Adam Bede ...........................................................................................................................................................1

George Eliot .............................................................................................................................................1

With a single drop of ink for a mirror, the Egyptian sorcerer undertakes to reveal to any chance comer

farreaching visions of the past. This is what I undertake to do for you, reader. With this drop of ink at the

end of my pen, I will show you the roomy workshop of Mr. Jonathan Burge, carpenter and builder, in the

village of Hayslope, as it appeared on the eighteenth of June, in the year of our Lord 1799.

The afternoon sun was warm on the five workmen there, busy upon doors and windowframes and

wainscoting. A scent of pinewood from a tentlike pile of planks outside the open door mingled itself with

the scent of the elderbushes 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

forepaws, 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

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

Here some measurement was to be taken which required more concentrated attention, and the sonorous voice

subsided into a low whistle; but it presently broke out again with renewed vigour

Such a voice could only come from a broad chest, and the broad chest belonged to a largeboned, muscular

man nearly six feet high, with a back so flat and a head so well poised that when he drew himself up to take a

more distant survey of his work, he had the air of a soldier standing at ease. The sleeve 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 fingertips, looked ready for works of skill. In his tall stalwartness Adam Bede was a Saxon, and

justified his name; but the jetblack hair, made the more noticeable by its contrast with the light paper cap,

and the keen glance of the dark eyes that shone from under strongly marked, prominent and mobile eyebrows,

indicated a mixture of Celtic blood. The face was large and roughly hewn, and when in repose had no other

beauty than such as belongs to an expression of goodhumoured honest intelligence.

It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam's brother. He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of

features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render

more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face. Seth's broad shoulders have

a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother's; and

his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign. He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that

his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam's, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of

The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.

The concert of the tools and Adam's voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had

been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, "There! I've finished my door today, anyhow."

The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, redhaired 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?"

A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly. Adam did not join in

the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, "Why, thee'st

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'

"Nonsense!" said Adam. "Let it alone, Ben Cranage. You'll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day;

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

Ben, however, had now got the "red pot" in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making,

"Let it alone, will you?" Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right

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

"Let be, Addy, let be. Ben will be joking. Why, he's i' the right to laugh at meI canna help laughing at

"Come, Ben, lad," said Seth, in a persuasive tone, "don't let's have a quarrel about it. You know Adam will

have his way. You may's well try to turn a waggon in a narrow lane. Say you'll leave the door alone, and

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

They all returned to their work now; but Wiry Ben, having had the worst in the bodily contest, was bent on

"Which was ye thinkin' on, Seth," he began"the pretty parson's face or her sarmunt, when ye forgot the

"Come and hear her, Ben," said Seth, goodhumouredly; "she's going to preach on the Green tonight;

happen ye'd get something to think on yourself then, instead o' those wicked songs you're so fond on. Ye

"All i' good time for that, Seth; I'll think about that when I'm agoin' to settle i' life; bachelors doesn't want

such heavy earnin's. Happen I shall do the coortin' an' the religion both together, as YE do, Seth; but ye

wouldna ha' me get converted an' chop in atween ye an' the pretty preacher, an' carry her aff?"

"No fear o' that, Ben; she's neither for you nor for me to win, I doubt. Only you come and hear her, and you

"Well, I'm half a mind t' ha' a look at her tonight, if there isn't good company at th' Holly Bush. What'll she

take for her text? Happen ye can tell me, Seth, if so be as I shouldna come up i' time for't. Will't bewhat

come ye out for to see? A prophetess? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophetessa uncommon pretty

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

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

"Nay, I'm not turnin' noway. I said nought about the women preachin'. I said, You let the Bible alone: you've

got a jest book, han't you, as you're rare and proud on? Keep your dirty fingers to that."

"Why, y' are gettin' as big a saint as Seth. Y' are goin' to th' preachin' tonight, I should think. Ye'll do finely

t' lead the singin'. But I don' know what Parson Irwine 'ull say at his gran' favright Adam Bede aturnin'

"Never do you bother yourself about me, Ben. I'm not agoing to turn Methodist any more nor you

arethough it's like enough you'll turn to something worse. Mester Irwine's got more sense nor to meddle

wi' people's doing as they like in religion. That's between themselves and God, as he's said to me many a

"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

"Nay, Seth, lad; I'm not for laughing at no man's religion. Let 'em follow their consciences, that's all. Only I

think it 'ud be better if their consciences 'ud let 'em stay quiet i' the church there's a deal to be learnt there.

