brought from the wheelwrio-ht's to serve as a pulpit, and round this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed Some of the Methodists were resting on these, with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy Cranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad's Bess, who wondered 30 ADAM BEDE. " why the folks war a-mekin' faces a that'ns." Chad's Bess was the object of peculiar compassion, because her hair, being turned back under a cap which was set at the top of her head, exposed to view an ornament of which she was much prouder than of her red cheeks, namely, a pair of large round earrings -with false garnets in them, ornaments contemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess, Avho, with much cousinly feeling, often wished " them ear- rings" might come to good. Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to men- tion the heavy baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in knee-breeches and red legs, who had a rusty milk-can round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier. This young olive-branch, notorious under the name of Timothy's Bess's Ben, being of an inquiring disposition, unchecked by any false modesty, had advanced beyond the group of women and children, and was walking round the Methodists, looking up in their faces with his mouth wide open, and beating his stick against the ADA3I BEDE. 31 milk-can by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take bim by tbe shoulder, with an air of grave remon- strance, Timothy's Bess's Ben first kicked out vigor- ously, then took to his heels and sought refuge behind his father's legs. *' Ye gallows young dog,'' said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, '' if ye dunna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek it from ye. What d'ye mane by kickin' fouLks?" " Here ! gie 'm here to me, Jim,"' said Chad Cranage ; " I'll tie 'm up an' shoe 'm as I do th' bosses. "Well, Mester Casson," he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, " how are ye t' naight ? Are ye coom t' help groon? The' say folks aUays groon when they're hearkenin' to th' ]Methodys, as if the' war bad i' th' inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the praicher 'uU think I'm i' th' raight way." " I'd advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad," said Mr Casson, with some dignity ; ''Poyser wouldn't like to hear as liis wife's niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her taking on herself to preach." "Ay, an' she's a pleasant-looked un too," said 32 ADAM BEDE. Wiiy Ben. " I'll stick up for the pretty women preacliiii' ; I know they'd persuade me over a deal sooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I tui'n Methody afore the night's out, an' begin to coort the preacher, like Seth Bede/' "Why, Seth's lookin' rether too high, I should think," said Mr Casson. " This woman's kin wouldn't like her to demean herself to a common carpenter." " Tchu ! '' said Ben, with a long treble intona- tion, "what's folks's kin got to do wi't ? — Not a chip. Poyser's wife may turn her nose up an' forget by- gones, but this Dinah Morris, the' tell me, 's as poor as iver she was — works at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young carpenter as is a ready-made Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he war a newy o' their own.'' " Idle talk ! idle talk ! " said Mr Joshua Eann. " Adam an' Seth's two men ; you wunna fit them two wi' the same last." " Maybe," said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, " but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o'er. I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've been ADAM BEDE. 33 teazin' liim iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me no more malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stont-hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all a-fire, a-comin' across the fields one night, an' we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't as bold as a constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's ; an' there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he could- na knock a nail o' th' head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher-woman ! My eye, shea's got her bonnet off. I mun go a bit nearer." Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked rather quickly, and in advance of her com- panions, towards the cart under the maple tree. While she was near Seth's tall figure she looked short, but when she had mounted the cart, and was away from all comparison, she seemed above the middle height of woman, though in reality she did not exceed it — an efi'ect which was due to the slim- ness of her figure, and the simple line of her black stufi" dress. The stranger was struck with surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cart — surprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her appear- ance, as at the total absence of self-consciousness in VOL. I. c 34 ADAM BEDE. her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see her advance with a measured step, and a demure solemnity of countenance ; he had felt sure that her face would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitter- ness. He knew but two types of Methodist — the ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy : there was no blush, no tremulousness, which said, " I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach ; " no casting up or dowTi of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms, that said, " But you must think of me as a saint." She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes ; they seemed rather to be shedding love than making observa- tions ; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She stood with her left hand towards the descending sun ; and leafy boughs screened her from its rays ; but in this sober light the delicate colouring of her face seemed to ADAM BEDE. 35 gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform transparent whiteness, with an egg-like line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting, between smooth locks of pale reddish hair. The hair was drawn straioht back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by a net quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly hori- zontal and firmly pencilled ; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundant ; nothing was left blurred or unfinished. It was one of those faces that make one think of white flowers with light touches of colour on their pure petals. The eyes had no peculiar beauty, beyond that of expres- sion ; they looked so simple, so candid, so gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer, could help melting away before their glance. Joshua Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding mth himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skuU-cap and scratched his head ; and Wiry Ben wondered how Seth had the pluck to think of courting her. 36 ADAM BEDE. " A sweet woman," the strtanger said to liimself, " but surely nature never meant her for a preacher." Perhaps he was one of those who think that nature has theatrical properties, and, with the con- siderate view of facilitating art and psychology, " makes up'' her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But Dinah began to speak. " Dear friends," she said, in a clear but not loud voice, " let us pray for a blessing." She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little, continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking to some one quite near her : — " Saviour of sinners ! when a poor woman, laden with sins, went out to the well to draw water, she found Thee sitting at the welL She knew Thee not ; she had not sought Thee ; her mind was dark ; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her. Thou didst teach her. Thou didst show her that her life lay open before Thee, and yet Tliou wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus ! Thou art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men : if there is any here like that poor woman — if their minds are dark, their lives unholy — if they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught ; deal with them accord- ADAM BEDE. 37 ing to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her. Speak to them, Lord ; open their ears to my message ; bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to give. " Lord ! Thou art with Thy people still : they see Thee in the night-watches, and their hearts burn within them as Thou talkest with them by the way. And Thou art near to those who have not known Thee : open their eyes that they may see Thee — see Thee weeping over them, and saying, ' Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life ' — see Thee hanging on the cross and saying, ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do ' — see Thee as Thou wilt come again in Thy glory to judge them at the last. Amen." Dinah opened her eyes again and paused, looking at the group of villagers, who were now gathered rather more closely on her right hand. " Dear friends," she began, raising her voice a little, " you have all of you been to church, and I think you must have heard the clergyman read these words : ' The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor.' Jesus Christ spoke these words — he 38 ADAM BEDE. said he came to preach the Gospel to the poor : I don't know whether you ever thought about those words much ; but I will tell you when I remember first hearing them. It was on just such a sort of evening as this, when I was a little girl, and my aunt as brought me up, took me to hear a good man preach out of doors, just as we are here. I remem- ber his face well : he was a verj^ old man, and had very long white hair ; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a little girl, and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed to me such a different sort of a man from anybody I had ever seen before, that I thought he had perhaps come down from the sky to preach to us, and I said, ' Aunt, will he go back to the sky to-night, like the picture in the Bible ? ' " That man of God was Mr Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord did — preach- ing the Gospel to the poor — and he entered into his rest eight years ago. I came to know more about him years after, but I was a foolish thoughtless child then, and I remembered only one thing he told us in his sermon. He told us as * Gospel ' meant ' good news.' The Gospel, you know, is what the Bible tells us about God. ADAM BEDE. 39 " Think of that, now ! Jesus Christ did really come down from heaven, as I, like a silly child, thought Mr Wesley did ; and what he came down for, was to tell good news about God to the poor. Why, you and me, dear friends, are poor. We have been brought up in poor cottages, and have been reared on oat-cake and lived coarse ; and we haven't been to school much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody's well off, they don't much mind about hearing news from dis- tant parts ; but if a poor man or woman's in trouble and has hard work to make out a living, he likes to have a letter to tell him he's got a friend as will help him. To be sure we can't help knowing some- thing about God, even if AveVe never heard the Gospel, the good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes from God : don't you say almost every day, ' This and that will hap- pen, please God ; ' and ' We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us a little more sun- shine.' We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God : we didn't bring ourselves into the world, we can't keep oui'selves alive while we're 40 ADAM BEDE. sleeping ; the daylight, and the wind, and the com, and the cows to give us milk — everything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls, and l^ut love between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God ? We see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will ; we are lost, as if we was strug- gling in great waters, when we try to think of him. " But perhaps doubts come into yom^ mind like this : Can God take much notice of us poor people ? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing ; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions ? Will God take care of us when we die ? and has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless ? Perhaps, too, he is angiy with us ; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble ? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it ? how is it ? " Ah ! dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God ; and what does other good news ADAM BEDE. 41 signify if we haven't that? For everything else comes to an. end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when everything else is gone. What shall we do if he is not our friend ? " Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the niind of God towards the poor had been made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwell- ing on its lowliness and its acts of mercy. " So you see, dear friends," she went on, " Jesus spent his time almost all in doing good to poor peo- ple ; he preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor Y\Tre more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles, to feed the hungry, because, he said, he was sorry for them ; and he was very kind to the little children, and comforted those who had lost their friends ; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for their sins. " Ah ! wouldn't you love such a man if you saw him — if he was here in this villaoe ? "\Miat a kind heart he must have ! What a friend he would be 42 ADAM BEDE. to go to in trouble ! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him ! " Well dear friends, who was this man ? Was he only a good man — a very good man, and no more — like our dear Mr Wesley, who has been taken from us ? . . . . He was the Son of God — ' in the image of the Father/ the Bible says ; that means, just like God, who is the beginning and end of all things — the God we want to know about. So then, all the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like om^s, and spoke words such as we speak to each other. We were afraid to think what God was before — the God w^ho made the world and the sky and the thunder and lightnino;. We could never see him ; we could only see the things he had made ; and some of these things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of him. But our blessed Saviour has showed us what God is in a way us poor ignorant people can understand ; he has showed us what God's heart is, what are his feelings towards us. " But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, ' I came ADAM BEDE. 43 to seek and to save that which was lost ; ' and an- other time, ' I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance/ " The lost ! . . . . Sinners / . . . . Ah, dear friends, does that mean you and me ? " Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his "^ill by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the uncon- scious skill of musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed Kke novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister ; the quiet depth of conviction with which she spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her hearers. The villagers had pressed nearer to her, and there was no longer anything but grave attention on all faces. She spoke slowly, though quite fluently, often paus- ing after a question, or before any transition of ideas. There was no change of attitude, no gesture ; the effect of her speech was produced entirely by the inflections of her voice, and when she came to the question, " Will God take care -of us when we die ?" she uttered it in such a tone of plaintive appeal that 44 ADAM BEDE. the tears came iiito some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rouoher hearers, but still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, " Lost ! — Sinners ! " when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thouo-hts that showed themselves in her features. Her pale face became paler ; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they do when tears half gather without falling ; and the mild loving eyes took an expression of appalled pity, as if she had suddenly discerned a destroying angel hovering over the heads of the people. Her voice became deep and muffled, but there was still no gesture. Nothing could be less like the ordinary type of the Eanter than Dinah. She was not preaching as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions, and under the inspiration of her own simple faith. But now she had entered into a new current of ADAM BEDE. 45 feeling. Her maimer beccame less calm, her utter- ance more rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the peoi)le their guilt, their wilful dark- ness, their state of disobedience to God — as she dwelt on the hatefulness of sin, the Divine holiness, and the sufferings of the Saviour by which a way- had been opened for their salvation. At last it seemed as if, in her yearning desire to reclaim the lost sheep, she could not be satisfied by addressing her hearers as a body. She appealed first to one and then to another, beseeching them with tears to turn to God while there was yet time ; painting to them the desolation of their souls, lost in sin, feed- ing on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their Father ; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their return. There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow Methodists, but the village mind does not easily take fire, and a little smouldering- vague anxiety, that might easily die out again, was the utmost efiect Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and " old Feyther Taft," who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone 40 ADAM BEDE. back to his ingle-nook Wiry Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come to hear Dinah ; he thought what she said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded every moment that she would fix her eyes on him, and address him in particular. She had already addressed Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big soft-hearted man had rubbed away some tears with his fist, with a confused intention of being a better fellow, going less to the Holly Bush down by the Stone Pits, and cleaning himself more regularly of a Sunday. In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost in a puzzling specula- tion as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in Hfe to a young woman who wore a cap like Dinah's. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose, eyes, mouth, and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and round black eyes like her own. But gradually the ADAM BEDE. 47 influence of the general gravity told upon her, and she became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but when the more severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been considered a naughty girl ; she was conscious of it ; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad way. She couldn't find her places at church as Sally Eann could, she had often been tittering when she " curcheyed " to Mr Irwine, and these religious deficiencies were accom- panied by a corresponding slackness in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped, lazy class of feminine characters with whom you may venture to eat " an egg, an apple, or a nut/' All this she was generally conscious of, and hitherto had not been greatly ashamed of it. But now she began to feel very much as if the constable had come to take her up and carry her before the justice for some undefined offence. She had a ter- rified sense that God, whom she had always thought of as very far oft", was very near to her, and that Jesus was close by lookin.!^ at her, though she could not see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus, which is common among 48 ADAM BEDE. the Methodists, aiid she coinmimicated it irresistibly to her hearers ; she made them feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way that would strike anguish and penitence into their hearts. " See ! " she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above the heads of the people — '' see where our blessed Lord stands and weeps, and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says : ' How often would I have gathered you as a hen gather eth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not ! ' . . . and ye would not ! " she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. " See the print of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins that made them ! Ah, how pale and worn he looks ! He has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death, and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they nailed him up. Ah ! what pain ! His Hps are parched with thii'st, and they mock him stiU in this great agony ; yet with those parched lips he prays ADAM BEDE. 49 for them, ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do/ Then a horror of great darkness fell upon him, and he felt what sinners feel when they are for ever shut out from God. That was the last di'op in the cup of bitterness. ' My God, my God ! ' he cries, ' why hast Thou forsaken me ? ' " All this he bore for you ! For you — and you never think of him ; for you — and you turn your backs on him ; you don't care what he has gone through for you. Yet he is not weary of toiling for you : he has risen from the dead, he is praying for you at the right hand of God — ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' And he is upon this earth too ; he is among us ; he is there close to you now ; I see his wounded body and his look of love." Here Dinah turned to Bessy Cranage, whose bonny youth and evident vanity had touched her with pity. " Poor child ! poor child ! He is beseeching you, and you don't listen to him. You think of ear- rings and fine gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be shrivelled one day, your hair mil be gi'ey, your poor body will be thin and VOL. I. D 50 ADAM BEDE. tottering ! Then you will begin to feel that your soul is not saved ; then you will have to stand before God dressed in your sins, in your evil tempers and vain thoughts. And Jesus, who stands ready to help you now, won't help you then : because you won't have him to be your saviour, he will be your judge. Now he looks at you with love and mercy, and says, ' Come to me that you may have life ; ' then he will turn away from you, and say, ' Depart from me into everlasting fire ! ' " Poor Bessy's wide-open black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale, and her face was distorted like a little chila s before a burst of crying. " Ah ! poor blind child ! " Dinah went on, " think if it should happen to you as it once happened to a servant of God in the days of her vanity. She thought of her lace caps, and saved all her money to buy 'em ; she thought nothing about how she might get a clean heart and a right spirit, she only wanted to have better lace than other gMs. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face crowned with thorns. That faoe is looking at you now," — here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of Bessy. — "Ah, tear off those follies! cast them away from you, ADAM BEDE. '51 as if they were stinging adders. They are sting- ing you — they are poisoning your soul — they are dragging you down iiito a dark bottomless pit, where you will sink for ever, and for ever, and for ever, further away from light and God." Bessy could bear it no longer : a great terror was upon her, and wrenching her earrings from her ears, she threw them down before her, sobbing aloud. Her father Chad, frightened lest he should be " laid hold on " too, this impression on the rebellious Bess striking him as nothing less than a miracle, walked hastUy away, and began to work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself " Folks mun ha' hoss-shoes, praichin' or no praichin' : the divil canna lay hould o' me for that," he muttered to himself. But now Dinah began to tell of the joys that were in store for the penitent, and to describe in her simple way the divine peace and love with which the soul of the believer is filled — how the sense of God's love turns poverty into riches, and satisfies the soul, so that no uneasy desire vexes it, no fear alarms it : how, at last, the very temptation to sin is extinguished, and heaven is begun upon earth, because no cloud passes between the soul and God, who is its eternal sun. 52 ADAM BEDE. " Dear friends," she said at last, '' brothers and sisters, whom I love as those for whom my Lord has died, believe me I know what this great blessed- ness is ; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor, like you : I have to get my living with my hands ; but no lord nor lady can be so happy as me, if they haven't got the love of God in their souls. Think what it is — not to hate anything but sin ; to be full of love to every creature ; to be frightened at nothing ; to be sure that all things will turn to good ; not to mind pain, because it is our Father's wiU ; to know that nothing — ^no, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and drown us — nothing could part us from God who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because we are sure that whatever he wills is holy, just, and good. " Dear friends, come and take this blessedness ; it is offered to you ; it is the good news that Jesus came to preach to the poor. It is not like the riches of this world, so that the more one gets the less the rest can have. God is without end ; his love is without end — * Its streams the whole creation reach, So plenteous is the store ; Enough for all, enough for each. Enough for eveiTnore.'" ADAM £ED£. 53 Dinali had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn emphasis to her closing words. The strangrer, who had been interested in the course of her sermon, as if it had been the development of a drama — for there is this sort of fascination in aU sincere unpremeditated eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker's emotions — now turned his horse aside, and pursued his way, while Dinah said, " Let us sing a little, dear friends ; " and as he was still winding down the slope, the voices of the Methodists reached him, rising and falling in that strange blending of exultation and sadness which belongs to the ca- dence of a hymn. CHAPTER III. AFTER THE PREACHING. In less than an hour from that time Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerow-path that skirted the pastures and gTeen cornfields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken ofi" her little quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side, timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of un- conscious placid gravity — of absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her own personality : an expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging : it had that quiet elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, " She's too good and holy for any man, let ADAM BEDE. 55 alone me," and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his lips. But another thought gave him courage : " There's no man could love her better, and leave her freer to follow the Lord's work/' They had been silent for many minutes now, since they had done talking about Bessy Cranage ; Dinah seemed almost to have forgotten Seth's presence, and her pace was becoming so much quicker, that the sense of their being only a few minutes' walk from the yard-gates of the Hall Farm at last gave Seth courage to speak. " You've quite made up your mind to go back to Snowfield o' Saturday, Dinah ? " " Yes," said Dinah quietly. " I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was medi- tating on Sunday night, as sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white cloud, lifting up her poor thin hand and beckoning to me. And this morning when I opened the Bible for direction, the first words my eyes fell on were, * And after we had seen the vision, immediately we endeavoured to go into Macedonia.' If it wasn't for that clear showing of the Lord's will I should be loth to go, for my 56 ADAM bj:de. heart yearns over my aunt and her little ones, and that poor wandering lamb, Hetty Sorrel. I've been much drawn out in prayer for her of late, and I look on it as a token that there may be mercy in store for her." " God grant it," said Seth. " For I doubt Adam's heart is so set on her, he'll never turn to anybody else ; and yet it 'ud go to my heart if he was to maiTy her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep mystery — the way the heart of man turns to one woman out of all the rest he's seen i' the world, and makes it easier for him to work seven year for hei% like Jacob did for Rachel, sooner than have any other woman for th' asking. I often think of them words, ' And Jacob served seven years for Eachel; and they seemed to him but a few days for the love he had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd give me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you think a husband 'ud be taking up too much o' your thoughts, because St Paul says, ' She that's married careth for the things of the world, how she msij please her husband ;' and may happen you'll think me over-bold to speak to you about it again, after what you told me o' your ADAM BEDE. 57 mind last Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've prayed not to be blinded by my own desires to think what's only good for me must be good for you too. And it seems to me there's more texts for your marrying than ever you can find against it. For St Paul says as plain as can be, in another place, ' I will that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully;' and then, 'two are better than one ;' and that holds good with marriage as well as with other things. For we should be o' one heart and o' one mind, Dinah. We both serve the same Master, and are stri^dng after the same gifts ; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim on you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend in- door and out, to give you more hberty — more than you can have now, for you've got to get your own living now, and I'm strong enough to work for us both." When Seth had once begun to urge his suit, he went on earnestly, and almost hurriedly, lest Dinah should speak some decisive word before he had poured forth all the arguments he had prepared. 