And there's such a thing as being oversperitial; we must have something beside Gospel i' this world. Look at

the canals, an' th' aqueduc's, an' th' coalpit engines, and Arkwright's mills there at Cromford; a man must

learn summat beside Gospel to make them things, I reckon. But t' hear some o' them preachers, you'd think as

a man must be doing nothing all's life but shutting's eyes and looking what's agoing on inside him. I know a

man must have the love o' God in his soul, and the Bible's God's word. But what does the Bible say? Why, it

says as God put his sperrit into the workman as built the tabernacle, to make him do all the carved work and

things as wanted a nice hand. And this is my way o' looking at it: there's the sperrit o' God in all things and all

timesweekday as well as Sundayand 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 doin' more good, and he's just as near to

"Well done, Adam!" said Sandy Jim, who had paused from his planing to shift his planks while Adam was

speaking; "that's the best sarmunt I've heared this long while. By th' same token, my wife's been aplaguin'

"There's reason in what thee say'st, Adam," observed Seth, gravely. "But thee know'st thyself as it's hearing

the preachers thee find'st so much fault with has turned many an idle fellow into an industrious un. It's the

preacher as empties th' alehouse; and if a man gets religion, he'll do his work none the worse for that."

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

"Ah, Ben, you've got a joke again' me as 'll last you your life. But it isna religion as was i' fault there; it was

Seth Bede, as was allays a woolgathering chap, and religion hasna cured him, the more's the pity."

"Ne'er heed me, Seth," said Wiry Ben, "y' are a downright good hearted chap, panels or no panels; an' ye

donna set up your bristles at every bit o' fun, like some o' your kin, as is mayhap cliverer."

"Seth, lad," said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, "thee mustna take me 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

"Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean'st me no unkindness," said Seth, "I know that well enough. Thee't like thy dog

All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six. Before the first

stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw

half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his toolbasket; 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

Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke

silence, and said, "Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un. When y' are six an'forty like me, istid o'

"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 'ull go on turning a bit after you loose it."

"Bodderation, Adam!" exclaimed Wiry Ben; "lave a chap aloon, will 'ee? Ye war afinding faut wi' preachers

a while agooy' are fond enough o' preachin' yoursen. Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play

With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop,

quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim. Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected

"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."

"Thee artna going to Poyser's thyself tonight?" said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.

Hitherto Gyp had kept his comfortable bed, only lifting up his head and watching Adam more closely as he

noticed the other workmen departing. But no sooner did Adam put his ruler in his pocket, and begin to twist

his apron round his waist, than Gyp ran forward and looked up in his master's face with patient expectation. If

Gyp had had a tail he would doubtless have wagged it, but being destitute of that vehicle for his emotions, he

was like many other worthy personages, destined to appear more phlegmatic than nature had made him.

"What! Art ready for the basket, eh, Gyp?" said Adam, with the same gentle modulation of voice as when he

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

The basket was the one which on workdays held Adam's and Seth's dinner; and no official, walking in

procession, could look more resolutely unconscious of all acquaintances than Gyp with his basket, trotting at

On leaving the workshop Adam locked the door, took the key out, and carried it to the house on the other side

of the woodyard. It was a low house, with smooth grey thatch and buff walls, looking pleasant and mellow in

the evening light. The leaded windows were bright and speckless, and the doorstone was as clean as a white

boulder at ebb tide. On the doorstone stood a clean old woman, in a darkstriped linen gown, a red kerchief,

and a linen cap, talking to some speckled fowls which appeared to have been drawn towards her by an

illusory expectation of cold potatoes or barley. The old woman's sight seemed to be dim, for she did not

recognize Adam till he said, "Here's the key, Dolly; lay it down for me in the house, will you?"

"Aye, sure; but wunna ye come in, Adam? Miss Mary's i' th' house, and Mester Burge 'ull be back anon; he'd

Adam hastened with long strides, Gyp close to his heels, out of the workyard, and along the highroad leading

away from the village and down to the valley. As he reached the foot of the 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 darkblue worsted

Adam, unconscious of the admiration he was exciting, presently struck across the fields, and now broke out

Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noonday clear; For God's allseeing eye surveys Thy

About a quarter to seven there was an unusual appearance of excitement in the village of Hayslope, and

through the whole length of its little street, from the Donnithorne Arms to the churchyard gate, the

inhabitants had evidently been drawn out of their houses by something more than the pleasure of lounging in

the evening sunshine. The Donnithorne 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 bearings of that ancient family, the Donnithornes.

Mr. Casson, the landlord, had been for some time standing at the door with his hands in his pockets,

balancing himself on his heels and toes and looking towards a piece of unenclosed ground, with a maple in

the middle of it, which he knew to be the destination of certain grave looking men and women whom he had

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 melancholylooking satellite nor was it a

"spotty globe," as Milton has irreverently called the moon; on the contrary, no head and face could look more

sleek and healthy, and its expression which was chiefly confined to a pair of round and ruddy cheeks, the

slight knot and interruptions forming the nose and eyes being scarcely worth mentionwas one of jolly

contentment, only tempered by that sense of personal dignity which usually made itself felt in his attitude and

bearing. This sense of dignity could hardly be considered excessive in a man who had been butler to "the

family" for 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

throwing his head on one side, and providing himself with an air of contemptuous indifference to whatever

might fall under his notice, his thoughts were diverted by the approach of the horseman whom we lately saw

pausing to have another look at our friend Adam, and who now pulled up at the door of the Donnithorne

"Take off the bridle and give him a drink, ostler," said the traveller to the lad in a smockfrock, who had

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

"It's a Methodis' preaching, sir; it's been gev hout as a young woman's agoing to preach on the Green,"

answered Mr. Casson, in a treble and wheezy voice, with a slightly mincing accent. "Will you please to step

"No, I must be getting on to Rosseter. I only want a drink for my horse. And what does your parson say, I

"Parson Irwine, sir, doesn't live here; he lives at Brox'on, over the hill there. The parsonage here's a

tumbledown place, sir, not fit for gentry to live in. He comes here to preach of a Sunday afternoon, sir, an'

puts up his hoss here. It's a grey cob, sir, an' he sets great store by't. He's allays put up his hoss here, sir, iver

since before I hed the Donnithorne Arms. I'm not this countryman, you may tell by my tongue, sir. They're

cur'ous talkers i' this country, sir; the gentry's hard work to hunderstand 'em. I was brought hup among the

gentry, sir, an' got the turn o' their tongue when I was a bye. Why, what do you think the folks here says for

'hevn't you?'the gentry, you know, says, 'hevn't you'well, the people about here says 'hanna yey.' It's

what they call the dileck as is spoke hereabout, sir. That's what I've heared Squire Donnithorne say many a

"Aye, aye," said the stranger, smiling. "I know it very well. But you've not got many Methodists about here,

surelyin this agricultural spot? I should have thought there would hardly be such a thing as a Methodist to

be found about here. You're all farmers, aren't you? The Methodists can seldom lay much hold on THEM."

"Why, sir, there's a pretty lot o' workmen round about, sir. There's Mester Burge as owns the timberyard

over there, he underteks a good bit o' building an' repairs. An' there's the stonepits not far off. There's plenty

of emply i' this countryside, sir. An' there's a fine batch o' Methodisses at Treddles'onthat's the market

town about three mile offyou'll maybe ha' come through it, sir. There's pretty nigh a score of 'em on the

Green now, as come from there. That's where our people gets it from, though there's only two men of 'em in

all Hayslope: that's Will Maskery, the wheelwright, and Seth Bede, a young man as works at the

"Nay, sir, she comes out o' Stonyshire, pretty nigh thirty mile off. But she's avisitin' hereabout at Mester

Poyser's at the Hall Farmit's them barns an' big walnuttrees, 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 heared 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

"Well, I wish I had time to wait and see her, but I must get on. I've been out of my way for the last twenty

minutes to have a look at that place in the valley. It's Squire Donnithorne's, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir, that's Donnithorne Chase, that is. Fine hoaks there, isn't there, sir? I should know what it is, sir, for

I've lived butler there agoing i' fifteen year. It's Captain Donnithorne as is th' heir, sirSquire

Donnithorne's grandson. He'll be comin' of hage this 'ay'arvest, sir, an' we shall hev fine doin's. He owns all