58 ADAM bedp:. His cheeks became flushed as he went on, his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke the last sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which i)erfonned the office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned to- wards Seth and said, in her tender but calm treble notes — " Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think any man as more than a Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women, and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother ; but ' as God has distributed to every man, as the Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I could leave the brethren and sisters at Snow- field, who are favoured with very little of this world's good ; where the trees are few so that a child might count them, and there's very hard living fr)r tlie ADAM BEDE. 59 poor in the winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there, and to call in many wanderers ; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short, and God's work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was sdven to me, I thouo^ht it mioht be a leading of Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellow-helpers ; and I spread the matter before the Lord. But whenever I tried to fix my mind on marriage, and our living together, other thoughts always came in — the times when IVe prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours I've had preaching, when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when IVe opened the Bible for direction, IVe always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work ; but I see that our marriage is not God's will — he draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. I seem to have no room in my soul for wants and 60 ADAM BEDE. fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the wants and sufierings of his poor people/' Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yard- gate, he said — " Well, Dinah, I must seek for strength to bear it, and to endure as seeing Him who is invisible. But I feel now how weak my faith is. It seems as if, when you are gone, I could never joy in anything any more. I think it's something passing the love of women as I feel for you, for I could be content without your marrying me if I could go and live at Snowfield, and be near you. 1 trusted as the strong love God had given me towards you was a leading for us both ; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I ought to feel for any creature, for I often can't help saying of you what the hymn says, — ' In darkest shades if she appear, My dawning is begim ; She is my soul's bright morning-star, And she my rising sun.' That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things ADAM BEDE. 61 turned out so as I could leave this country and go to Kve at Snowfield ? " " No, Seth ; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kin- dred. Do nothing without the Lord's clear bidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Goshen youVe been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot ; we must wait to be guided." " But you'd let me write you a letter, Dinah, if there was anything I wanted to tell you." " Yes, sure ; let me know if you're in any trouble. You'll be continually in my prayers." They had now reached the yard-gate, and Seth said, " I won't go in, Dinah, so farewell." He paused and hesitated after she had given him her hand, and then said, " There's no knowing but what you may see things different after a while. There may be a new leading." " Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr Wesley's books. It isn't for you and me to lay plans ; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell." Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in 62 ADAM BEDE. lier loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the fields through w^hich he and Dinah had already passed ; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet with tears long be- fore he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards. He was but three-and-twenty, and had only just learned ♦vhat it is to love — to love wdth that adoration which a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so ? whether of woman or child, or art or music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared vistas, or calm majes- tic statues, or Beethoven symjDhonies, all bring with them the consciousness that they are mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty : our emotion in its keenest moment passes from expression into silence ; our love at its highest flood rushes beyond its object, and loses itself in the sense of divine mystery. And this blessed gift of venerating love has been given to too many humble ADAM BEDE. 63 craftsmen since the world began, for us to feel any surprise that it should have existed in the soul of a Methodist carpenter half a century ago, while there was yet a lingering after-glow from the time when Wesley and his fellow-labourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and lungs in carrying a divine message to the poor. That after-glow has long faded away ; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in onr imagination is not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broad-leaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough men and weary-hearted women di'ank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suflfused their souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too pos- sible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than low-pitched gables up dingy streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers and hypocritical jargon — elements which are regarded as an exliaustive analysis of Methodism in many fashionable quarters. 64 ADAM BEDK. That would be a pity ; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Method- ists — not indeed of that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pil- lared porticoes ; but of a very old-fashioned kind. They believed in present miracles, in instantaneous conversions, in revelations by dreams and visions ; they drew lots, and sought for Divine guidance by opening the Bible at hazard ; having a literal way of interpreting the Scriptures, which is not at all sanctioned by approved commentators ; and it is impossible for me to represent their diction as correct, or theii' instruction as liberal. Still — if I have read religious history aright — faith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a sensibility to the three concords ; and it is possible, thank Heaven ! to have very erroneous theories and very sublime feelings. The raw bacon which clumsy Molly spares from her own scanty store, that she may carry it to her neighbour's child to " stop the fits," may be a piteously inefficacious remedy ; but the generous stirring of neighbourly kindness that prompted the deed, has a beneficent radiation that is not lost. Considering these things, we can hardly think ADAM BEDE. 65 Dinah and Seth beneath our sympathy, accustomed as we may be to weep over the loftier sorrows of heroines in satin boots and crinoline, and of heroes riding fiery horses, themselves ridden by still more fiery passions. Poor Seth ! he was never on horseback in his life except once, when he was a little lad, and Mr Jonathan Burge took him up behind, telling him to "hold on tight ;" and instead of bursting out into wild accusing apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homeward imder the solemn starlight, to repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does. VOL. I. K CHAPTER ly. HOME AXD ITS SOEROWS. A GEEEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost to overflowing with the late rains ; over- hung by low stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is passing with his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket ; evidently making his way to the thatched house, with a stack of timber by the side of it, about twenty yards up the opposite slope. The door of the house is open, and an elderly woman is looking out ; but she is not placidly contemplating the evening sunshine ; she has been watching with dim eyes the gradually enlarging speck which for the last few minutes she has been quite sure is her darling son Adam. Lisbeth Bede loves her son with the love of a woman to whom her first-born has come late in life. She is an anxious, ADAM BEDE. 67 spare, yet vigorous old woman, clean as a snow- drop. Her grey liaii* is turned neatly back under a pure linen cap with a black band round it ; her broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bed-gown made of blue-checkered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence there is a considerable leng-th of hnsey-wolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim now — perhaps from too much crying — but her broadly-marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly and unconsciously with her work-hardened hands, she has as firmly-upright an attitude as when she is carrying a pail of water on her head from the spring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of tem- perament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his well-filled brow and his expression of large-hearted intelligence. Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us by the subtler web of our brains ; blends yearning and repulsion ; 68 ADAM BEDE. and ties us by our heartstrings to the beings that jar us at every movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the thoughts we despise ; we see eyes — ah ! so like our mother's — averted from us in cold alienation ; and our last darling child startles us with the air and ges- tures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage — the mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelhng hand — galls us, and puts us to shame by his daily errors ; the long-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humours and irrational persistence. It is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear as Lisbeth says, "Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee 't allays stay till the last child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth? gone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon ? " " Ay, ay, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure. But where's father ? " said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into the room on the left hand, which was used as a workshop. ADAM BEDE. 69 " Hasn't he done the coffin for Tholer ? There's the stuff standing just as I left it this morning/' "Done the coffin?" said Lisbeth, following him, and knitting uninterruptedly, though she looked at her son very anxiously. " Eh, my lad, he went aff to Treddles'on this forenoon, an's niver come back. I doubt he's got to th' ' Waggin Overthrow' again." A deep flush of anger passed rapidly over Adam's face. He said nothing, but threw off his jacket, and began to roll up his shirt-sleeves again. " What art goin' to do, Adam ?" said the mother, with a tone and look of alarm. "Thee wouldstna go to work again, vd'out ha'in' thy bit o' supper ? " Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the work- shop. But his mother threw down her knitting, and, hurrying after him, took hold of his arm, and said in a tone of plaintive remonstrance — " Nay, my lad, my lad, thee munna go wi'out thy supper ; there's the taters wi' the gravy in 'em, just as thee lik'st 'em. I sav'd 'em o' purpose for thee. Come an' ha' thy supper, come." " Let be ! " said Adam impetuously, shaking her off, and seizing one of the planks that stood against the wall. " It's fine talldng about having supper 70 ADAM BEDE. when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seven o'clock to-morrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat's too full to swallow victuals." " ^Yhy, thee canstna get the coffin ready," said Lisbeth. " Thee't work thyself to death. It 'ud take thee all night to do 't" " What signifies how long it takes me ? Isn't the coffin promised ? Can they bury the man without a coffin? I'd work my right hand off sooner than deceive people with lies i' that way. It makes me mad to think on't. I shall overrun these doings before long. I've stood enough of 'em." Poor Lisbeth did not hear this threat for the first time, and if she had been wise she would have gone away quietly, and said nothing for the next hour. But one of the lessons a woman most rarely learns, is never to talk to an angry or a drunken man. Lisbeth sat down on the chopping-bench and began to cry, and by the time she had cried enough to make her voice very piteous, she burst out into words. " Nay, my lad, my lad, thee wouldstna go away an' break thy mother's heart, an' leave thy feyther to ruin. Thee wouldstna ha' 'em carry me to th' church- yard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my ADAl^I BEDE. 71 grave if I donna see thee at th' last, an' how 's they to let thee know as I'm a-dyin', if thee 't gone a worMn' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able t' hold a pen for 's hand shakin', besides not knowin' where thee art. Thee mun forgie thy feyther — thee munna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th' drink He 's a cliver workman, an' taught thee thy trade, remember, an 's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word — no, not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha 'm go to th' workhus — thy own feyther — an' him as was a fine- growed man an' handy at iverythin' amost as thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a babby at the breast." Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs : a sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne, and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently. " Now, mother, don't cry, and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex me without that ? What 's th' use o' telling me things as I only think too much on every day ? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, for the sake o' keeping things together here ? But I hate to be talking where it's no use : 72 ADAM BEDE. I like to keep my breath for doing istead o' talk- ing. " I know thee dost things as nobody else 'ud do, my lad. But thee 't allays so hard upo' thy feyther, Adam. Thee think'st nothing too much to do for Seth : thee snapp'st me up if iver I find faut wi' th' lad. But thee 't so angered wi' thy feyther, more nor wi' anybody else." '' That's better than speaking soft, and letting things go the wrong way, I reckon, isn't it ? If I wasn't sharp with him, he'd sell every bit o' stuff i' th' yard, and spend it on drink. I know there 's a duty to be done by my father, but it isn't my duty to encourage him in running headlong to ruin. And what has Seth got to do with it ? The lad does no harm, as I know of But leave me alone, mother, and let me get on with the work." Lisbeth dared not say any more ; but she got up and called Gyp, thinking to console herself somewhat for Adam's refusal of the supper she had spread out in the loving expectation of looking at him while he ate it, by feeding Adam's dog with extra liberality. But Gyp was watching his master with wrinkled brow and ears erect, puzzled at this unusual course of things ; and though he glanced ADAM BEDE. 73 at Lisbeth when she called him, and moved his fore-paws uneasily, well knowing that she was in- viting him to supper, he was in a divided state of mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes anxiously on his master. Adam noticed Gyp's mental conflict, and though his anger had made him less tender than usual to his mother, it did not prevent him from caring as much as usual for his dog. We are apt to be kinder to the brutes that love us than to the women that love us. Is it because the brutes are dumb ? " Go, Gyp ; go, lad ! '' Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command ; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place. But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone, to cry over her knitting. "Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most queru- lous ; and if Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a conten- tious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye — a fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in 74 ADAM BEDE. the happiness of the loved ones whom she contri- buted to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them, and spending nothing on herself Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example — at once patient and complaining, self-renouncmg and exact- ing, brooding the livelong day over what happened yesterday, and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and ciying very readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said, " leave me alone," she was always silenced. So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the sound of Adam's tools. At last he called for a light and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, " Thy supper stans ready for thee, when thee lik'st." " Donna thee sit up, mother," said Adam, in a gentle tone. He had worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech was less deeply tinged. " I'll see to father when he comes home ; maybe he wonna come at all to-night. I shall be easier if thee 't i' bed." ADAM BEDE. 75 '•'Nay, 111 bide till Seth comes. He wonna be long now, I reckon." It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the day, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted, and Seth entered. He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching. " Why, mother," he said, " how is it as father's working so late ? " "It's none o' thy father as is a-workin' — thee might know that well anoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin' — it's thy brother as does iverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'." Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by her awe of Adam. Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle. But Seth, \Nith an anxious look, had passed into the workshop, and said, — " Addy, how's this ? What ! father's forgot the coffin?" " Ay, lad, th' old tale ; but I shall get it done," said Adam, looking up, and casting one of his bright, 76 ADAM BEDE. keen glances at his brother. "Why, what's the matter with thee ? Thee 't in trouble." Seth's eyes were red, and there was a look of deep depression on his mild face. "Yes, Addy, but it's what must be borne, and can't be helped. Why, thee'st never been to the school, then ? " " School ? no ; that screw can wait," said Adam, hammering away again. " Let me take my turn now, and do thee go to bed," said Seth. " No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carry it to Brox'on when it's done. I'll caU thee up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door, so as I mayn't hear mother's talk." Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So he turned, with rather a heavy heart, into the house-place. " Adam's niver touched a bit o' victual sin' home he's come," said Lisbeth. " I reckon thee'st hed thy supper at some o' thy Methody folks." " Nay, mother," said Seth, " I've had no supper yet." ADAM BEDE. 7T " Come, then," said Lisbeth, " but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam uU happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'. He loves a bit o' taters an' grav}^ But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, for all I'd putten 'em by o' purpose for him. An' he's been a threatenin' to go away again," she went on, whimpering, " an' I'm fast sure he'U go some dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll niver come back again when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha' had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deft- ness an' th' handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright like a poplar tree, an' me to be parted from him, an' niver see'm no more." " Come, mother, donna grieve thyself in vain," said Seth, in a soothing voice. " Thee 'st not half so good reason to think as Adam 'nil go away as to think he'U stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's in wrath — and he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimes — but his heart 'ud never let him go. Think how he's stood by us aU when it's been none so easy — paying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an' turnin' his earnins into Avood for father, when he's got plenty o' 78 ADAM BEDE. uses for his money, and many a young man like him 'ud ha' been married and settled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work, and forsake them as it's been the labour of his life to stand by." "Donna talk to me about' 's marr'inV said Lis- beth, crying afresh. " He 's set 's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'uU niver save a penny, an' 'ull toss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' Mary Burge, an' be took partners, an' be a big man wi' workmen under him, like Mester Burge — Dolly's told me so o'er an' o'er again — if it warna as he 's set 's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor the gillyflower on the waU. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figm-in', an' not to know no better nor that ! " " But, mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud have us. There's nobody but God can control the heart of man. I could ha' wished myself as Adam could ha' made another choice, but I wouldn't reproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he tries to o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he doesn't like to be spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him." ADAM BEDE. 79 " Ay, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as thee gets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get double earnins o' this side Yule. Tli' Methodies '11 niver make thee half the man thy bro- ther is, for all they're a-makin' a preacher on thee/' "It's partly truth thee speak'st there, mother/' said Seth mildly ; " Adam's far before me, an's done more for me than I can ever do for him. God dis- tributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But thee mustna undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no money can buy — a power to keep from sin, and be content with God's will, whatever he may please to send. If thee wouldst pray to God to help thee, and trust in His goodness, thee wouldstna be so uneasy about things." "Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's weU seen on thee what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee 't gi' away aU thy earnins, an' niver be unaisy as thee 'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam^had been as aisy as thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Take no thought for the morrow — take no thought — that's what thee 't allays sayin' ; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee." 80 ADAM BEDE. " Those are the words o' the Bible, mother," said Seth. " They don't mean as we should be idle. They mean we shouldn't be over-anxious and worreting ourselves about what '11 happen to-morrow, but do our duty, and leave the rest to God's will." " Ay, ay, that's the way wi' thee : thee allays makes a peck o' thy own words out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I donna see how thee 't to know as ' take no thought for the morrow ' means all that. An' when the Bible's such a big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an ha' the pick o' the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better words as donna mean so much more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n ; I can understan' the tex as he's allays a- sayin', ' God helps them as helps theirsens.' " " Nay, mother," said Seth, " that's no text o' the Bible. It comes out of a book as Adam picked up at the stall at Treddles'on. It was wrote by a knowing man, but over-worldly, I doubt. How- ever, that saying 's partly true ; for the Bible tells us we must be workers together with God." " WeU, how 'm I to know ? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi' th' lad ? Thee 't hardly atin' a bit o' supper. Dostna mean to ha' no more nor that bit o' oat-cake ? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' new bacon. AYhat's th' matter wi' thee ?" ADAM BEDE. 81 " Xotliing to mind about, mother ; I'm not hungry. I'll just look in at Adam again, and see if he'll let me go on with the cofl&n."' " Ha' a drop o' warm broth," said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got the better of her " natter- ino: " habit. "I'll set two- three sticks ali;■) Aiid you, as have been here ever since last Michael- mas, and I hired you at Treddles'on stattits, with- out a bit o' character — as I say, you might be grateful to be hired in that way to a respectable place ; and you knew no more o' what belongs to work when you come here than the mawkin i' the field. As poor a two-fisted thing as ever I saw, you know you was. Who taught you to scrub a floor, I should like to know ? Why, you'd leave the dirt in heaps i' the corners — anybody 'ud think you'd never been brought up among Christians. And as for spinning, why, you've wasted as much as your wage i' the flax you've spoiled learning to spin. And you've a right to feel that, and not to go about as gaping and as thoughtless as if you was beholding to nobody. Comb the wool for the whittaws, indeed ! That's what you'd like to be doing, is it ? That's the way with you — that's the road you'd all like to go, headlongs to ruin. You're never easy till you've got some sweetheart as is as big a fool as yourself: you think you'll be finely off" when you're married, I daresay, and have got a three-le2:sed stool to sit on, and never a blanket to cover you, and a bit o' oatcake for your dinner, as three children are a-snatching at." " I'm sure I donna want t' go wi' the whittaws," 136 ADAM BEDE. said Molly, wliimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean picture of her future, " on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's ; an' so I just axed ye. I donna want to set eyes on the whittaws again ; I wish I may never stir if I do." " Mr Ottley's, indeed ! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors dirtied wi' whittaws, for what I know. There's no knowing what people wonna like — such ways as I've heard of ! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was ; I tliink people live like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty as was dairy- maid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' left the cheeses without turning from week's end to w^eek's end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name on 'em, when I come down-stairs after my illness, as the doctor said it was inflamma- tion — it was a mercy I got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, and been here a-going i' nine months, and not for want o' talking to, neither — and what are your stanning there for, like a jack as is run doTVTi, istead o' getting your wheel out? You're a rare un' for ADAM BEDE. 137 sitting down to your work a little while after it's time to put by/' " Munny, my iron's t^vite told ; pease put it down to warm." The small chirruping voice that uttered this re- quest came from a little sunny- haired girl between three and four, who, seated on a high chair at the end of the ironing-table, was arduously clutching the handle of a miniature iron with her tiny fat fist, and ironing rags with an assiduity that required her to put her little red tongue out as far as anatomy would allow. " Cold, is it, my darling ? Bless your sweet face ! " said ]\Ii's Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with which she could relapse from her official objur- gatory tone to one of fondness or of friendly con- verse. " Never mind ! Mother's done her ironing now. She's going to put the ironing things away." "Munny, I tould 'ike to do into de barn to Tommy, to see de whittawd." " No, no, no ; Totty ud get her feet wet," said Mrs Poyser, carrying away her iron. "Run into the dairy, and see cousin Hetty make the butter." " I tould Ike a bit o' pum-take," rejoined Totty, who seemed to be provided with several relays of 138 ADAM BEDE. requests ; at the same time, taking the opportunity of Iier momentary leisure, to put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and drag it down, so as to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the ironing-sheet. " Did ever anybody see the like ? " screamed Mrs Poyser, running towards the table when her eye had fallen on the blue stream. '' The child's allays i' mischief if your back's turned a minute. What shall I do to you, you naughty, naughty gell ! " Totty, however, had descended from her chair with great swiftness, and was already in retreat towards the dairy, with a sort of waddling run, and an amount of fat on the nape of her neck, which made her look like the metamorphosis of a white sucking-pig. The starch having been wiped up by Molly's help, and the ironing apparatus put by, Mrs Poyser took up her knitting, which always lay ready at hand, and was the work she liked best, because she could carry it on automatically as she walked to and fro. But now she came and sat down opposite Dinah, whom she looked at in a meditative way, as she knitted her grey worsted stocking. " You look th' image o' your aunt Judith, Dinah, ADAM BEDE. 139 when you sit a-sewing. I could almost fancy it was thii'ty years back, and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd done th' house up ; only it was a little cottage, father's was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as you clean it in another ; but for all that, I could fancy you was your aunt Judith, only her hair was a deal darker than yours, and she was stouter and brpader i' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together, though she had such queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. All ! your mother little thought as she'd have a daughter just cut out after the very pattern o' Judith, and leave her an orphan, too, for Judith to take care on, and bring up with a spoon when she was in the graveyard at Stoniton. I allays said that o' Judith, as she'd bear a pound weight any day, to save anybody else caiTying a ounce. And she was just the same from the first o' my remembering her ; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the Methodists, only she talked a bit different, and wore a different sort o' cap ; but she'd never in her life spent a penny on herself more than keeping herself decent." " She was a blessed woman," said Dinah ; " God UO ADAM BEDE. had given her a loving, self-forgetting nature, and he perfected it by grace. And she was very fond of you too, Aunt Rachel. IVe often heard her talk of you in the same sort of way. When she had that bad illness, and I was only eleven years old, she used to say, ' You'll have a friend on earth in your Aunt Rachel, if I'm taken from you ; for she has a kind heart ;' and I'm sure I've found it so." " I don't know how, child ; anybody 'ud be cunning to do anything for you, I think ; you're like the birds o' th' air, and live nobody knows how. I'd ha' been glad to behave to you like a mother's sister; if you'd come and live i' this country, where there's some shelter and victual for man and beast, and folks don't live on the naked hills, like poultry a-scratching on a gravel bank. And then you might get married to some decent man, and there'd be plenty ready to have you, if you'd only leave off that preaching, as is ten times worse than anything your aunt Judith ever did. And even if you'd marry Seth Bede, as is a poor wool-gathering Methodist, and's never like to have a penny beforehand, I know your uncle 'ud help you with a pig, and very like a cow, for he's allays been good-natur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome to th' house ; ADAM BEDE. Ul and 'ud do for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the house as I could well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting, and table-clothing, and towelling, as isn't made up. There's a piece o' sheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spun — she was a rare girl to spin, for all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her ; and, you know, the spinning's going on constant, and there's new linen wove twice as fast as th' old wears out. But where's the use o' talking, if you wonna be persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in her senses, istead o' wearing yourseK out with walking and preaching, and giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness ; and all the things you've got i' the world, I verily believe, 'ud go into a bundle no bigger nor a double cheese. And all because you've got notions i' your head about religion more nor what's i' the Catechism and the Prayer-book." " But not more than what's in the Bible, aunt," said Dinah. " Yes, and the Bible too, for that matter," Mrs Poyser rejoined, rather sharply; "else why shouldn't them as know best what's in the Bible — the parsons 142 ADAM BEDE. and people as have got nothing to do but learn it — do the same as you do ? But, for the matter o' that, if everybody was to do like you, the world must come to a standstill ; for if everybody tried to do without house and home, and with poor eating and drinking, and was allays talking as we must despise the things o' the world, as you say, I should like to know where the pick o' the stock, and the com, and the best new milk cheeses 'ud have to go. Everybody 'ud be wanting bread made o' tail ends, and everybody 'ud be running after everybody else to preach to 'em, istead o' bringing up their families, and laying by against a bad harvest. It stands to sense as that can't be the right religion." " Nay, dear aunt, you never heard me say that all people are called to forsake their work and their families. It's quite right the land should be ploughed and sowed, and the precious corn stored, and the things of this life cared for, and right that people should rejoice in their families, and provide for them, so that this is done in the fear of the Lord, and that they are not unmindful of the soul's wants while they are caring for the body. We can all be servants of God wherever our lot is cast, but he i^ives us different sorts of work, accordins^ as he ADAM BEDK. 113 fits US for it aiid calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in tiying to do what I can for the souls of others, than you could help running if you heard little Totty crpng at the other end of the house ; the voice would go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't rest without running to help her and comfort her/' " Ah/' said ]\Irs Poyser, rising and walking to- wards the door, " I know it 'ud be just the same if I was to talk to you for hours. You'd make me the same answer at tli' end. I might as well talk to the running brook, and tell it to stan' still." The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for ]\Irs Poyser to stand there quit€ pleasantly and see what was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a steady progress in her hands all the while. But she had not been standing there more than five minutes before she came in again and said to Dinah in rather a flurried, awe-stricken tone, " If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr Irwine a-coming into the yard ! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preaching on the Green, Dinah ; it's vou must answer 'em, for I'm 144 ADAJVI BEDE. dumb. I've said enough a'ready about your bring- ing such disgrace upo' your uncle's family. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr Poyser's own niece — folks must put up wi' their own kin, as they put up wi' their own noses — it's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o' my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savins " " Nay, dear aunt Eachel," said Dinah gently, " you've no cause for such fears. I've strong assur- ance that no evil will happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach without direction." " Direction 1 I know very well what you mean by direction," said Mrs Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated manner. " When there's a bigger maggot than usial in your head you call it ' direction ; ' and then nothing can stir you — you look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, a-starin' and a-smilin' whether it's fair weather or foul. I hanna common patience with you." By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings, and had got down from their horses : it was plain they meant to come in. Mrs Poyser advanced ADAM BEDE. 145 to the door to meet them, curtsying low, and trem- bling between anger with Dinah and anxiety to con- duct herself with perfect propriety on the occasion. For in those days the keenest of bucolic minds felt a whispering awe at the sight of the gentry, such as of Old men felt when they stood on tip-toe to watch the gods passing by in tall human shape. " Well, Mrs Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?'' said Mr Irwine, with his stately cor- diality. " Our feet are quite dry ; we shall not soil your beautiful floor." " 0, sir, don't mention it,'' said Mrs Poyser " Will you and the Captain please to walk into the parlour ? " I " No, indeed, thank you, Mrs Poyser," said the Captain, looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if his eye were seeking something it could not find. " I delight in your kitchen, I think it is the most charming room I know. I should like every farm- er's wife to come and look at it for a pattern." " 0, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat," said Mrs Poyser, relieved a little by this com- pliment and the Captain's evident good-humour, but still glancing anxiously at Mr Irwine, who, she saw, was lookinn^ at Dinah and advancino^ towards her. VOL. I. K 146 ADAM BEDE. "Poyser is not at home, is he?" said Captain Donnitliorne, seating himself where he could see along the short, passage to the open dairy-door. " No, sir, he isn't ; he's gone to Rosseter to see Mr West, the factor, about the wool. But there's father i' the barn, sir, if he'd be of any use." " No, thank you ; I'll just look at the whelps and leave a message about them with your shepherd. I must come another day and see your husband ; I want to have a consultation with him about horses. Do you know when he's likely to be at liberty ? " " Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'on market-day — that's of a Friday, you know. For if he's anywhere on the farm we can send for him in a minute. If we'd got rid o' the Scantlands we should have no outlying fields ; and I should be glad of it, for if ever anything happens he's sure to be gone to the Scantlands. Things allays happen so contrairy, if they've a chance ; and it's an unnat'ral thing to have one bit o' your farm in one county and all the rest in another." " All, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especially as he w^ants dairy-land and you've got plenty. I think yours is the pret- tiest farm on the estate, though ; and do you know, ADAM BEDE. 147 Mrs Poyser, if I were going to marry and settle I should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old house, and turn farmer myself " 0, sir/' said ^Irs Poyser, rather alarmed, " you wouldn't like it at alL As for farming, it's putting money into your pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it's raising victual for other folks, and just getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along. Not as you'd be like a poor man as wants to get his bread : you could afford to lose as much money as you liked i' farming ; but it's poor fun, losing money, I should think, though I understan' it's what the great folks i' London play at more than anything. For my husband heard at market as Lord Dacey's eldest son had lost thousands upo' thousands to the Prince o' Wales, and they said my lady was going to pawn her jewels to pay for him. But you know more about that than I do, sir. But as for farming, sir, I canna think as you'd like it ; and this house — the draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and its my opinion the floors up-stairs are very rotten, and the rats i' the cellar are beyond anything." " WTiy, that's a terrible picture, Mrs Poyser. I 148 ADAM BEDE. think I should be doing you a service to turn you out of such a place. But there's no chance of that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm a stout gentleman of forty ; and my grand- father would never consent to part with such good tenants as you." "Well, sir, if he tlunks so well o' Mr Poyser for a tenant, I wish you could put in a word for him to allow us some new gates for the Five closes, for my husband's been asking and asking till he's tired, and to think o' what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad or good. And as I ve said to my husband, often and often, Tm sure if the Captain had anything to do wdth it, it wouldn't be so. Not as I wish to speak disrespectful o' them as have got the power i' their hands, but it's more than flesh and blood 'ull bear sometimes, to be toiling and striving, and up early and down late, and hardly sleeping a wink when you lie down for thinking as the cheese may swell, or the cows may slip their calf, or the wheat may grow green again i' the sheaf — and after all, at th' end o' the year, it's like as if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the smell of it for your pains." ADAM BEDE. 149 Mrs Peyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed along without any check from her preliminary awe of the gentry. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force that overcame all resistance. " I'm afraid I should only do harm instead of good, if I were to speak about the gates, Mrs Poyser," said the Captain, " though I assure you there's no man on the estate I would sooner say a word for than your husband. I know his farm is in better order than any other within ten miles of us ; and as for the kitchen," he added, smiling, " I don't believe there's one in the kingdom to beat it. By the by, I Ve never seen your dairy : I must see your dairy, j\Irs Poyser.'' " Indeed, sir, it's not fit for you to go in, for Hetty's in the middle o' making the butter, for the churning was thrown late, and I m quite ashamed/' This Mrs Poyser said blushing, and believing that the Captain was really interested in her milk-pans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the appear- ance of her dairy. " 0, I've no doubt it's in capital order. Take me in," said the Captain, himself leading the way. while Mrs Poyser followed. CHAPTEE VII. THE DAIEY. The dairy was certainly worth looking at : it was a scene to sicken for with a sort of calenture in hot and dusty streets — such coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water ; such soft colouring of red earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey lime- stone and rich orange-red rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges. But one gets only a con- fused notion of these details when they surround a distractingly pretty gii4 of seventeen, standing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out of the scale. Hetty blushed a deep rose-colour when Captain Donnithorne entered the dairy and spoke to her ; but it was not at all a distressed blush, for it was inwreathed with smiles and dimples, and with ADAM BEDE. 151 sparkles from under long curled dark eye-lashes ; and while her aunt was discoursins^ to him about the limited amount of milk that was to be spared for butter and cheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and the large quantity but inferior quality of milk yielded by the short-horn, which had been bought on experiment, together witli other matters which must be interesting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and patted her pound of butter with quite a self-possessed, coquettish air, slily conscious that no turn of her head was lost. There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish ; but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mam- mals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief — a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sort of beauty. 152 ADAM BEDE. Her aunt, Mrs Poyser, who professed to despise all personal attractions and intended to be the severest of mentors, continually gazed at Hetty's charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself ; and after administering such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety to do well by her husband's niece — who had no mother of her own to scold her, poor thing ! — she would often confess to her husband, when they were safe out of hearing, that she firmly believed, " the naughtier the little huzzy behaved, the prettier she looked." It is of little use for me to tell you that Hetty's cheek was like a rose-petal, that dimples played about her pouting lips, that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness under their long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in dark delicate rings on her forehead, and about her white shell-like ears ; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of her pink and white neck- erchief, tucked into her low plum-coloured stuff bod- dice, or how the linen butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duch- esses, since it fell in such charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes ADAM BEDE. 153 lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and ankle ; — of little use, unless you have seen a woman who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she would not in the least resemble that distractino' kitten-like maiden. I mio-ht mention all the divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting lark, or in wanderinor throuQ;h the still lanes when the fresh- opened blossoms j&ll them with a sacred, silent beauty like that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descriptive catalogue ? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright spring day. Hetty's was a springtide beauty ; it was the beauty of young frisking things, round-limbed, gam- bolling, circumventing you by a false air of innocence — the innocence of a yoimg star-browed calf, for ex- ample, that, being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a severe steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the middle of a bog. And they are the prettiest attitudes and move- ments into which a pretty girl is thrown in making 154 ADAM BEDE. up butter — tossing movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round white neck ; little patting and rolling move- ments vnth the palm of the hand, and nice adapta- tions and finishings which cannot at all be effected without a gi^eat play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And then the butter itself seems to communicate a fi^esh charm — it is so pui^e, so sweet- scented ; it is turned off the mould with such a beautiful firm surface, like marble in a pale yellow light ! Moreover, Hetty was particularly clever at making up the butter ; it was the one performance of hers that her aunt allowed to pass without severe criticism ; so she handled it with ail the grace that belongs to mastery. '' I hope you will be ready for a great holiday on the thirtieth of July, Mrs Poyser,'' said Captain Donnithorne, when he had sufficiently admired the dairy, and given several improvised opinions on Swede turnips and shorthorns. " You know what is to happen then, and I shall expect you to be one of the guests who come earliest and leave latest. Will you promise me your hand for two dances. Miss Hetty ? If I don't get your promise now, T know I shall hardly have a chance, for all ADAM BEDE. 155 the smart young farmers will take care to secure you." Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs Poyser interposed, scandalised at the mere suggestion that the young squire could be excluded by any meaner partners. " Indeed, sir, you're very kind to take that notice of her. And I m sure whenever you're pleased to dance with her, she'll be proud and thankful, if she stood stni all the rest o' th' evening/' " no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows who can dance. But you will promise me two dances, won't you ? " the Captain continued, determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him. Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a half-shy, half-coquettish glance at him as she said, " Yes, thank you, sir." " And you must bring all your children, you know, Mrs Poyser ; your little Totty, as well as the boys. I want all the youngest children on the estate to be there — all those who will be fine young men and women when I'm a bald old fellow." " dear sir, that 'ull be a long time first," said loC ADAM BEDE. Mrs Poyscr, quite overcome at the young squire's speaking so lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this remarkable specimen of high-born humour. The Captain was thought to be " very full of his jokes/' and was a great favourite throughout the estate on accomit of his free manners. Every tenant was quite sure things would be different when the reins got into his hands — there was to be a millennial abundance of new gates, allowances of lime, and returns of ten per cent. " But where is Totty to-day ? " he said. " I want to see her." " Where is the little un, Hetty ? " said Mrs Poyser. '' She came in here not lono- aoo." " I don't know. She went into the brewhouse to Nancy, I think." The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen, in search of her, not, however, without mis- givings lest something should have happened to render her person and attire unfit for presentation. " And do you carry the butter to market when you've made it ? " said the Captain to Hetty, mean- while. ADAM BEDE. 1 0< " no, sir ; not when it's so heavy ; I'm not strong enough to cany it. Alick takes it on horse- back" " No, I'm sure your pretty arms were never meant for such hea^y weights. But you go out a walk sometimes these pleasant evening.s, don't you ? TVTiy don't you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it's so green and pleasant ? I hardly ever see you anywhere except at home and at church." " Aunt doesn't like me to go a-waDdng only when I'm going somewhere," said Hetty. " But I go through the CTiase sometimes." "And don't you ever go to see Mrs Best, the housekeeper ? I think I saw you once in the house- keeper's room." " It isn't :Mrs Best, it's IVIrs Pomfret, the lady's- maid, as I go to see. She's teaching me tent-stitch and the lace-mending. I'm going to tea "uith her to-morrow afternoon." The reason why there had been space for this tete-a-tete can only be known by looking into the back-kitchen, where Totty had been discovered rub- bing a stray blue-bag against her nose, and in the same moment allowing some liberal indigo drops to faU on her afternoon pinafore. But now she 158 ADAM BEDE. appeared holding her mother's hand — the end of her round nose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and water. " Here she is ! " said the Captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low stone shelf " Here's Totty ! By the by, what's her other name ? She wasn't christened Totty." " sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte's her christened name. It's a name i' IVIr Poyser's family : his grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it's got to Totty. To be sure its more like a name for a dog than a Christian child." " Totty's a capital name. "Why, she looks like a Totty. Has she got a pocket on ? " said the Captain, feeling in his own waistcoat pockets. Totty immediately with great gravity hfted up her frock, and showed a tiny pink pocket at present in a state of collapse. " It dot notin in it," she said, as she looked down at it very earnestly. " No ! what a pity ! such a pretty pocket. Well, I think I've got some things in mine that will make a pretty jingle in it. Yes ! I declare I've got five little round silver things, and hear what a pretty ADAM BEDE. lo9 noise they make in Totty's pink pocket." Here he shook the pocket with the five sixpences in it, and Totty showed her teeth and wrinkled her nose in great glee ; but divining that there was nothing more to be got by staying, she jumped off the shelf and ran away to jingle her pocket in the hearing of Nancy, while her mother called after her, " for shame, you naughty gell I not to thank the Captain for what he's given you. I'm sure, sir, it's very kind of you ; but she's spoiled shameful ; her father won't have her said nay in anything, and there's no managing her. It's being the youngest, and th' only gell." " 0, she's a funny little fatty ; I wouldn't have her different. But I must be going now, for I suppose the Rector is waiting for me." "With a "good-by," a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty, Arthur left the dairy. But he was mis- taken in imamiiinoj himself waited for. The Eector had been so much interested in his conversation mth Dinah, that he would not have chosen to close it earlier ; and you shall hear now what they had been saying to each other. CHAPTER VIII. A VOCATION. DiXAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of the sheet she was mending, curtsied respectfully when she saw Mr Irwine looking at her and advancing towards her. He had never yet spoken to her, or stood face to face with her, and her first thought, as her eyes met his, was, " What a well-favoured countenance I that the good seed might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish. The agreeable impression must have been mutual, for Mr Irwine bowed to her with a benio[nant deference, which would have been equally in place if she had been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance. " You are only a visitor in this neighbourhood, I think ? " were his first words, as he seated himself opposite to her. " No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. ADAM BEDE. IGl But my aunt was very kind, wanting nie tst as slowly as tlie ADAM BEDE. Uj.9 slieep and cows. But we have some intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes ; Seth Bede, by the by, is a Methodist." " Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a gracious young man — sincere and without offence ; and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge, and the kindness he shows to his brother and his parents. " " Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them ? Their father, Matthias Bede, was drowned in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. Iin croincr now to see Adam." " Ah, their poor aged mother ! *' said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking before her with pitjong eyes, as if she saw the object of her sym- pathy. " She will mourn heavily ; for Seth has told me she's of an anxiou.s, troubled heart. I must go and see if I can give her any help."' As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work. Captain Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible pretexts for remaining among the milk- pans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs Poyser. Mr Ii-wine now rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said — 170 ADAM BEDE. '* Good- by. I hear you are going away soon ; but this will not be the last visit you will pay your aunt — so we shall meet again, I hope." His cordiality towards Dinah set all Mrs Poyser s anxieties at rest, and her face was brighter than usual, as she said — " I've never asked after Mrs Irwine and the Miss Irwines, sir ; I hope they're as well as usual." "Yes, thank you, IVIrs Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad headaches to-day. By the by, we all liked that nice cream-cheese you sent us — my mother especially.'' " I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I remembered Mrs Ir^vine was fond of 'em. Please to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultry this long while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate misiht like to have some of amonirst hers." " Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Good-by," said the Kector, mounting his horse. " Just ride slowly on, Ii-wine," said Captain Don- nithorne, mounting also. " I'll overtake you in three minutes. I'm only going to speak to the ADAM BEDE. 171 shepherd about the whelps. Good-by, Mrs Poyser ; tell your husband I shall come and have a long talk with him soon." Mrs Poyser curtsied duly, and watched the two horses until they had disappeared from the yard, amidst great excitement on the part of the pigs and the poultry, and under the furious indignation of the bull-dog, who performed a PyiThic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking of his chain. ]\Irs Poyser delighted in this noisy exit ; it was a fresh assurance to her that the farmyard was well guarded, and that no loiterers could enter un- observed ; and it was not until the gate had closed behind the Captain that she turned into the kitchen again, where Dinah stood with her bonnet in her hand, waiting to speak to her aunt, before she set out for Lisbeth Bede's cottage. Mrs Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking on it until she had dis- burthened herself of her surprise at Mr Ir^vine's behaviour. " Why, Mr Ii^wine wasn't angiy, then ? What did he say to you, Dinah? Didn't he scold you fur preaching ? " " No, he was not at all angry ; he was very 172 ADAM BEDE. friendly to me. I was quite drawn out to speak to him ; I hardly know how, for I had always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the morning sunshine/' " Pleasant ! and what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" said Mrs Poyser, impatiently, resuminfir her knittincr. " I should think his counte- nance is pleasant indeed ! and him a gentleman born, and's got a mother like a picter. You may go the country round, and not find such another woman turned sixty-six. It's summat-like to see such a man as that i' the desk of a Sunday 1 As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at a full crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it ; it makes you think the world's comfortable-like. But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon oo to look at a lot o' bare-ribbed runts on a common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's rioht, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than bacon -sword and sour-cake i' their lives. But what did Mr Ir^vine say to you about that fool's trick o' preaching on the Green ? '" " He only said he'd heard of it ; he didn't seem to feel any disj^leasure about it. But, dear aunt, don't think any more about that. He told me some- ADAM BEDE. 173 thing tliat I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that the aged mother ^vill be greatly in need of comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am p-omcr to set out." " Dear heart, dear heart ! But you must have a cup o' tea first, child," said Mrs Poyser, falling at once from the key of B with five sharps to the frank and genial C, " The kettle's boiling — we'll have it ready in a minute ; and the young uns 'ull be in and wanting theirs directly. I'm quite willing you should go and see th' old woman, for you're one as is allays welcome in trouble, Methodist or no Meth- odist ; but for the matter o' that, it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk and some o' new milk, and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the look and the smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way nor in — God forgi' me for saying so — for he's done little this ten year but make trouble for them as belonged to him ; and I think it 'ud be well for you to take a little bottle o' rum for th' old woman, for I daresay she's got never a drop o' nothing to com- 174 ADAM BEDE. fort her inside. Sit down, child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o' tea, and so I tell you." During the latter part of this speech, Mrs Poyser had been reaching: down the tea-thinos from the shelves, and was on her way towards the pantry for the loaf, followed close by Totty, who had made her appearance on the rattling of the tea-cups, when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up, and clasping her hands at the back of her head. " ^lolly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch of dock-leaves : the butter s ready to pack up now." " D' you hear what's happened, Hetty ?" said her aunt. "No; how should I hear anything?" was the answer, in a pettish tone. " Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're too feather-headed to mind if every- body was dead, so as you could stay up-stairs a-dress- ing yourself for two hours by the clock. But any- body besides yourself 'ud mind about such things happening to them as think a deal more of you than you deserve. But Adam Bede and all his kin might ADAM BEDE. 175 be drownded for what you'd care — ^you'd be perking at the glass the next minute." " Adam Bede — drowned ? " said Hetty, letting her arms fall, and looking rather bewildered, but suspect- ing that her aunt was as usual exaggerating with a didactic purpose. " No, my dear, no," said Dinah, kindly, for Mrs Poyser had passed on to the pantry without deigning more precise information. " Not Adam. Adam's father, the old man, is drowned. He was drowned last night in the Willow Brook. Mr Irwine has just told me about it." " 0, how dreadful ! " said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply affected ; and as Molly now entered with the dock-leaves, she took them silently and returned to the dairy without asking further ques- tions. CHAPTER IX. HETTY S WORLD. While she adjusted the broad leaves that set oft' tlie pale fragrant butter as the primrose is set off" by its nest of green, I am afraid Hetty was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from a handsome young- gentleman, with white hands, a gold chain, occa- sional regimentals, and wealth and grandeur immea- surable — those were the warm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating, and playing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response to any other influence divine or human than certain short-lived sunbeams of morning ; and we must learn to accommodate ourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly-fashioned instruments ADAM BEDE. 177 called human souls have only a very limited range of music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others with tremulous rapture or quivering agony. Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to Hay- slope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her ; and that he would have made much more decided advances if her uncle Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was so foul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him by any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr Craig, the gardener at the Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made unmistakable avow- als in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She knew still better, that Adam Bede — tall, up- right, clever, brave Adam Bede — who carried such authority with all the people round about, and whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that " Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those as thought themselves his betters *' — she knew that this Adam, who was often rather stern to other people, and not much VOL. I. M 178 ADAM BEDE. given to run after the lasses, could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't help perceiving that Adam was " something like'' a man ; always knew what to say about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended the churn in no time ; knew, with only look- ing at it, the value of the chestnut tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the walls, and what they must do to stop the rats ; and wrote a beautiful hand that you could read off, and could do figures in his head — a degree of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that country-side. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to HaysloiDC, had only broken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as for Mr Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knock- kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk ; moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way to forty. Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there was ADAM BEDE. 179 no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable artisan, and on the home-hearth, as well as in the public-house, they might be seen taking their jug of ale together ; the farmer having a latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which sustained liim under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin Poyser was not a frequenter of public-houses, but he liked a friendly chat over his own home-brewed ; and though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn some- thing from a clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accord- ingly, for the last three years — ever since he had superintended the building of the new barn — Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Farm, especially of a winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, master and mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that glo- rious kitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the last two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her uncle say, "Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Bur<]i;e is in the right on't 180 ADAM BEDE. to want liim to go partners and marry his daughter, if it's true what they say ; the woman as marries him 'ull have a good take, be't Lady-day or Michael- mas," — a remark which Mrs Poyser always followed up with her cordial assent. " Ah," she would say, " it's all very fine having a ready-made rich man, but may-happen he'll be a ready-made fool ; and it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a hole in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own, if you've got a soft to drive you : he 11 soon turn you over into the ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains ; for where's the use of a woman hav- ing brains of her o^^ai if she's tackled to a geek as everybody's a-laughing at ? She might as well dress herself fine to sit back'ards on a donkey." These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of Mrs Poyser's mind with regard to Adam ; and though she and her husband might have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter of their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match with Adam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servant elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a domestic help to ADAM BEDE. 181 her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more positive labour than the su- perintendence of servants and children ? But Hetty- had never given Adam any steady encouragement. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself to think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful, keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indig- nant if he had shown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny, and at- taching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. " Mary Burge, indeed 1 such a sallow- faced girl : if she put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crow-flower, and her hair was as straight as a hank of cotton." And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from the HaU Faim, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by little airs of meek- ness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his neglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very dijfferent affair ! There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never grew a shade 182 ADAM BEDE. deeper •when his name was mentioned ; she felt no thrill when she saw him passing along the cause- way by the window, or advancing towards her un- expectedly in the footpath across the meadow ; she felt nothing when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing that he loved her, and would not care to look at Mary Burge : he could no more stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young love, than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the subtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was — a poor man, with old parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to give her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. And Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries : to sit in a carpeted parlour and always wear white stockings ; to have some laro^e beautiful earrino^s, such as were all the fashion ; to have Nottingham lace round the top of her gown, and something to make her handker- chief smell nice, like Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church ; and not to be obhged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him well enough to marry him. ADAM BEDE. 183 But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty — vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects, but produc- ing a pleasant nai-cotic efiect, making her tread the gi'omid and go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and showing her all things through a soft, liquid vale, as if she were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty had become aware that !Mr Arthur Donnithome would take a good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her ; that he always placed himself at church so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing ; that he was constantly finding reasons for calling at the HaU Farm, and always would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak to him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present the idea that the young squire could ever be her lover, than a baker's pretty daughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperial but admiring smile, conceives that she shall be made empress. But the baker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young emperor, and perhaps weighs the flour amiss while 184 ADAM BEDE. she is thinking what a heavenly lot it must be to have him for a husband : and so poor Hetty had got a face and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams ; bright, soft glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so fine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her mth a sad, beseeching tenderness ; but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little silly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through that atmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of little else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had directed towards her — of little else than recalling the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and be- came conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture, with an odour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish thoughts ! you see ; having notliing at all to do with the love felt by sweet giiis of eighteen in our days ; but all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years ago, and Hetty was quite uneducated — a simple farmer's girl, to ADAM BEDE. 185 whom a gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian God. Until to-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the next time Captain Domiithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday when she should see him at church ; but now she thought, perhaps he would try to meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow — and if he should speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by ! That had never hap- pened yet ; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past, was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow — whereabout in the Chase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new rose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say to her to make her return his glance — a glance which she would be living through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day. In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned ? Young souls, in such pleasant dehrium as hers, are as imsympathetic as butterflies sipping nectar ; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier of dreams — by invisible looks and impalpable arms. While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the 186 ADAM BEDE. butter, and her head filled with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Doniiithorne, riding by Mr Irwine's side towai'ds the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain indistinct anticipations, running as an under-current in his mind while he was listening to Mr Irwine's accoimt of Dinah ; — indistinct, yet strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr Irwine suddenly said, " ^Vllat fascinated you so in Mrs Poyser's daii7, Arthur? Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and skimming-dishes ? '' Aithur knew the Eector too well to suppose that a clever invention would be of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, " No, I went to look at the pretty butter-maker, Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe ; and if I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girls one sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns. That common round red face one sees sometimes in the men — aU cheek and no features, like Martin Poyser's — comes out in the women of the family as the most charm- ing phiz imaginable." "Well, I have no objection to your contemplat- ing Hetty in an artistic light, but I must not have ADAM BEDE. 187 you feeding her vanity, and filling her little noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's wife — honest Craig's, for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little puss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable as it's a law of natui'e for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty. Apro- pos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get settled, now the poor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and I've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he looked uneasy, and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a better posi- tion. He has independence of spirit enough for two men — rather an excess of pride, if anything." " That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's shoes, and make a fine thinor of that buildincr business, I'll answer for him. I should like to see him well settled in this parish ; he would be ready then to act as my grand-vizier 188 ADAM BEDE. when I wanted one. We could plan no end of repairs and improvements together. I've never seen the girl, though, I think — at least I've never looked at her." " Look at her next Sunday at church — she sits with her father on the left of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. W^hen IVe made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to me, and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arith- metic and inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom has become cheap, I bestow it upon you." " Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day, though I don't know that I have any present use for it. Bless me ! how the brook has overflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of the hill." That is the gxeat advantage of dialogue on horse- back ; it can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the necessity of further conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind Adam's cottage. CHAPTER X. DINAH VISITS LISBETH. At five o'clock Lisbeth came dowii-stairs with a large key in her hand : it was the key of the cham- ber where her husband lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been in incessant movement, perform- ing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and exactitude that belono* to relioious rites. She had brought out her httle store of bleached linen, which she had for long years kept in reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterday — that time so many midsummers ago, when she had told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure and reach it out for her when she died, for she was the elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to the strictest purity every object in the sacred chamber, and of removing from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small win- 190 ADAM BEDE. dow wliich had hitherto freely let in the frosty moonliofht or the warm summer smirise on the working man's slumber, must now be darkened with a fail' white sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters as in ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a long-neglected and unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of bed- curtain ; for the moments were few and precious now in which she would be able to do the smallest office of respect or love for the still corpse, to which in all her thoughts she attributed some consciousness. Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgot- ten them ; they can be injured by us, they can be wounded ; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty ; all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence. And the aged peasant-woman most of all believes that her dead are conscious. Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with an indistinct expecta- tion that she should know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by her husband and her sons ; and now she felt as if the greatest work of her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried decently before her — under the ADAM BEDE. 191 wliite thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she lay in the coffin, yet all the while saw the sunshine above, and smelt the wliite blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the Sunday she went to be churched after Adam was born. But now she had done everything that could be done to-day in the chamber of death — had done it all herself, with some aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from the village, not beino; fond of female neiohbours generally ; and her favourite Dolly, the old house- keeper at Mr Burge's, who had come to condole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death, was too dim-sighted to be of much use. She had locked the door, and now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in ordinary times she would never have consented to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that day ; it was soiled with the tread of muddy shoes, and imtidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But what at another time would have been intolerable to Lisbeth's habits of order and cleanliness, seemed to her now just what should be ; it was ri j> he shall not return to me. " Eh, that's a true word 1 " said Lisbeth. " Yea, my old man wonna come back to me, but I shall go to him — the sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi' me : there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the back kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee mayst reach down Adam's new Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall read us a chapter. Eh, I like them words — I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me." VOL. I. o 210 ADAM BEDE. Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater quietness of spirit that had come over Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence from exhortation. From her girlhood upwards she had had experience among the sick and the mourning, among minds hardened and shrivelled through poverty and ignorance, and had gained the subtlest perception of the mode in which they could best be touched, and softened into willingness to receive words of spiritual consolation or warning. As Dinah expressed it, " She was never left to her- self ; but it was always given her when to keep silence and when to speak." And do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by the name of inspiration ? After our subtlest analy- sis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that our highest thoughts and our best deeds are all given to us. And so there was earnest prayer — there was faith, love, and hope pouring itself forth that evening in the little kitchen. And poor aged fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any course of religious emotions, felt a vague ADAM BEDE. 211 sense of goodness and love, and of something right lying underneath and beyond all this sorrowing life. She couldn't understand the sorrow ; but, for these moments, under the subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be patient and still CHAPTER XI. IN THE COTTAGE. It was but half-past four the next morning, when Dinah, tired of lying awake listening to the birds, and watching the erowino; liaht throuojh the little window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But akeady some one else was astir in the house, and had gone down stairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down ; but Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had staid up working the night before. Seth, however, had only just awaked at the sound of the opening door. The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last by Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been counteracted by any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work ; and ADAM BEDE. 213 SO when he went to bed, it was not till he had tired himself with hours of tossing wakefulness, that drow- siness came, and led on a hea\der morning sleep than was usual with him. But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was eager to begin the new day, and subdue sad- ness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in the valley ; it was going to be a bright, warm day, and he would start to work again when he had had his breakfast. " There's nothinor but what's bearable as Ions: as a man can work," he said to himself : '• the natur o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing but change. The square o' four is sixteen, and you must lengthen your lever in proportion to your weight, is as true when a man's miserable as when he's happy ; and the best o' working is, it gives you a gi^ip hold o' things outside your own lot."' As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely himself again, and ^vith his black eyes as keen as ever, and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the workshop to look out the wood for his father's 214 ADAM BEDE. coffin, iutending that he and Seth should cany it with them to Jonathan Burge's, and have the coffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not see and hear the sad task going forward at home. He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a light rapid foot on the stairs — certainly not liis mother's. He had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered whose step this could be. A fool- ish thought came, and moved him strangely. As if it could be Hetty ! She was the last person likely to be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look, and have the clear proof that it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listenino; to sounds which his imao;ination interpreted for him so pleasantly, that the keen strong face became suffused with a timid tenderness. The light footstep moved about the kitchen, followed by the sound of the sweeping brush, hardly making so much noise as the lightest breeze that chases the autumn leaves along the dusty path ; and Adam's imagination saw a dimpled face, with dark bright eyes and roguish smiles looking backward at this brush, and a rounded fio-nre just leaning a little to ADAM BEDE. 215 clasii^ the handle. A very foolish thought— it could not be Hetty ; but the only way of dismissing such nonsense from his head was to go and see who it was, for his fancy only got nearer and nearer to belief while he stood there listening. He loosed the plank, and went to the kitchen door. '' How do you do, Adam Bede ? " said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from her sweeping, and fix- ing her mild grave eyes upon him. " I trust you feel rested and strengthened again to bear the bur- then and heat of the day.'' It was like dreaming of the sunshine, and awak- ing in the moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but always at the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's, and he had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in love with her, so that his attention had not hitherto been drawn towards her for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black gown, and her pale serene face, impressed him with all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with the concentrated, examining glance which a man gives; to an object in wliich he 216 ADAM BEDK. has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for the first time in her life, felt a painful self-consciousness ; there was something in the dark penetrating glance of this strong man so different from the mildness and timidity of his brother Seth. A faint blush came, which deepened as she wondered at it. This blush recalled Adam from his forgetfulness. " I was quite taken by surprise ; it was very good of you to come and see my mother in her trouble/' he said, in a gentle grateful tone, for his quick mind told him at once how she came to be there. " I hope my mother was thankful to have you," he added, wondering rather anxiously what had been Dinah's reception. " Yes," said Dinah, resuming her work, " she seemed greatly comforted after a while, and she's had a good deal of rest in the night by times. She was fast asleep when I left her." " Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm ? " said Adam, his thoughts reverting to some one there ; he wondered whether she had felt anything about it. " It was Mr Ii^wine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved for your mother when she heard it, and wanted nic to come ; and so is my ADAM BEDE. 217 uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Eosseter all yesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go, for there's nobody round that hearth but what's glad to see you.'' Dinah, with her sjnnpathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said anytliing about their trouble ; she was too rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived to say something in whicli Hetty was tacitly included Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide- and-seek ; it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves. Adam liked what Dinah had said so much that his mind was directly full of the next visit he should pay to the Hall Farm, when Hetty would perhaps behave more kindly to him than she had ever done before. " But you won't be there yourself any longer?" he said to Dinah. " No, I go back to Snowfield on Satm^day, and I shall have to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the Oakboume caiTier. So I must pro back to the farm to-night, that I may have the last day with mv aunt and her children. But I can stav 218 ADAM BEDE. here all to-day if your mother would like me ; and her heart seemed inclined towards me last night/' "Ah, then, she's sure to want you to-day. If mother takes to people at the beginning, she's sure to get fond of 'em ; but she's a strange way of not liking young women. Though, to be sure," Adam went on smiling, " her not liking other young women is no reason why she shouldn't like you.'' Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversa- tion in motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and alternately looking up in his master's face to watch its expression, and observing Dinah's move- ments about the kitchen. The kind smile with which Adam uttered the last words was apparently decisive with Gyp of the light in which the stranger was to be regarded, and as she turned round after putting aside her sweeping-brush, he trotted towards her, and put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way. " You see Gyp bids you welcome," said Adam, " and he's very slow to welcome strangers." " Poor dog 1 " said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, " IVe a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't Iielp being sorry ADAM BEDE. 219 for the dogs always, thougli perhaps there's no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how to make ns understand, for we can't say half what we feel, with all om- words/' Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinali ; he wanted Adam to know how much better she was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the workshop to consult about the coffin, and Dinah went on \yiih. her cleaning. By six o'clock they were all at breakfast w4th Lis- beth, in a kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself. The window and door were oj^en, and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernw^ood, thyme, and sweetbrier from the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at first, but moved about serving the others with the warm porridge and the toasted oat-cake, which she had got ready iu the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mother gave them for breakfast. Lisbeth had been unusually sUent since she came down stairs, appa- rently requiring some time to adjust her ideas to a state of things in which she came do\sTi like a lady to find all the work done, and sat still to be waited 220 ADAM BEDE. on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the re- membrance of her grief. At last, after tasting the porridge, she broke silence : " Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah, " I can ate it wi'out it's tumin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen ; but how's ye t' know that ? Th' lads arena like to get folks as 'ull make their parridge as I'n made it for 'em ; it's well if they get onybody as '11 make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin' ; for ye're a stirrm' body in a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an ye've cleaned the house well enoof for a ma'-shift." "Makeshift, mother?" said Adam. "Why, I think the house looks beautiful. I don't know how it could look better." " Thee dostna know. Nay : how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether the floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee't know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as thee't like to ha' it when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it. Thee't think thy mother war good for summat then." " Dinah," said Seth, " do come and sit down now and have your breakfast. We're all served now." ADAM BEDE. 221 "Ay, come an' sit ye down — do," said Lisbeth, " an' ate a mossel ; ye'd need, arter bein' upo' your legs this hour an' half a'ready. Come, then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her side, " I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better nor wi' most folks." "Ill stay till to-night if you're willing," said Dinah. " I'd stay longer, only I'm going back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I must be with my aunt to-morrow." " Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war a young un, an' i' the right on't too ; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been a bad countiy for a carpenter." " Ah," said Adam, " I remember father telling me when I was a little lad, that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south'ard. But I'm not so sure about it. Bartle Massey says — and he knows the South — as the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal taUer. And then he says, in some o' those counties it's as flat as the 222 ADAM BEDE. back o' your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance, without climbing up the highest trees. I couldn't abide that : I like to go to work by a road that'll take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there. It makes you feel the world's a big place, and there's other men working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself." "I like th' hills best," said Seth, "when the clouds are over your head, and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I've often done o' late, on the stormy days : it seems to me as if that was heaven where there's always joy and sunshine, though this life's dark and cloudy.'' "0, I love the Stonyshire side," said Dinah ; " I shouldn't like to set my face towards the countries where they're rich in com and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread ; and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard life, and the men spend their days in the mines away from the sunlight. It's very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one's soul. ADAM BEDE. 223 and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there's nothing else to give comfort." " Eh ! " said Lisbeth, " that's very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the snowdrop flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I 'n gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' day- light; but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungTy country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking at Adam, " donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther an' mother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin' on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' th' churchyard of a Sunday." " Donna fear, mother," said Adam. " If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha' been gone before now." He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking. " What art goin' to do ? " asked Lisbeth. " Set about thy feyther's coflBn ? " " No, mother," said Adam ; •' we're going to take the wood to the village, and have it made there." " Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an 224 ADAM BEDE. eager, wailing tone ; " thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther's coffin but thyseu ? Who'd make it so well ? An' him as know'd what good work war, an 's got a son as is th' head o' the village, an' all Treddles'on too, for cleverness/' " Very well, mother, if that's thy wish, I'll make the coffin at home ; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on." '' An' why shouldna I like 't ? It's the right thing to be done. An' what's likin' got to do wi't ? It's choice o' mislikins is all I 'n got i' this world. One mossel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste. Thee mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I winna ha' nobody to touch the coffin but thee." Adam's eyes met Seth's, which looked from Dinah to him rather wistfully. " No, mother," he said, " I'll not consent but Seth shall have a hand in it too, if it's to be done at home. I'll go to the village this forenoon, because Mr Burge 'ull want to see me, and Seth shall stay at home and begin the coffin. I can come back at noon, and then he can go." " Nay, nay," persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, " I 'n set my heart on 't as thee shalt ma' thy fey- ADAM BEDE. 225 ther's coffin. Thee 't so stiff an' masterful, thee 't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi' thy feyther when he war alive ; thee must be the better to 'm, now he's goen'. He'd ha' thought nothin' on "t for Seth to ma 's coffin." " Say no more, Adam, say no more," said Seth gently, though his voice told that he spoke with some effort ; " mother's in the right. Ill go to work, and do thee stay at home." He passed into the workshop immediately, fol- lowed by Adam ; while Lisbeth, automatically obey- ing her old habits, began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any longer. Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop. They had already got on their aprons and paper- caps, and Adam was standing with his left hand on Seths shoulder, while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not aware of her presence till they heard her voice saying, " Seth Bede ! " Seth started, and they both turned round. Dinah looked as if she VOL. I. P 226 ADAM BEDE. did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth's face, saying with calm kindness, " I won't say farewell. I shall see you again when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it will be quite soon enough." " Thank you, Dinah ; I should like to walk home with you once more. It 11 perhaps be the last time." There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, " Youll have sweet peace in your mind to-day, Seth, for your tenderness and long-suffering towards your aged mother." She turned round and left the workshop as quickly and quietly as she had entered it. Adam had been observing her closely all the while, but she had not looked at him. As soon as she was gone, he said, " I don't wonder at thee for loving her, Seth. She's got a face like a lily." Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips : he had never yet confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a delicious sense of disburthenment, as ho answered, " Ay, Addy, I do love her — too much, I doubt. But she doesna love me, lad, only as one child o' God loves another. She'll never love any man as a husband — that's my belief." ADAM BEDE. 227 " Nay, lad, there's no telling ; thee nmstna lose heart. She's made out of stuff with a finer grain than most o' the women ; I can see that clear enough. But if she's better than they are in other things, I canna think she'll fall short of 'em in loving." No more was said. Seth set out to the village, and Adam began his work on the coffin. " God help the lad, and me too," he thought, as he lifted the board. " We're like enough to find life a tough job — hard work inside and out. It's a strancje thino^ to thmk of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth, and walk fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the world It's a mystery we can give no account of ; but no more we can of the sprouting o' the seed, for that matter."' CHAPTER XII. IN THE WOOD. That same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donni- thorne was moving about in his dressing-room, seeing his well-looking British person reflected in the old-fashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olive -green piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding the infant Moses, he was holding a discus- sion with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over his shoulder, had issued in a distinct practical resolution. " I mean to go to Eagledale and fish for a week or so," he said aloud. '' I shall take you with me, Pym, and set off" this morning ; so be ready by half-past eleven." The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing tenor, and the corridor, as he hur- ried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the ADAM BEDE. 229 " Beggar's OiDera," " AVlieii the heart of a man is oppressed with care." Not an heroic strain ; never- theless Arthur felt himself very heroic as he strode towards the stables to give his orders about the horses. His own approbation was necessary to him, and it was not an approbation to be enjoyed quite gratuitously ; it must be won by a fair amount of merit. He had never yet forfeited that approbation, and he had considerable reliance on his own virtues. No young man could confess his faults more can- didly ; candour was one of his favourite virtues ; and how can a man's candom^ be seen in all its lustre unless he has a few failintrs to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence that his faults were all of a generous kind — impetuous, warm-blooded, leonine ; never crawling, crafty, reptilian. It was not pos- sible for Arthur Donnithorne to do an}i;hing mean, dastardly, or cruel. " Xo ! I'm a devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on my own shoulders." Un- happily there is no inherent poetical justice in hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately refuse to inflict their worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly-expressed wish. It was entirely o"vving to this deficiency in the scheme •230 ADAM BEDE. of things that Artluir had ever brought any one into trouble besides himself. He was notlnng, if not good-natiu'ed ; and all his pictures of the future, when he should come into the estate, were made up of a prosperous, contented tenantry, adoring their landlord, who would be the model of an English gentleman — mansion in first-rate order, all elegance and high taste — jolly housekeeping — finest stud in Loamshire — purse open to all public objects — in short, everything as difterent as possible from what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the first good actions he would perform in that future should be to increase Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hay slope, so that he might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the Kector dated from the age of frocks and trousers. It was an affection, partly filial, partly fraternal ; — fraternal enough to make him like Irwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shriuk strongly from incurring Irwine's disapprobation. You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a oood fellow" — all his coUeo^e friends thous^ht him such : ho couldn't bear to see any one uncomfort- able ; he would have been sorry even in his angriest ADAM BEDE. 231 moods for any harm to happen to his grandfather ; and his amit Lydia herself had the benefit of tliat soft-heartedness which he bore towards the whole sex. Whether he would have self-mastery enough to be always as harmless and purely beneficent as his good-nature led him to desire, was a question that no one had yet decided against him : he was but twenty-one, you remember ; and we don't inquire too closely into character in the case of a hand- some generous young fellow, who will have property enough to support numerous peccadilloes — who, if he should unfortunately break a man's legs in his rash dri\ing, will be able to pension liini hand- somely ; or if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence for her, will make it up to her with ex- pensive hon-bons, packed up and directed by his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be piying and analytic in such cases, as if one were inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets about a young man of birth and fortune ; and ladies, with that fine intui- tion which is the distin£niishin2^ attribute of their sex, see at once that he is "nice." The chances are that he will f(0 throu<]jh life without scandal- ising any one ; a sea-worthy vessel that no one 232 ADAM BEDE. would refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to casualties, which sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their construction, that would never have been discoverable in smooth water ; and many a " good fellow," through a disastrous combination of circumstances, has undergone a like betrayal. But we have no fair ground for entertaininoj un- favourable auoiu^ies concerninf]^ Arthur Donnithorne, who this morning proves himself capable of a pru- dent resolution founded on conscience. One thing is clear : Nature has taken care that he shall never go far astray with perfect comfort and satisfaction to himself ; he will never get beyond that border- land of sin, where he will be perpetually harassed by assaults from the other side of the boundary. He will never be a courtier of Vice, and wear her orders in his button-hole. It was about ten o'clock, and the sun was shining brilliantly ; everything was looking lovelier for the yesterday's rain. It is a pleasant thing on such a morning to walk along the well-rolled gravel on one's way to the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to be among the soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it ADAM BEDE. 233 some irritation to Arthur. There was no having his own way in the stables ; everything was man- aged in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather per- sisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old habits, and who was allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his subordinates, one of whom had lately tested a new pair of shears by clipping an oblong patch on Arthur's bay mare. This state of things is naturally embittering ; one can put up with annoyances in the house, but to have the stable made a scene of vexation and disgust, is a point beyond what human flesh and blood can be expected to endure long together without danger of misanthropy. Old John's wooden, deep-wrinkled face was the first object that met Arthur's eyes as he entered the stable-yard, and it quite poisoned for him the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He could never speak quite patiently to the old block- head. " You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half-past eleven, and I shall want Rattler saddled for Pym at the same time. Do you hear ? " '-^34 ADAM BEDK. " Yes, 1 liear, 1 hear, Ciip'n," said old John, very deliberately, following the young master into the stable. John considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old sei-vant, and young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world Arthur went in for the sake of patting Meg, declining as far as possible to see anything in the stables, lest he should lose his temper before break- fast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and turned her mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in tlie stable, was comfort- ably curled up on her back. "^Yell, Meg, my pretty girl," said Arthur, pat- ting her neck, "we'll have a glorious canter this morniniT." " Nay, your honom^, I donna see as that can be,'' said John. " Not be ? Why not ? " " Why, she's got lamed." " Lamed, confound you ! what do you mean ? " "Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's bosses, an' one on 'em flung out at her, an' she's got her shank bruised o' the near fore-leg." ADAM BEDE. 235 The judicious historican abstains fi'om narrating precisely what ensued You understand that there was a great deal of strong language, mingled with soothino: " who-ho's " while the leo^ was examined ; that John stood by with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly- carved crab-tree walk- ing-stick, and that Ai'thur Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the pleasure-ground -vvdth- out singing as he went. He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was not another momit in the stable for himself and liis servant besides Meg and Eattler. It was vexatious ; just -^hen he wanted to get out of the way for a week or two. It seemed culpable in Providence to allow such a combination of circumstances. To be shut up at the Chase with a broken arm, when every other fellow in his regiment was enjoying himself at Windsor — shut up with his gTandfather, vrho had the same sort of affection for him as for his parch- ment deeds ! And to be disgusted at every turn ■with the management of the house and the estate ! In such circumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill-humour, and works off tlie irritation by some excess or other. " Salkeld would have drnnk a bottle 236 ADAM BEDE. of port every day," lie muttered to himself ; " but I'm not well -seasoned enough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gallop on Rattler to Norbume this morning, and lunch with Gawaine." Behind this explicit resolution there lay an im- plicit one. If he lunched with Gawaine and lin- gered chatting, he should not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in the housekeeper's room ; and when she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, so he should keep out of her way altogether. There really would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing, and it was worth dancing with a dozen ball-room belles only to look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had better not take any more notice of her ; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted ; though Arthur, for his part, thought girls were not by any means so soft and easily bruised ; indeed, he had generally found them twice as cool and cunning as he was himself As for any real harm in Hetty's case, it was out of the question : Arthur Donnithorne accepted his own bond for himself with perfect confidence. So the twelve o'clock sun saw him galloping towards Norbume ; and by good fortune Halsell ADAM BKDE. 237 Common lay in his road, and gave him some fine leaps for Rattler. Nothing like " taking " a few- bushes and ditches for exorcising a demon ; and it is really astonishing that the Centaurs, with their immense advantages in this w^ay, have left so bad a reputation in history. After this, you will perhaps be surprised to hear, that although Gawaine was at home, the hand of the dial in the courtyard had scarcely cleared the last stroke of three, when Arthur returned through the entrance-gates, got down from the panting Eat tier, and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have been men since his day w^ho have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest they should miss it. It is the favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round upon us at the moment we have made up our minds that the day is our own. " The Cap'n's been ridin' the devil's own pace," said Dalton the coachman, whose person stood out in high relief as he smoked his pipe against the stable wall, when John brought up Rattler. "An' I wash he'd get the devil to do 's grooming for 'n," growled John. " Ay ; he'd hev a deal hamabler groom nor what 238 ADAM BEDE. he lies now,"' observed Dalton ; and the joke ap- peared to liini so good, that, being left alone upon the scene, he continued at intervals to take his pipe from his mouth in order to wink at an imaginary- audience, and shake luxuriously with a silent, ventral laughter ; mentally rehearsing the dialogue from the beginning, that he might recite it with effect in the servants' hall. When Arthur went up to his dressing-room again after luncheon, it was inevitable that the debate he had had with himself there earlier in the day should flash across his mind ; but it was impossible for him now to dwell on the remembrance — im- possible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been decisive with him then, any more than to recall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened Iiim when he first opened his window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an ill-stemmed current ; he was amazed himself at the force with which this trivial fancy seemed to grasp him : he was even rather tremulous as he brushed his hair — pooh ! it was riding in that break-neck way. It was because lie had made a serious affair of an idle matter, by thinking of it as if it were of any con- sequence. He would amuse himself by seeing ADAM BEDE. 239 Hetty to-day, and get rid of the whole thing from his mind. It was all Irwine's fault. " If Irwine had said nothing, I shouldn't have thought half so much of Hetty as of Meg's lameness." However, it was just the sort of day for lolling in the Hermitage, and he would go and finish Dr Moore's Zeluco there before dinner. The Hermitage stood in Fir-tree Grove — the way Hetty was sure to come in walkino- from the Hall Farm. So nothino; could be simpler and more natural : meeting Hetty was a mere circumstance of his walk, not its object. Arthur's shadow flitted rather faster among the sturdy oaks of the Chase than might have been expected from the shadow of a tired man on a warm afternoon, and it was still scarcely four o'clock when he stood before the tall narrow gate leading into the delicious labyrinthine wood which skirted one side of the Chase, and which was called Fir-tree Grove, not because the firs were many, but because they were few. It was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there a light, silver- stemmed birch — ^just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs ; you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, r>r peeping from behind the smooth-sweeping outline 240 ADAM BEDE. of a tall lime ; you hear their soft liquid laughter — but if you look witli a too curious sacrilegious eye, they vanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that their voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from the topmost bough. Not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss — paths which look as if they were made by the free- will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs. It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under an avenue of limes and beeches. It was a still afternoon — the golden light was lingering languidly among the upper boughs, only glancing down here and there on the purple pathway and its edge of faintly-sprinkled moss : an afternoon in which destiny disguises her cold awful face behind a hazy radiant veil, encloses us in warm downy wings, and poisons us with violet-scented breath. Aithur strolled along care- lessly, with a book under his arm, but not looking ADAM BEDE. 241 on the ground as meditative men are apt to do ; his eyes tuould fix themselves on the distant bend in the road, roimd which a little figure must surely appear before long. Ah, there she comes : first, a bright patch of colour, like a tropic bird among the boughs, then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a small basket under her arm ; then a deep- blushing, almost frightened, but bright-smiling girl, making her curtsy with a fluttered yet happy glance, as Arthur came up to her. If Arthur had had time to think at all, he would have thought it strange that he should feel fluttered too, be conscious of blushing too — in fact, look and feel as foolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected Poor things ! It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing each other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled ofi" to play together. Arthur would have gone home to his silk-curtained cot, and Hetty to her home-spun piUow, and both would have slept without dreams, and to-morrow would have been a life hardly conscious of a yester- day. Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side VOL. I. Q 242 ADAM BEDE. without giving a reason. They were alone together for the first time. What an overpowering presence that first privacy is ! He actually dared not look at this little buttermaker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along by warm zephyrs ; she had forgot- ten her rose-coloured ribbons ; she was no more conscious of her limbs than if her childish soul had passed into a water-lily, resting on a liquid bed, and warmed by the midsummer sunbeams. It may seem a contradiction, but Arthur gathered a certain carelessness and confidence from his timidity ; it was an entirely different state of mind from what he had expected in such a meeting with Hetty ; and full as he was of vague feeling, there was room, in those moments of silence, for the thought that his previous debates and scruples were needless. " You are quite right to choose this way of com- ing to the Chase," he said at last, looking down at Hetty, "it is so much prettier as well as shorter than coming by either of the lodges." "Yes, sir," Hetty answered, with a tremulous, almost whispering voice. She didn't know one bit how to speak to a gentleman like Mr Arthur, and her very vanity made her more coy of speech. ADAM BEDE. 243 " Do you come every week to see Mrs Pomfret ? " " Yes, sii-, every Thursday, only when she's got to go out with Miss Donnithorne." " And she's teaching you something, is she ? " " Yes, sir, the lace-mending as she learnt abroad, and the stocking-mending — it looks just like the stocking, you can't tell it's been mended ; and she teaches me cutting-out too." " What, are you going to be a lady's-maid ? " " I should like to be one very much indeed." Hetty sjDoke more audibly now, but still rather tremulously ; she thought, perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her. " I suppose Mrs Pomfret always expects you at this time ? " " She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late to-day, because my aunt couldn't spare me ; but the regular time is four, because that gives us time before Miss Donnithome's bell rings." " Ah, then, I must not keep you now, else I should like to show you the Hermitage. Did you ever see it ? " " No, sir." " This is tlie walk where we turn up to it. But 244 ADAM BEDE. "we must not go now. I'll show it you some other time, if you'd like to see it/' " Yes, please, sir/' " Do you always come back this way in the even- ing, or are you afraid to come so lonely a road ? " " no, sir, it's never late ; I always set out by eight o'clock, and it's so light now in the evening. My aunt would be angry with me if I didn't get home before nine/' " Perhaps Craig, the gardener, comes to take care of you ? " A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. " I'm sure he doesn't ; I'm sure he never did ; I wouldn't let him ; I don't Uke him," she said hastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast, that before she had done speaking a bright drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was crying, and for one long instant her happi- ness was aU gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal round her, and a gentle voice said, " Why, Hetty, what makes you cry ? I didn't mean to vex you. I wouldn't vex you for the world, you little blossom. Come, don't cry ; look at me, else I shall think you won't forgive me." Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that ADAM BEDE. 245 was nearest to liim, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look of coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with a sweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three moments were, while their eyes met and his arms touched her ! Love is such a simple thing when we have only one- and-twenty summers and a sweet girl of seventeen trembles under our glance, as if she were a bud first opening her heart with wondering rapture to the morning. Such young unfurrowed souls roll to meet each other like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are at rest ; they mingle as easily as two brooklets that ask for nothing but to entwine them- selves and ripple with ever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places. While Arthm- gazed into Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difierence to him what sort of EngKsh she spoke ; and even if hoops and powder had been in fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then that Hetty wanted those signs of high breeding. But they started asunder with beating hearts : something had fallen on the ground with a rattling noise ; it was Hetty's basket ; all her little work- woman's matters were scattered on the path, some 24G ADAM BKDE. of them showing a capability of rolling to great lengtlis. There was much to be clone in picking up, and not a word was spoken ; but when Arthur hung the basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his look and manner. He just pressed her hand, and said with a look and tone that were almost chilling to her, " I have been hindering you ; I must not keep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Good-by." Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her, and hurried back towards the road that led to the Hermitage, leaving Hetty to jDursue her way in a strange dream, that seemed to have begun in bewildering delight, and was now passing into contrarieties and sadness. Would he meet her again as she came home ? Why had he spoken almost as if he were displeased with her ? and then run away so suddenly ? She cried, hardly knowing why. Arthur too was very mi easy, but his feelings were lit up for him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried to the Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammed it after him, pitched Zeluco into the most ADAM BEDE. 247 distant corner, and, thrusting his right hand into his pocket, first walked four or five times up and down the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself on the ottoman in an uncomfortable, stiff way, as we often do when we wish not to aban- don ourselves to feeling. He was getting in love with Hetty — that was quite plain. He was ready to pitch everything else — no matter where — for the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling which had just dis- closed itself. It was no use blinking the fact now — they would get too fond of each other, if he went on takino; notice of her — and what would come of it ? He should have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would be miserable. He TTiust not see her alone again ; he must keep out of her way. What a fod he was for coming back from Gawaine's ! He got up and threw open the windows, to let in the soft breath of the afternoon, and the healthy scent of the firs that made a belt round the Hermit- age. The soft air did not help his resolutions, as he leaned out and looked into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolution sufiiciently fixed : there was no need to debate with himself any longer. He 248 ADAM BEDE. bad made up his mind not to meet Hetty again ; and now he might give himself up to thinking how im- mensely agreeable it would be if circumstances were different — how pleasant it would have been to meet her this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet face. He wondered if the dear little thino; were thinking: of him too — twenty to one she was. How beautiful her eyes were with the tear on their lashes ! He would like to satisfy his soul for a day with looking at^them, and he must see her ao-ain : — he must see her, simply to remove any false impression from her mind about his manner to her just now. He would behave in a quiet, kind way to her — just to prevent her from going home with her head full of wrong fancies. Yes, that would be the best thing to do, after all. It was a long while — more than an hour — before Arthur had brought his meditations to this point ; but once arrived there, he could stay no longer at the Hermitage. The time must be filled up with movement until he should see Hetty again. And it was already late enough to go and dress for dinner, for his grandfather's dinner-hour was six. CHAPTER XIII. E VEXING IN THE WOOD. It happened that -Mrs Pomfret had had a slight quar- rel ■v\'ith Mrs Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday morning — a fact which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs Pomfret to have tea sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's-maid with so lively a recollec- tion of former passages in Mrs Best's conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs Best had decidedly the inferiority as an interlocutor with ^Irs Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence of mind than was demanded for using her needle and thiowing in an occasional " yes " or " no." She woidd have wanted to put on her hat earlier than usual ; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually set out about eight o'clock, and if he should go to the Grove again expecting to see her, and she should be gone I Would he come ? Her little butterfly soul fluttered 250 ADAM BEDE. incessantly between memory and dubious expecta- tion. At last the minute-hand of the old-fashioned brazen-faced timepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reason for its being time to get ready for departure. Even Mrs Pomfret's preoccuj)ied mind did not prevent her from notic- ing what looked like a new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the look- ino;-olass. " That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe," was her inward comment. "The more's the pitj^ She'll get neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for it. Sober well-to-do men don t like such pretty wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I'd been so very pretty. However, she's reason to be grateful to me for teaching her something to get her bread with, better than farmhouse work. They always told me I was good-natured — and that's the truth, and to my hurt too, else there's them in this house that wouldn't be here now to lord it over me in the housekeeper's room." Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasure-ground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet Mr Craig, to whom she could hardly have ADAM BEDE. 251 spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely under the oaks and among the fern of the Chase ! Even then she was as ready to be startled as the deer that leaped away at her ap- proach. She thought nothing of the evening light that lay gently in the grassy alleys between the fern, and made the beauty of their living green more visible than it had been in the overpowering flood of noon : she thought of nothing that was present. She only saw something that was possible : Mr Arthur Dounithorne coming to meet her again along the Fir-Tree Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty's picture ; behind it lay a bright hazy some- thing — days that were not to be as the other days of her life had been. It was as if she had been wooed by a river-god, who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery heaven. There was no knowinoj what would come since this stranoe entrancing delight had come. If a chest full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some unknown source, how could she but have thought that her whole lot was going to change, and that to-morrow some still more bewildering joy would befall her ? Hetty had never read a novel : if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have 252 ADAM BEDK been too hard for her : how then could she find a shape for her expectations ? They were as formless as the sweet languid odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past her as she walked by the gate. She is at another o^ate now — that leadino; into Fir-tree Grove. She enters the wood, where it is already twilight, and at every step she takes the fear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come ! how dreary it was — the thought of going out at the other end of the wood, into the unsheltered road, "without having seen him. She reaches the first turning towards the Hermitage, walking slowly — he is not there. She hates the leveret that runs across the path : she hates everything that is not what she longs for. She walks on, happy whenever she is coming to a bend in the road, for perhaps he is behind it. No. She is beginning to cry : her heart has swelled so, the tears stand in her eyes ; she gives one great sob, while the corners of her mouth quiver, and the tears roll down. She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur Doiniithorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only ADAM BEDE. 253 is the object. He is going to see Hetty again — that is the longing which has been growing through the last three hours to a feverish thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly fallen before dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent her from running away with wrong notions about their mutual rela- tion. If Hetty had known he was there, she would not have cried ; and it would have been better, for then Arthur would perhaps have behaved as wisely as he had intended. As it was, she started when he appeared at the end of the side-alley, and looked up at him with two gTeat drops roiling down her cheeks. What else could he do but speak to her in a soft, soothing tone, as if she were a bright- eyed spaniel with a thorn in her foot ? " Has something frightened you, Hetty ? Have you seen anything in the wood ? Don't be firight- ened — I'll take care of you now." Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or miserable. To be crying again — what did gentlemen think of girls who cried in that way ? She felt unable even to say " no," but could 254 ADAM BED*:. only look away from him, and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop had fallen on her rose-coloured strings : she knew that quite well. " Come, be cheerful again. Smile at me, and tell me what's the matter. Come, tell me." Hetty turned her head towards him, whispered, " I thought you wouldn't come/' and slowly got courage to lift her eyes to him. That look was too much : he must have had eyes of Egyptian granite not to look too lovingly in return. '' You little frio-htened bird 1 little tearful rose ! silly pet ! You won't cry again, now I'm with you, will you ? " Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not what he meant to say. His arm is steal- ing round the waist again, it is tightening its clasp ; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the round cheek, his lips are meeting those pouting child-lips, and for a long moment time has vanished. He may be a shepherd in Arcadia for aught he knows, he may be the first youth kissing the first maiden, he may be Eros himself, sipping the lips of Psyche — it is all one. There was no spealdng for minutes after. They walked along with beating hearts till they came ADAM BEDE. 255 within sight of the gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for in their eyes there was the memory of a kiss. But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the fountain of sweets : already Aithur was uncomfortable. He took his arm from Hetty's waist, and said, " Here we are, almost at the end of the Grove. I wonder how late it is," he added, pulling out his watch. " Twenty minutes past eight — but my watch is too fast. However, I'd better not go any farther now. Trot along quickly with your little feet, and get home safely. Good-by." He took her hand, and looked at her half sadly, half with a constrained smile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech him not to go away yet ; but he patted her cheek and said " Good- by " again. She was obliged to turn away from him, and go on. As for Arthur, he rushed back through the wood, as if he wanted to put a wide space between himself and Hetty. He would not go to the Hermitage again ; he remembered how he had debated with himself there before dinner, and it had all come to nothing — worse than nothing. He walked right on 256 ADAM BEDE. into the Cliase, glad to get out of the Grove, which surely was haunted l3y his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limes — there was something enervating in the very sight of them ; but the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor in them — the sight of them would give a man some energy. Arthur lost himself among the narrow openings in the fern, winding about without seeking any issue, till the twilight deepened almost to night under the great boughs, and the hare looked black as it darted across his path. He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the momino; : it was as if his horse had wheeled round from a leap, and dared to dispute his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his mind on the pro- bable consequences of giving way to the emotions which had stolen over him to-day — of continuing to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as he had been betrayed into already — than he refused to believe such a future possible for himself To flirt with Hetty was a very different affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his o\^ti station — that was understood to be an amusement on both sides ; or, if it became ADAM BEDE. 257 serious, there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing would be spoken ill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him ; and then those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their veins — he should hate himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected- He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own esteem than that he should break both his leojs and go on crutches all the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine himself in that position — it was too odious, too unlike him. And even if no one knew anything about it, they miorht oet too fond of each other, and then there could be nothing but the misery of j^arting, after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece. There must be an end to the whole thing at once. It was too foolish. And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went to Gawaine's ; and while he was there something had taken hold of him and made him gallop back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his own resolution, as he had thought he could : VOL. I. K 258 ADAM BEDE. he almost wished his arm would get painful again, and then he should think of nothing but the comfort it would be to get rid of the pain. There was no knowing what impulse might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded place, where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through the live-long day. AVhat could he do to secure himself from any more of this folly ? There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine — tell him everything. The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial : the tempta- tion would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the indifferent. In eveiy way it would help him, to tell Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the first thing after breakfast to-morrow. Arthur had no sooner come to this determina- tion than he began to think which of the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither as he coukl He felt sure he should sleep now — he had had enough to tire him, and there was no more need for him to think CHAPTER XIV. THE EETUKN HOME. While that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood with Adam at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinali, as they mounted the opposite slope. " Eh, Tm loath to see the last on her," she said to Adam, as they turned into the house again. " I'd ha' been willin' t' ha' her about me till I died and went to lie by my old man. She'd make it easier dyin' — she spakes so gentle an' moves about so still. I could be fast sure that pictur was drawed for her i' thy new Bible — th' angel a-sittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in' a daughter like that ; but nobody ne'er marries them as is good for aught." " WeU, mother, I hope thee wilt have her for a 260 ADAM BEDE. daughter; for Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll get a liking for Seth in time." '* Where's th' use o' talkin' a-that'n ? She caresna for Seth. She's goin' away twenty mile aff. How's she to get a likin' form, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out th' leaven. Thy figurin' books might ha' toiild thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays does." " Nay, mother," said Adam, laughing, "the fig-ures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but they don't tell us about folks's feelings. It's a nicer job to calculate them. But Seth's as good-hearted a lad as ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and good-looking too ; and he's got the same way o' thinking as Dinah. He deserves to win her, though there's no denying she's a rare bit o' workmanship. You don't see such women turned off the wheel every day." " Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns to- gether. Thee wart allays for halving iverything wi'm. But what's Seth got to do with marr'in', as is on'y three-an'-twenty ? He'd more need t' learn an' lay by sixpence. An' as for his desarvin' her — ADAM BEDE. 261 she's two 'ear older nor Setli • she's pretty near as old as thee. But that's the way : folks mini allays choose by contrairies, as if they must be sorted like the pork — a bit o' good meat wi' a bit o' offal." To the feminine mind, in some of its moods, all things that might be, receive a temporary charm from comparison with what is ; and since Adam did not want to marry Dinah himself, Lisbeth felt rather peevish on that score — as peevish as she would have been if he had wanted to marry her, and so shut himself out from Mary Burge and the partner- ship as effectually as by marrying Hetty. It was more than half-past eight when Adam and his mother were talking in this way, so that when, about ten minutes later, Hetty reached the turning of the lane that led to the farmyard gate, she saw Dinah and Seth approaching it from the opposite direction, and waited for them to come up to her. They, too, like Hetty, had lingered a httle in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of com- fort and strength to Seth in these parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands : Seth turned homewards, and Dinah came on alone. " Seth Bede would have come and spoken to 262 ADAM BEDE. you, my dear," she said, as she reached Hetty, " but he's very full of trouble to-night/' Hetty answered with a dimpled smile, as if she did not quite know what had been said ; and it made a strange contrast to see that sparkling self- engrossed loveliness looked at by Dinah's calm pitying face, with its open glance which told that her heart lived in no cherished secrets of its own, but in feelings which it longed to share with all the world. Hetty liked Dinah as well as she had ever liked any woman : how was it possible to feel other- wise towards one who always put in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who was always ready to take Totty off her hands — little tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all ? Dinah had never said anything disap- proving or reproachful to Hetty during her whole visit to the Hall Farm : she had talked to her a great deal in a serious way, but Hetty didn't mind that much, for she never listened : whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her ; Hetty looked at her much in the same way as one might imagine a little perch- ADAM BEDE. 263 ing bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark ; but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more than she cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the " Pilgrim's Progress," or in the old folio Bible that Marty and Tommy always plagued her about on a Sunday. Dinah took her hand now and drew it under her own arm. " You look very happy to-night, dear child," she said. "I shall think of you often when I'm at Snowfield, and see your face before me as it is now. It's a stranore thing; — sometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting in my room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hiUs, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a few days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move, almost plainer than I ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards them, and I feel their lot as if it was my owti, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and resting in His love, on their behalf as weU as my own. And so I feel sure you will come before me." She paused a moment, but Hetty said nothing. 264 ADAM BEDE. " It has been a very precious time to me," Dinah went on, " last night and to-day — seeing two such good sons as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling me what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother : it's wonderful what a spirit of wisdom and know- ledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And I'm sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among my o^vn people round Snowfield, that the strong, skilful men are often the gentlest to the women and children ; and it's pretty to see 'em carrying the little babies as if they were no heavier than little birds. And the babies always seem to like the strong arm best. I feel sure it would be so with Adam Bede. Don't you think so, Hetty ? " "Yes," said Hetty, abstractedly, for her mind had been aU the while in the wood, and she would have found it difficult to say what she was assent- ing to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would not have been time to say much more, for they were now at the yard-gate. The still twilight, with its dying western red, and its few faint struggling stars, rested on the ADAM BEDE. 2G5 farmyard, where there was not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the cart-horses in the stable. It was about twenty minutes after sunset : the fowls were all gone to roost, and the bull-dog lay stretched on the straw outside his kennel, with the black-and-tan terrier by his side, when the falling- to of the gate disturbed them, and set them bark- ing, like good officials, before they had any distinct knowledge of the reason. The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a portly figure, with a ruddy, black-eyed face, which bore in it the possibility of looking extremely acute, and occasionally contemptuous, on market-days, but had now a predominant after- supper expression of hearty good-nature. It is well known that great scholars who have shown the most pitiless acerbity in their criticism of other men's scholarship, have yet been of a relenting and indulgent temper in private life ; and I have heard of a learned man meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance of Hebrew. Weaknesses and errors must be forgiven — alas! they 26G ADAM BEDE. are not alien to us — but the man who takes the wrong side on the momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser : he was of so excellent a disposition that he had been kinder and more respectful than ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged his neigh- bours more charitably on all personal matters ; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example, whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't know the rudiments of hedgmg and ditching, and showed but a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hard and im- placable as the north-east wind. Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming operations. He hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Koyal George on market-day, and the mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his black eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door. Mr Poyser had ADAM BEDE. 267 smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, as the only resource of a man who con- tinues to sit up after the day's business is done. " Why, lasses, ye're rather late to-night," he said, when they reached the little gate leading into the causeway. " The mother s begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave th' old woman Bede, Dinah ? Is she much down about the old man ? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five year." " She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah ; " but she's seemed more comforted to-day. Her son Adam's been at home all day, workincr at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She's been talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to fret and be fearful. I wish she had a surer trust to comfort her in her old age." "Adam's sure enough," said Mr Poyser, misunder- standing Dinah's wish. " There's no fear but he'll yield well i' the threshing. He's not one o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as he'll be a good son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us soon ? But come in. "JGS ADAM BEDE. come in/' he added, making way for them ; " I hadn't need keep y' out any longer." The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abun- dant light to show every corner of the house-place. Mrs Poyser, seated in the rocking-chair, which had been brought out of the " right-hand parlour," was trying to soothe Totty to sleep. But Totty was not disposed to sleep ; and when her cousins entered, she raised herself up, and showed a pair of flushed cheeks, which looked fatter than ever now they were defined by the edge of her linen night-cap. In the laroe wicker-bottomed arm-chair in the left-hand chimney-nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but shrunken and bleached image of his portly black-haired son — his head hanging forward a little, and his elbows pushed backward so as to allow the whole of his fore-arm to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue handkerchief was spread over his knees, as was usual in-doors, when it was not hanging over his head ; and he sat watching what went forward with the quiet outward glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an unexpectant purposeless ADAM BEDE. 269 tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the sun-gleams on the wall, counts the quarries on the floor, watches even the hand of the clock, and pleases itself with detecting a rhythm in the tick. " What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty," said Ishs Poyser. " Look at the clock, do ; why, it's going on for half-past nine, an' IVe sent the gells to bed this half-hour, and late enough too, when they've got to get up at half after four, and the mowers' bottles to fill, and the baking ; and here's this blessed child wi' the fever for what I know, and as wakeful as if it was dinner-time, and nobody to help me to give her the physic but your uncle, and fine work there's been, and half of it spilt on her nicrht-orown' — it's well if she's swallowed more nor 'ull make her worse istead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use, have allays the luck to be out o' the road when there's anything to be done." " I did set out before eight, aunt," said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a slight toss of her head. " But this clock's so much before the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when I get here." " What, you'd be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks's time, would you ? an' sit up burn in' 270 ADAM BEDE. candle, an' lie a-bed wi' the sun a-bakin' you, like a cowcumber i' the frame ? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the first time to-day, I reckon." The fact was, Hetty had really forgotten the difference of the clocks when she told Captain Donnithorne that she set out at eight, and this, with her lingering pace, had made her nearly half an hour later than usual. But here her aunt's attention was diverted from this tender subject by Totty, who, percei^dng at leng-th that the arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring anything satis- factory to her in particular, began to cry " Munny, munny," in an explosive manner. " Well, then, my pet, mother's got her, mother won't leave her ; Totty be a good dilling, and go to sleep now," said Mrs Poyser, leaning back and rock- ing the chair, while she tried to make Totty nestle against her. But Totty only cried louder, and said, " Don't yock ! " So the mother, with that wondrous patience which love gives to the quickest tempera- ment, sat U23 again, and pressed her cheek against the linen night-cap and kissed it, and forgot to scold Hetty any longer. " Come, Hetty," said Martin Poyser, in a con- ciliatory tone, " go and get your supper i' the ADAM BEDE. 271 pantry, as the things are all put away ; an' then you can come an' take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, for she won't lie do"vm in bed without her mother. An' I reckon you could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a house down there." " No, thank you, uncle," said Dinah ; " I ate a good meal before I came away, for Mrs Bede would make a kettle-cake for me." " I don't want any supper," said Hetty, taking off her hat. " I can hold Totty now, if aunt wants me." " Why, what nonsense that is to talk," said Mrs Poyser. " Do you think you can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish your inside wi' stickin' red ribbins on your head ? Go an' get your supper this minute, child ; there's a nice bit o' cold pudding i' the safe — just what you're fond on." Hetty complied silently by going towards the pantry, and Mrs Poyser went on, speaking to Dinah. " Sit down, my dear, an' look as if you knowed what it was to make yourself a bit comfortable i' the world. I warrant the old woman was dad to see you, since you stayed so long ? " 272 ADAM BEDE. " She seemed to like having me there at last ; but her sons say she doesn't like young women about her, commonly ; and I thought just at first she was almost angry with me for going." " Eh, it's a poor look-out when th' ould foulks doesna like the young uns," said old Martin, bend- ing his head do^vn lower, and seeming to trace the pattern of the quarries with his eye. "Ay, it's ill livin' in a hen-roost for them as doesn't like fleas," said Mrs Poyser. "■ We've all had our turn at bein' young, I reckon, be't good luck or ill." " But she must learn to 'commodate herself to young women," said Mr Poyser, " for it isn't to be counted on as Adam and Seth 'ull keep bache- lors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud be onreasonable. It isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o' their own side. "What's good for one's good all round i' the long run. I'm no friend to young fellows a-marr'- ing afore they know the difference atween a crab an' a apple ; but they may wait o'er long." " To be sure," said Mrs Poyser ; " if you go past your dinner-time, there'll be little relish o' your meat. You turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' ADAM BEDE. 273 don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, an' the faut 's all i' your own stomach." Hetty now came back from the pantry, and said, " I can take Totty now, aunt, if you like." " Come, Rachel," said Mr Poyser, as his wife seemed to hesitate, seeing that Totty was at last nestling quietly, ''thee'dst better let Hetty carry her up-stairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in bed. Thee't bring on the pain in thy side again." " Well, she may hold her if the child 11 go to her," said Mrs Poyser. Hetty went close to the rocking-chair, and stood without her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice Totty, simply waiting for her aunt to give the child into her hands. "Wilt go to cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go to bed ? Then Totty shall go into mother's bed and sleep there all night." Before her mother had done speaking, Totty had given her answer in an unmistakable manner, by knitting her brow, setting her tiny teeth against her underlip, and leaning forward to slap Hetty on the arm with her utmost force. Then, without speaking, she nestled to her mother again. VOL. I. s 274 ADAM BEDE. "Hey, hey/' said Mr Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, " not go to cousin Hetty ? That's like a babby : Totty's a little woman, an' not a babby" " It's no use tryin' to persuade her," said Mrs Poyser. " She allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well. Happen she'll go to Dinah." Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, not liking to thrust herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came foi'ward, and putting out her arms, said, " Come, Totty, come and let Dinah carry her up- stairs along with mother : poor, poor mother ! she's so tired — she wants to go to bed." Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little arms, and let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill- humour, and, taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air of indiflference, to see if she should he told to do anything else. " You may make the door fast now, Poyser ; Alick's been come in this long while," said Mrs Poyser, rising with an appearance of relief from her ADAM BEDE. 275 low chair. '' Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the rushlight burning i' my room. Come, father." The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin prepared to move, by gather- ing up his blue handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnut-tree stick from the comer. Mrs Poyser then led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the grandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her arms — all going to bed by twilight, like the birds. Mrs Poyser, on her way, peeped into the room where her two boys lay, just to see their ruddy round cheeks on the pillow, and to hear for a moment their light regular breathing. " Come, Hetty, get to bed,'' said Mr Poyser, in a soothing tone, as he himself turned to go up-stairs. " You didna mean to be late, I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited to-day. Good-night, my wench, good-night." CHAPTER XV. THE TWO BED-CHAMBEES. Hetty and Dinah both slept in the second story, in rooms adjoining each other, meagrely furnished rooms, with no blinds to shut out the light, -which was now beginning to gather new strength from the rising of the moon — more than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She could see quite w^ell the pegs in the old painted linen-press on wliich she hung her hat and gown ; she could see the head of every pin on her red cloth pin-cushion ; she could see a reflection of herself in the old-fashioned looking-glass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and put on her nightcap. A queer old looking- glass ! Hetty got into an ill- temper with it almost every time she dressed. It had been considered a handsome glass in its day, and had probably been bought into the Peyser family a quarter of a century ADAM BEDE. 277 before, at a sale of genteel household fumitm-e. Even now an auctioneer could say something for it : it had a great deal of tarnished gilding about it ; it had a firm mahogany base, well supplied with drawers, which opened with a decided jerk, and sent the contents leaping out from the farthest corners, without giving you the trouble of reaching them ; above all, it had a brass candle-socket on each side, which would give it an aristocratic air to the very last. But Hetty objected to it because it had numerous dim blotches sprinkled over the mirror, which no rubbing would remove, and because, in- stead of swinging backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressing-table. And the dressing-table was no dressing-table at all, but a smaU old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at all comfortably. But devout worshippers never allow inconveniences to prevent them from performing their religious rites, and Hetty this evening was more bent on her peculiar form of worship than usual. 278 ADAM BEDE. Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her jjetticoat, and unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax candle — secretly bought at Treddleston — and stuck them in the two brass sockets. Then she drew forth a bundle of matches, and lighted the candles ; and last of all, a small red-framed shilling looking-glass, without blotches. It was into this small glass that she chose to look first after seating herself. She looked into it, smiling, and turning her head on one side, for a minute, then laid it down and took out her brush and comb from an upper drawer. She was going to let down her hair, and make herself look like that picture of a lady in Miss Lydia Donnithorne's dressing-room. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck. It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every oppor- tunity into delicate rings. But she pushed it all backward, to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her roimd white neck Then she put down her brush and comb, and looked at herself, folding her arms before her, still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help ADAM BEDE. 270 sending back a lovely image, none the less lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satin — such as I feel sure heroines must generally wear — but of a dark greenish cotton texture. O yes ! she was very pretty : Captain Donnithome thought so. Prettier than anybody about Hay- slope — prettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visitinoj at the Chase — indeed it seemed fine ladies were rather old and ugly — and prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself to-night with quite a different sensation from what she had ever felt before ; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morn- ing on the flowers. His soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood ; his arm was round her, and the delicate rose-scent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly conscious of her own. beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her owi\ passion vibrating in return. But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old black lace scarf out of the linen-press and a pair of large earrings out of the sacred drawer 280 ADAM BEDE. from which she had taken her candles. It was an old, old scarf, fiill of rents, but it would make a becoming border romid her shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little earrings she had in her ears — oh, how her aunt had scolded her for having her ears bored ! — and put in those large ones : they were but coloured glass and gilding ; but, if you didn't know what they were made of, they looked just as well as what the ladies wore. And so she sat down again, with the large earrings in her ears, and the black lace scarf adjusted round her shoulders. She looked down at her arms : no arms could be prettier down to a little way below the elbow — they were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks ; but towards the wrist, she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter-making, and other work that ladies never did. Captain Donnithome couldn't like her to go on doing work : he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin shoes and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them ; for he must love her very much — no one else had ever put his arm round her and kissed her in that way. He would want to marry her, and make a lady of her — she coidd ADAM BEDE. 281 hardly dare to shape the thought — yet how else could it be ? Many her quite secretly, as Mr James, the Doctor's assistant, married the Doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after, and then it was of no use to be angry. The Doctor had told her aimt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earth-born, for what she knew : it had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men — he had always been the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. it was impossible to think how it would be ! But Captain Donnithome would know ; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and could buy everything he liked. And nothing coidd be as it had been agaia : perhaps some day she should be a grand lady, and ride in her coach, and dress for dinner in a brocaded silk, with feathers in her hair and her dress sweeping the ground, like Miss Lydia and Lady Dacey, when she saw them going into the dining-room one evening, as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby ; 282 ADAM BEDE. only she should not be old and ugly like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, mth her hair done in a great many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one — she didn t know which she liked best ; and Mary Burge and everybody would per- haps see her going out in her carriage — or rather, they would hear of it : it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hay slope in sight of her aunt. At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little red-framed glass with the edge of her scarf, so that it fell with a bang on the floor ; but she was too eagerly occupied with her vision to care about picking it up ; and after a momentary start, began to pace with a pigeon-like stateliness back- wards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old black lace scarf round her shoulders, and the great glass ear- rings in her ears. How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress ! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with her : there is such a sweet baby-like roundness about her face and figure ; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so charmingly about her ears ADAM BEDE. 283 and neck ; her great dark eyes with their long eye- lashes touch one so strangely, as if an imprisoned frisky sprite looked out of them. Ah, what a prize the man gets who wins a sweet bride like Hetty! How the men envy him who come to the wedding breakfast, and see her hanging on his arm in her white lace and orange blossoms. The dear young, round, soft, flexible thing ! Her heart must be just as soft, her temper just as free from angles, her character just as pliant. If any- thing- ever o-oes wronc^, it must be the husband's fault there : he can make her what he likes, that is plain. And the lover himself thinks so too : the little darling is so fond of him, her little vanities are so bewitching, he wouldn't consent to her being a bit wiser ; those kitten-like glances and move- ments are just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyehds delicate as petals, in those long lashes curled like the stamen 284 ADAM BEDE. of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on her children ! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round thinos will hanti; about her like florets round the central flower ; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic, and the women aU lovely and loving. It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty ; only he put his thoughts into difi'erent words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself, it is only because she doesn't love me well enough ; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious thing a man could possess on earth. Before you despise Adam as deficient in penetration, pray ask yourself if you were ever predisposed to believe evil of any pretty woman — if you ever could, without hard head- breaking demonstration, believe evil of the one supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No : people who love downy peaches are apt not to ADAM BEDE. 285 think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly against it Arthur Donnithome, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature at all. He felt sure she was a dear, affec- tionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate ; and if he chances to look for^'ard to future years, probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so cliagingly fond of him. God made these dear women so — and it is a convenient arrangement in case of sickness. After all, I believe the wisest of us must be beguiled in this way sometimes, and must think both better and worse of people than they deserve. Nature has her language, and she is not unveracious ; but we don't know all the intricacies of her syntax just yet, and in a hasty reading we may happen to extract the very opposite of her real meaning. Long dark eyelashes, now : what can be more exquisite ? I find it impossible not to expect some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has shown me that they may go along with deceit, 286 ADAM BEDE. peculation, and stupidity. But if, in the reaction of disgust, I have betaken myself to a fishy eye, there has been a surprising similarity of result. One begins to suspect at length that there is no direct correlation between eyelashes and morals ; or else, that the eyelashes express the disposition of the fair one's grandmother, which is on the whole less important to us. No eyelashes could be more beautiful than Hetty's, and now, while she walks with her pigeon- like stateliness along the room and looks down on her shoulders bordered by the old black lace, the dark fringe shows to perfection on her pink cheek. They are but dim ill-defined pictures that her narrow bit of an imagination can make of the future ; but of every picture she is the central figure, in fine clothes ; Captain Donnithorne is very close to her, putting his arm round her, perhaps kissing her, and everybody else is admiring and envying her — especially Mary Burge, whose new print dress looks very contemptible by the side of Hetty's resplendent toilette. Does any sweet or sad memory mingle with this dream of the fu- ture — any loving thought of her second parents — of tlie children she had helped to tend — of any ADAM BEDE. 287 youthful companion, any pet animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots : you may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flower-pot, and they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be reminded of it a^ain. I think she had no feelinuj at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowers — perhaps not so well. It was wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to her : she hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seemg her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not understand how anybody could be very fond of middle-aged people. And as for those tiresome children, Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her life — as bad as buzzing insects that will come teasing you on a hot day when you want to be quiet. Marty, the eldest, was a baby when she first came to the farm, for the children born before him 288 ADAM BEDE. had died, and so Hetty had had them all three, one after the other, toddling by her side in the meadow, or playing about her on wet days in the half- empty rooms of the large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a day-long plague, worse than either of the others had been, because there was more fuss made about her. And there was no end to the making and mending of clothes. Hetty would have been glad to hear that she should never see a child again ; they were worse than the nasty little lambs that the shepherd was always bringing in to be taken special care of in lambing time ; for the lambs vjere got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty would have hated the very word " hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure ; that was not the sort of prettiness she cared about, but she did care about the prettiness of the new things she would buy for herself at Treddleston fair with the money they fetched. And yet she looked so dimpled, so charming, as she stooped down to put the soaked ADAM BEDE. 289 bread under the hen-coop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turn- up nose and a protuberant javr, was really a tender- hearted girl, and, as Mrs Poyser said, a jewel to look after the poultry, but her stolid face showed nothing of this maternal delight, any more, than a brown earthenware pitcher will show the light of the lamp within it. It is generally a feminine eye that first detects the moral deficiencies hidden under the " dear de- ceit" of beauty : so it is not surprising that Mrs Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportu- nity for observation, should have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in moments of indigna- tion she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband. " She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the folks i' the parish was dymg: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub ! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the mud an' cr}-ing VOL. L T 290 ADAM BEDE. fit to break her heart by the far horse-pit. But Hetty niver minded it, I could see, though she's been at the nussin' o' the chikl iver since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pibble." " Nay, nay," said Mr Poyser, " thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like th' miripe grain ; they'll make good meal by-and- by, but they're squashy as yit. Thee 't see Hetty '11 be all right when she's got a good husband an' children of her own." " I don't want to be hard upo' the gell. She's got cliver fingers of her own, and can be useful enough when she likes, and I should miss her wi' the butter, for she's got a cool hand. An' let be what may, I'd strive to do my part by a niece o' yours, an' that I've done : for I've taught her everything as belongs to a house, an' I've told her her duty often enough, though, God knows, I've no breath to spare, an' that catchin' pain comes on dreadful by times. Wi' them three gells in the house I'd need have twice the strength, to keep 'em up to their work. It's like having roast meat at three fires ; as soon as you've basted one, another's buruin'." ADAM BEDE. 291 Hetty stood sufficiently in awe of her aunt to be anxious to conceal from her so much of her vanity as could be hidden without too gi'eat a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs Poyser tlisapproved ; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, and fright, if her aunt had this moment opened the door, and seen her with her bits of candle lighted, and strutting about decked in her scarf and earrings. To prevent such a surprise, she always bolted her door, and she had not forgotten to do so to-night. It was well : for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dare not stay to take out her earrings, but she threw off her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time, and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had de- livered Totty to her mother's arms, and was come up-stairs to her bedroom, adjoining Hetty's. Dinah delighted in her bedroom window. Being on the second story of that tall house, it gave her a wide view over the fields. The thickness of the wall formed a broad step about a yard below the window. 292 ADAM BEDE. where she could place her chair. And now the first thing she did, on entering her room, was to seat her- self in this chair, and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms. She liked the pasture best, where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was half mown, and lay in silvered sweeping lines. Her heart was very full, for there was to be only one more night on which she would look out on those fields for a long time to come ; but she thought little of leaving the mere scene, for to her, bleak Snowfield had just as many charms : she thought of all the dear people whom she had learned to care for among these peaceful fields, and who would now have a place in her loving remembrance for ever. She thought of the struggles and the weariness that might lie before them in the rest of their life's journey, when she would be away from them and know nothing of what was befalling them ; and the pressure of this thought soon became too strong for her to enjoy the unresponding stillness of the moonlit fields. She closed her eyes, that she might feel more intensely the presence of a Love and Sympathy deeper and more tender than was breathed from the earth and sky. That was often Dinah's ADAM BEDE. 293 mode of praying in solitude. Simply to close her eyes, and to feel herself enclosed by the Divine Presence ; then gradually her fears, her yearning anxieties for others, melted away like ice-crystals in a warm ocean. She had sat in this way perfectly still, with her hands crossed on her lap, and the pale light resting on her calm face, for at least ten minutes, when she was startled by a loud sound, apparently of something falling in Hetty's room. But like all sounds that fall on our ears in a state of abstraction, it had no distinct character, but was simply loud and startling, so that she felt uncertain whether she had interpreted it rightly. She rose and listened, but all was quiet afterwards, and she reflected that Hetty might merely have knocked something down in getting into bed. She began slowly to undress ; but now, owing to the sugges- tions of this sound, her thoughts became concen- trated on Hetty : that sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before her — the solemn daily duties of the wife and mother — and her mind so unprepared for them all ; bent merely on little foolish, selfish pleasures, Uke a child hugging its toys in the begin- ning of a long toilsome journey, in which it \sill have to bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. 294 ADAM BEDE. Dinah felt a double care for Hetty, because she shared Seth's anxious interest in his brother's lot, and she had not come to the conclusion that Hetty- did not love Adam well enough to marry him. She saw too clearly the absence of any warm, self-devot- ing love in Hetty's nature, to regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her with a deeper pity : the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender rnind, free from selfish jealousies : it was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lily-white bud is more grievous to behold than in a common pot-herb. By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her night-gown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful intensity ; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing struggling torn and bleeding, lookino; with tears for rescue and findino- none. It was in this way that Dinah's imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each height- ADAM BEDE. 295 ening the other. She felt a deep longing to go now and pour into Hetty's ear all the words of tender warning and appeal that rushed into her mind. But perhaps Hetty was already asleep. Dinah put her ear to the partition, and heard still some slight noises, which convinced her that Hetty was not yet in bed. Still she hesitated ; she was not quite cer- tain of a divine direction ; the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger than the other voice which said that Hetty was weary, and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately. Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light enough for her, if she opened her Bible, for her to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, some- times on what chapter, -snthout seeing title or num- ber. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it sideways on the win- dow ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first words she looked at were those at the top of the left-hand page : "And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's 296 ADAM BEDE. neck and kissed him/' That was enough for Dinah ; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephe- sus, when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but opening her own door gently, went and tapped at Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had to put out her candles and throw off her black lace scarf ; but after the second tap the door was opened immediately. Dinah said, "Will you let me come in, Hetty?" and Hetty, without speaking, for she was confused and vexed, opened the door wider and let her in. WTiat a strange contrast the two figures made ! Visible enough in that mingled twilight and moon- light. Hetty, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glist- ening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dmah, covered with her long white dress, her pale face full of subdued emotion, almost like a lovely corpse into which the soul has returned charged with sublimer secrets and a sublimer love. They were nearly of the same height ; Dinah evidently a little the taller as she put her arm round Hetty's waist, and kissed her forehead ADAM BEDE. 297 "I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, wliich was irritating to Hetty, mingling with her o^Yll peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, " for I heard you moving ; and I longed to speak to you again to- night, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what may happen to-morrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair ? '' " yes,'' said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked as if she did not notice her earrings. Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush to- gether her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of excessive indifference which belongs to confused self-consciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes gradually relieved her ; they seemed unobservant of all details. "Dear Hetty," she said, "it has been borne in upon my mind to-night that you may some day be in trouble — trouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble and need a friend that vnR always feel for 298 ADAM BEDE. you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield ; and if you come to her, or send for her, shell never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you re- member it, Hetty?" " Yes," said Hetty, rather frightened. " But why should you think I shall be in trouble ? Do you know of anything ? " Hetty had seated herself as she tied on her cap, and now Dinah leaned forwards and took her hands as she answered — " Because, dear, trouble comes to us all in this life : we set our hearts on things which it isn't God's will for us to have, and then we go sorrowing ; the people we love are taken from us, and we can joy in nothing because they are not with us ; sick- ness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies ; we go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellow-men. There is no man or woman bom into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to you ; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father, that you may have a support which will not fail you in the evil day." ADAM BEDE. 299 Dinah paused and released Hetty's hands, that she might not hinder her. Hetty sat quite still ; she felt no response within herself to Dinah's anxious affection ; but Dinah's words, uttered with solemn pathetic distinctness, affected her with a chill fear. Her flush had died away almost to pale- ness ; she had the timidity of a luxurious pleasure- seeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was sometime to befall her, began to cry. It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this compre- hension, as we learn the art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up. by the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way before, and ^\'ith her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excit- able state of mind in which there is no calculatinii: 300 ADAM BEDE. what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another, and for the first time she became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away im- patiently, and said with a childish sobbing voice, — " Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me ? I've never done anything to you. "Why can't you let me be ? " Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to per- sist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired ; I won't hinder you any longer. Make haste and get into bed. Good-night." She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost ; but once by the side of her own bed, she threw herself on her knees, and poured out in deep sUence all the passionate pity that filled her heart. As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood again — her waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely more fragmentary and confused. CHAPTER XYL LINKS. Aethtjr Donnithoene, yoii remember, is under an engagement with himself to go and see Mr Irwine this Friday morning, and he is awake and dressing so early, that he determines to go before breakfast, instead of after. The Rector, he knows, breakfasts alone at half-past nine, the ladies of the family having a different breakfast hour ; Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything best over a meal. The progress of civilisation has made a breakfast or a dinner an easy and cheerful substitute for more troublesome and disagreeable ceremonies. We take a less gloomy view of our errors now our father con- fessor listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances are out of the question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible "s^ith an 302 ADAM BEDE. appetite for muffins ; an assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque form of a pistol-shot, is quite a well- bred and smiling procedure now it has become a request for a loan thrown in as an easy parenthesis between the second and third glasses of claret. Still, there was this advantage in the old rigid forms, that they committed you to the fulfilment of a resolution by some outward deed : when you have put your mouth to one end of a hole in a stone wall, and are aware that there is an expectant ear at the other end, you are more likely to say what you came out with the intention of saying, than if you were seated with your legs in an easy attitude under the mahogany, with a companion who will have no reason to be surprised if you have nothing particular to say. However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sun- shine, has a sincere determination to open his heart to the Rector, and the swirling sound of the scythe as he passes by the meadow is all the pleasanter to him because of this honest purpose. He is glad to see the promise of settled weather now, for getting in the hay, about which the farmers have been fear- ADAM BEDE. 303 fill ; and there is something so healthful in the shar- ing of a joy that is general and not merely personal, tliat this thought about the hay-haiTest reacts on his state of mind, and makes his resolution seem an easier matter. A man about town might perhaps consider that these influences were not to be felt out of a child's story-book ; but when you are among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple natural pleasures. Arthur had passed the village of Hayslope, and was approaching the Broxton side of the hill, when, at a turning in the road, he saw a figiu^e about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless, shepherd-dog at his heels. He was striding along at his usual rapid pace ; and Arthur pushed on his horse to overtake him, for he retained too much of his boyish feeling for Adam to miss an opportunity of chatting with him. I will not say that his love for that good fellow did not owe some of its force to the love of patronage : our friend Arthur liked to do every- thing that was handsome, and to have his handsome deeds recognised. Adam looked round as he heard the quickening 304 ADAM BEDE. clatter of the horse's heels, and waited for the horse- man, lifting his paper cap from his head with a brio;lit smile of recofj^nition. Next to his own brother _ Seth, Adam would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was hardly anything he would not rather have lost than the two-feet ruler which he always carried in his pocket ; it was Arthur's present, bought with his pocket-money when he was a fair-haired lad of eleven, and when he had pro- fited so well by Adam's lessons in carpentering and tuiTung, as to embarrass every female in the house with gifts of superfluous thread-reels and round boxes. Adam had quite a pride in the little squire in those early days, and the feeling had only become slightly modified as the fair-haired lad had grown into the wliiskered young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher, or a proletaire vsdth de- mocratic ideas, but simply a stout-limbed clever carpenter with a large fund of reverence in his nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for question- ADAM BEDE. 305 inof tliem. He bad no theories about settinf^ the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done by building with ill-seasoned timber, — by ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and workshops and the like, without know- ing the bearings of things, — by slovenly joiners' work, and by hasty contracts that could never be fulfilled without ruining somebody ; and he resolved, for his part, to set his face against such doings. On these points he would have maintained his opinion against the largest landed proprietor in Loamshire or Stonyshire either ; but he felt that beyond these it would be better for him to defer to people who were more knowing than himself. He saw as plainly as possible how ill the woods on the estate were managed, and the shameful state of the farm-build- ings ; and if old Squii^e Donnithorne had asked him the efi"ect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the im- pulse to a respectful demeanour towards a " gentle- man" would have been strong within him all the while. The word " gentleman " had a spell for Adam, and as he often said, he " couldn't abide a fellow who thought he made himself fine by being coxy to ' s betters." I must remind you again, that VOL. I. U 306 ADAM BEDE. Adam had the blood of the peasant in his veins, and that since he was in his prime half a century ago, you must expect some of his characteristics to be obsolete. Towards the young squire this instinctive rever- ence of Adam's was assisted by boyish memories and personal regard ; so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur's good qualities, and attached far more value to very slight actions of his, than if they had been the qualities and actions of a common workman like himself. He felt sure it would be a fine day for everybody about Hayslope when the young squire came into the estate — such a generous open-hearted disposition as he had, and an " uncommon '' notion about improvements and repairs, considering he was only just coming of age. Thus there was both respect and affection in the smile with which he raised his paper cap as Arthur Donnithome rode up. " Well, Adam, how are you?" said Arthur, holdino- out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. " I could swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back, only broader, as when you used to carry me on it. Do you remember ? " ADAM BEDE. 307 " Ay, sir, I remember. It 'iid be a poor look-out if folks didn't remember what they did and said when they were lads. We should think no more about old friends than we do about new uns, then." " You're going to Broxton, I suppose ? " said Arthur, putting his horse on at a slow pace while Adam walked by his side. " Are you going to the Kectory ? " " No, sir, I'm ooinor to see about Bradwell's barn. They're afraid of the roof pushing the walls out ; and I'm going to see what can be done with it, before we send the stuff and the workmen." " Why, Burge trusts almost everything to you now, Adam, doesn't he? I should think he will make you his partner soon. He will, if he's wise/^ " Nay, sir, I don't see as he'd be much the better off for that. A foreman, if he's got a conscience, and delights in his work, will do his business as well as if he was a partner. I wouldn't give a penny for a man as 'ud drive a nail in slack because he didn't get extra pay for it." " I know that, Adam ; I know you work for him as well as if you were working for yourself. But you would have more power than you have now, and could turn the business to better account, per- 308 ADAM BEDE. haps. The old man must give up his business some time, and ho has no son ; I suppose he'll want a son-in-law who can take to it. But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy : I dare- say he wants a man who can put some money into the business. If I "were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of having you settled on the estate. I m sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age ; and when I've paid ofi" a debt or two, I shall be able to look about me.'"' "You're very good to say so, sir, and I'm not unthankful. But" — Adam continued in a decided tone — " I shouldn't like to make any offers to Mr Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to a partnership. If he should ever want to dispose o' the business, that 'ud be a different matter. I should be glad of some money at a fair interest then, for I feel sure I could pay it off in time." " Very well, Adam," said Arthur, remembering what Mr Irwine had said about a probable hitch in the love-making between Adam and Mary Burge, ADAM BEDE. 309 " we'll say no more about it at present. When is youi" father to be buried ? " " On vSunday, sir ; Mr Irwine's coming earlier on purpose, I shall be glad when it's over, for I think my mother \iU perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the gi'ief of old people ; they've no way of working it off ; and the new spring brings no new shoots out on the withered tree/' " Ah, you've had a good deal of trouble and vexation in your life, Adam. I don't think you've ever been harebrained and light-hearted, like other youngsters. You've always had some care on your mind ? " " Why, yes, sir ; but that's nothing to make a fuss about. If we're men, and have men's feelings, I reckon we must have men's troubles. We can't be like the birds, as fly from their nest as soon as they've got their wings, and never know their kin when they see 'em, and get a fresh lot every year. I've had enouo;h to be thankful for ; I 've allavs had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work ; and I count it a great thing as I've had Bartle Massey's night-school to go to. He's helped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by myself" 310 ADAM BEDE. " What a rare fellow you are, Adam ! " said Arthur, after a pause, in which he had looked musingly at the big fellow walking by his side. " I could hit out better than most men at Oxford, and yet I believe you would knock me into next week if I were to have a battle with you." " God forbid I should ever do that, sir," said Adam, looking round at Arthur, and smiling. " I used to fight for fun ; but I've never done that since I was the cause o' poor Gil Tranter being laid up for a fortnight. I'll never fight any man again, only when he behaves like a scoundrel. If you get hold of a chap that's got no shame nor conscience to stop him, you must try what you can do by bunging his eyes up." Arthur did not lau^h, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently, " I should think now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shilly-shally, first making up your mind that you won't do a thing, and then doing it after all ?" ADAM BEDE. 311 " Well," said Adam slowly, after a moment's hesi- tation — " no. I don't remember ever being see-saw in that way, when I'd made my mind up, as you say, that a thing was wrong. It takes the taste out o' my mouth for things, when I know I should have a heavy conscience after "em. I've seen pretty clear, ever since I could cast up a sum, as you can never do what's wrono^ without breedino^ sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It's like a bit o' bad workmanship — you never see th' end o' the mischief it'll do. And it's a poor look-out to come into the world to make your fellow-creaturs worse off instead o' better. But there's a difference between the thincrs folks call wrong. I'm not for making a sin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be let into, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn't worth wliile to get a bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see-saw about any- thing : I think my fault lies th' other way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hard for me to go back." " Yes, that's just what I expected of you," said Arthur. "You've got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But however strong a man's resolution 312 ADAM BEDE. may be, it costs him sometliing to carry it out, now and then. We may determine not to gather any cherries, and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can't prevent our mouths from watering." " That's true, sir ; but there's nothing like settling with ourselves as there's a deal we must do with- out i' this life. It's no use looking on life as if it was Treddles'on fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If we do, we shall find it different. But where's the use o' me talking to you, sir ? You know better than I do." " I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had four or five years of experience more than I've had, and I think your life has been a better school to you than college has been to me." " Why, sir, you seem to think o' college some- thing like what Bartle Massey does. He says col- lege mostly makes people like bladders — -just good for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he's got a tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle has : it never touches anything but it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid you good-morning, as you're going to the Rectory." " Good-by, Adam, good-by." Arthiu' gave his horse to the groom at the Rectory ADAM BEDE. 313 gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which opened on the garden. He knew that the Eector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left hand of this door, opposite the dining-room. It was a small low room, belonging to the old part of the house — dark with the sombre covers of the books that lined the walls : yet it looked very cheery this morning as Arthur reached the open window. For the morning sun fell aslant on the great glass globe with gold fish in it, which stood on a scagliola pillar in front of the ready-spread bachelor breakfast- table, and by the side of this breakfast-table was a group which would have made any room en- ticing. In the crimson damask easy-chair sat ^Ir Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morning toilette ; his finely -formed plump white hand was playing along Juno's brown curly back ; and close to Juno's tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady who looked on these famiUarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as ^^ossible of observing. On the table, at Mr Irwine 's elbow, 31-4 ADAM BEDE. lay the first volume of the Foulis JEsehylus, which Arthur knew well by sight ; and the silver coffee- pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed the delights of a bachelor breakfast. " Hallo, Arthur, that's a good fellow ! You re just in time/' said IMr Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in over the low window-sill. " Carroll, we shall want more coftee and eggs, and haven't you got some cold fowl for us to eat with that ham ! Why, this is like old days, Arthur ; you haven't been to breakfast with me these five years." " It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast," said Arthur, " and I used to like break- fasting with you so, when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other hour in the day. I think his morning bath doesn't agree with him." Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in Mr Irwine's presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite a new light. How coidd ADAM BEDE. 315 he make Irwine understand his position unless he told him those little scenes in the wood ; and how could he tell them without looking like a fool ? And then his weakness in coming back from Gawaine's, and doing the very opposite of what he intended ! Irwine would think him a shilly-shally fellow ever after. However, it must come out in an unpremeditated way ; the conversation might lead up to it. " I like breakfast- time better than any other moment in the day/' said Mr Irmne. " No dust has settled on one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I should certainly be- come studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed a hare, and when I Ve got through my ' justicing,' as Carroll calls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me ; and so the day goes on, and I'm always the same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the stimulus of sympathy, and I have 316 ADAM BEDE. never had that since poor D'Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your books well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn't run in your family blood." " No indeed. It's well if I can remember a little inapplicable Latin to adorn my maiden speech in Parliament six or seven years hence. ' Cras ingens iterabimus agquor/ and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps stick to me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don't think a knowledge of the classics is a pressing want to a country gentleman ; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a knowledge of manures. I've been reading your friend Arthur Young's books lately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their land ; and, as he says, making what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather will never let me have any power while he lives ; but there's nothing I should like better than to undertake the Stonyshire side of the estate — it's in a dismal condition — and set improvements on foot, and gallop about from one place to another and overlook them. I should ADAM BEDE. 317 like to know all the labourers, and see them touch- ing their hats to me with a look of good- will." " Bravo, Arthur ; a man who has no feeling for the classics couldn't make a better apology for coming into the world than by increasing the quan- tity of food to maintain scholars — and rectors who appreciate scholars. And whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You'U want a portly rector to complete the picture, and take his tithe of aU the respect and honour you get by your hard work Only don't set your heart too strongly on the good- will you are to get in con- sequence. I'm not sure that men are the fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole neighbour- hood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind which you are most bent upon, old boy — popularity or usefulness — else you may happen to miss both." " O ! Gawaine is harsh in his manners ; he doesn't make himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don't believe there's anything you can't prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live in a neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved ; and it's very j^leasant to 318 ADAM BEDE. go among the tenants here, they seem all so well inclined to me. I suppose it seems only the other day to them since I was a little lad, riding on a pony about as big as a sheep. And if fair allowances were made to them, and their buildings attended to, one could persuade them to farm on a better plan, stupid as they are." ''• Then mind you fall in love in the right place, and don't get a wife who will drain your purse and make you niggardly in spite of yourself. My mother and I have a little discussion about you sometimes : she says, ' Til never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.' She thinks your lady-love will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil, you know ; and I maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don't disgrace my judgment." Ai'thur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs Irwine's opinion about him had the disagree- able effect of a sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and getting an additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he was conscious of increased disinclination to tell his ADAM BEDE. 319 Story about Hetty. He was of an impressionable nature, and lived a great deal in other people's opinions and feelings concerning himself ; and the mere fact that he was in the presence of an intimate friend, who had not the slightest notion that he had had any such serious internal struggle as he came to confide, rather shook his own belief in the serious- ness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to make a fuss about ; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for liimself ? He would go to Eagledale in spite of Meg's lameness — go on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack. That was his thouf:;ht as he suo-ared his coffee ; but the next minute, as he was liftino; the cup to his lips, he remembered how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No ! he would not be vacillating again — he would do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the personal tone of the conver- sation altogether drop. If they went to quite indif- ferent topics, Ids difficulty would be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered, — " But I think it is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of chai^acter, that he should 320 ADAM BEDE. be apt to be mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn't insure one against small-pox or any other of those inevitable diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters, and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman/' " Yes ; but there's this difi'erence between love and small-pox, or bewitchment either — that if you detect the disease at an early stage and try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape, without any fm^ther develojDment of symptoms. And there are certain alterative doses which a man may ad- minister to himself by keeping unpleasant conse- quences before his mind : that gives you a sort of smoked glass through which you may look at the resplendent fair one and discern her true outline ; though I'm afraid, by the by, the smoked glass is apt to be missing, just at the moment it is most wanted. I daresay, now, even a man fortified with a knowledge of the classics might be lured into an imprudent marriage, in spite of the warning given him by the chorus in the Prometheus." The smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr Irwine's play- ful lead, he said quite seriously — " Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that ADAM BEDE. 321 after all one's reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can't calcu- late on beforehand. I don't think a man ouoht to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his resolutions/' " Ah, but the moods lie in his nature, my boy, just as much as his reflections did, and more. A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries within him the germ of his most exceptional action ; and if we wise people make eminent fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom/' " Well, but one may be betrayed into doing things by a combination of circumstances, which one might never have done otherwise/' *' Why, yes, a man can't very well steal a bank- note unless the bank-note lies within convenient reach ; but he won't make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the bank-note for falling in his way/' " But surely you don't think a man who struggles against a temptation into which he falls at last, as bad as the man who never struorales at all ? " VOL. I. X 322 ADA31 BEDE. " No, my boy, I pity him, in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffer- inor which is the worst form of Nemesis. Con- sequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart from any fluc- tuations that went before — consequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of consid- ering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But I never knew you so inclined for moral discus- sion, Arthur ? Is it some danger of yom- own that you are considering in this philosophical, gen- eral way ? " In asking this question, Mr Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight at Arthur. He reaUy suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing the way for him by this direct ques- tion. But he was mistaken. Brought suddenly and involuntarily to the brink of confession, Arthur shrank back, and felt less disposed towards it than ever. The conversation had taken a more serious tone than he had intended — it would quite mislead Irwine — he would imagine there was a deep passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was ADAM BEDE. 323 conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his boy- ishness. •' no, no danger," he said, as indifferently as he could. " I don't know that I am more liable to irresolution than other people ; only there are little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen in the future.'' Was there a motive at work under this stranoe reluctance of Arthur's which had a sort of backstairs influence, not admitted to liimself? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State : a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large obvious ones. Possibly, there was some such unrecognised agent secretly busy in Arthur's mind at this moment — possibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the Rector a serious annoyance, iu case he should not be able quite to carry out his good resolutions ? I dare not assert that it was not so. The human soul is a very complex thing. The idea of Hetty had just crossed IVIr Irwine's 324 ADAM BEDE. mmd as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his dis- claiming, indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followed — that there could be nothing serious in that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under the eye of IMrs Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more serious mean- ing than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the little chit's vanity, and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her life. Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away : no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even if Arthur's character had not been a strong security against it. His honest, patronising pride in the good- will and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been anything sj)ecial on Arthur's mind in the previous conversa- tion, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into details, and Mr Irwine was too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity. He perceived a change of subject would be welcome, and said — " By the way, Arthur, at your colonel's birthday fete there were some transparencies, that made a ADAM BEDE. 325 great effect, in honour of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshii-e Militia, and above all, the 'gener- ous youth,' the hero of the day. Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds ?" The opportunity was gone, ^yllile Arthur^ was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung had drifted away — he must trust now to his own swimming^. In ten minutes from that time, ]\Ir Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-by, mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determin- ing to set off for Eagiedale without an hour's delay. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. PRINTED I?Y WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. EDLSBtTRGU. ^ This book is given special protection for the reason indicated below: Autograph Association Condition Cost /- Edition v^Fine binding Format Giftbook Illustration Miniature book Original binding or covers Presentation Scarcity Subject L82— 5M— 9-64— 84330-K i' ^ >4K3|IH|ltM ' ■ ^^W