"Well, it's a pretty spot, whoever may own it," said the traveller, mounting his horse; "and one meets some

fine strapping fellows about too. I met as fine a young fellow as ever I saw in my life, about half an hour ago,

before I came up the hilla carpenter, a tall, broadshouldered fellow with black hair and black eyes,

"Aye, sir, that's Adam Bede, that is, I'll be boundThias Bede's son everybody knows him hereabout. He's

an uncommon clever stiddy fellow, an' wonderful strong. Lord bless you, sirif you'll hexcuse me for saying

sohe can walk forty mile aday, an' lift a matter o' sixty ston'. He's an uncommon favourite wi' the gentry,

sir: Captain Donnithorne and Parson Irwine meks a fine fuss wi' him. But he's a little lifted up an'

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 perhaps yet more, curiosity to see the young female preacher, proved too

The Green lay at the extremity of the village, and from it the road branched off in two directions, one leading

farther up the hill by the church, and the other winding gently down towards the valley. On the side of the

Green that led towards the church, the broken line of thatched cottages was continued nearly to the

churchyard gate; but on the opposite northwestern side, there was nothing to obstruct the view of gently

swelling meadow, and wooded valley, and dark masses of distant hill. That rich undulating district of

Loamshire to which Hayslope belonged lies close to a grim outskirt of Stonyshire, overlooked by its barren

hills as a pretty blooming sister may sometimes be seen linked in the arm of a rugged, tall, swarthy brother;

and in two or three hours' ride the traveller might exchange a bleak treeless region, intersected by lines of

cold grey stone, for one where his road wound under the shelter of woods, or up swelling hills, muffled with

hedgerows and long meadowgrass and thick corn; and where at every turn he came upon some fine old

countryseat nestled in the valley or crowning the slope, some homestead with its long length of barn and its

cluster of golden ricks, some grey steeple looking out from a pretty confusion of trees and thatch and

darkred 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 region of corn and

grass against the keen and hungry winds of the north; not distant enough to be clothed in purple mystery, but

with sombre greenish sides visibly specked with sheep, whose motion was only revealed by memory, not

detected by sight; wooed from day to day by the changing hours, but responding with no change in

themselvesleft for ever grim and sullen after the flush of morning, the winged gleams of the April

noonday, the parting crimson glory of the ripening summer sun. And directly below them the eye rested on a

more advanced line of hanging woods, divided by bright patches of pasture or furrowed crops, and not yet

deepened into the uniform leafy curtains of high summer, but still showing the warm tints of the young oak

and the tender green of the ash and lime. Then came the valley, where the woods grew thicker, as if they had

rolled down and hurried together from the patches left smooth on the slope, that they might take the better

care of the tall mansion which lifted its parapets and sent its faint blue summer smoke among them.

Doubtless there was a large sweep of park and a broad glassy pool in front of that mansion, but the swelling

slope of meadow would not let our traveller see them from the village green. He saw instead a foreground

which was just as lovelythe level sunlight lying like transparent gold among the gently curving stems of

the feathered grass and the tall red sorrel, and the white ambels of the hemlocks lining the bushy hedgerows.

It was that moment in summer when the sound of the scythe being whetted makes us cast more lingering

He might have seen other beauties in the landscape if he had turned a little in his saddle and looked eastward,

beyond Jonathan Burge's pasture and woodyard towards the green cornfields and walnuttrees of the Hall

Farm; but apparently there was more interest for him in the living groups close at hand. Every generation in

the village was there, from old "Feyther Taft" in his brown worsted nightcap, 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 imputation of

having come out to hear the "preacher woman"they had only come out to see "what war agoin' 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, and walking a step or two farther off

when the interest of the dialogue culminates. So the group in the vicinity of the blacksmith's door was by no

means a close one, and formed no screen in front of Chad Cranage, the blacksmith himself, who stood with

his black brawny arms folded, leaning against the doorpost, 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 Rann. Mr. Rann'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 endureth for ever;

and Og the King of Basan: for His mercy endureth for ever"a quotation which may seem to have slight

bearing on the present occasion, but, as with every other anomaly, adequate knowledge will show it to be a

natural sequence. Mr. Rann was inwardly maintaining the dignity of the Church in the face of this scandalous

irruption of Methodism, and as that dignity was bound up with his own sonorous utterance of the responses,

his argument naturally suggested a quotation from the psalm he had read the last Sunday afternoon.

The stronger curiosity of the women had drawn them quite to the edge of the Green, where they could

examine more closely the Quakerlike costume and odd deportment of the female Methodists. Underneath the

maple there was a small cart, which had been brought from the wheelwright's to serve as a pulpit, and round

this a couple of benches and a few chairs had been placed. Some of the Methodists were resting on these,

with their eyes closed, as if wrapt in prayer or meditation. Others chose to continue standing, and had turned

their faces towards the villagers with a look of melancholy compassion, which was highly amusing to Bessy

Cranage, the blacksmith's buxom daughter, known to her neighbours as Chad's Bess, who wondered "why the

folks war amakin' faces a that'ns." Chad's 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 cheeksnamely, a pair of large round earrings with false garnets in them,

ornaments condemned not only by the Methodists, but by her own cousin and namesake Timothy's Bess,

who, with much cousinly feeling, often wished "them ear rings" might come to good.

Timothy's Bess, though retaining her maiden appellation among her familiars, had long been the wife of

Sandy Jim, and possessed a handsome set of matronly jewels, of which it is enough to mention the heavy

baby she was rocking in her arms, and the sturdy fellow of five in kneebreeches, and red legs, who had a

rusty milkcan round his neck by way of drum, and was very carefully avoided by Chad's small terrier. This

young olivebranch, 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

milkcan by way of musical accompaniment. But one of the elderly women bending down to take him by the

shoulder, with an air of grave remonstrance, Timothy's Bess's Ben first kicked out vigorously, then took to

"Ye gallows young dog," said Sandy Jim, with some paternal pride, "if ye donna keep that stick quiet, I'll tek

"Here! Gie him here to me, Jim," said Chad Cranage; "I'll tie hirs up an' shoe him as I do th' hosses. Well,

Mester Casson," he continued, as that personage sauntered up towards the group of men, "how are ye t'

naight? Are ye coom t' help groon? They say folks allays groon when they're hearkenin' to th' Methodys, as if

they war bad i' th' inside. I mane to groon as loud as your cow did th' other naight, an' then the praicher 'ull

"I'd advise you not to be up to no nonsense, Chad," said Mr. Casson, with some dignity; "Poyser wouldn't like

to hear as his wife's niece was treated any ways disrespectful, for all he mayn't be fond of her taking on

"Aye, an' she's a pleasantlooked un too," said Wiry Ben. "I'll stick up for the pretty women preachin'; I

know they'd persuade me over a deal sooner nor th' ugly men. I shouldna wonder if I turn Methody afore the

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

"Tchu!" said Ben, with a long treble intonation, "what's folks's kin got to do wi't? Not a chip. Poyser's wife

may turn her nose up an' forget bygones, but this Dinah Morris, they tell me, 's as poor as iver she

wasworks at a mill, an's much ado to keep hersen. A strappin' young carpenter as is a readymade

Methody, like Seth, wouldna be a bad match for her. Why, Poysers make as big a fuss wi' Adam Bede as if he

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

"Maybe," said Wiry Ben, contemptuously, "but Seth's the lad for me, though he war a Methody twice o'er.

I'm fair beat wi' Seth, for I've been teasin' him iver sin' we've been workin' together, an' he bears me no more

malice nor a lamb. An' he's a stout hearted feller too, for when we saw the old tree all afire a comin' across

the fields one night, an' we thought as it war a boguy, Seth made no more ado, but he up to't as bold as a

constable. Why, there he comes out o' Will Maskery's; an' there's Will hisself, lookin' as meek as if he

couldna knock a nail o' the head for fear o' hurtin't. An' there's the pretty preacher woman! My eye, she's got

Several of the men followed Ben's lead, and the traveller pushed his horse on to the Green, as Dinah walked

rather quickly and in advance of her companions towards the cart under the mapletree. 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 itan effect which was

due to the slimness of her figure and the simple line of her black stuff dress. The stranger was struck with

surprise as he saw her approach and mount the cartsurprise, not so much at the feminine delicacy of her

appearance, as at the total absence of selfconsciousness in her demeanour. He had made up his mind to see

her advance with a measured step and a demure solemnity of countenance; he had felt sure that her face

would be mantled with the smile of conscious saintship, or else charged with denunciatory bitterness. He

knew but two types of Methodistthe ecstatic and the bilious. But Dinah walked as simply as if she were

going to market, and seemed as unconscious of her outward appearance as a little boy: there was no blush, no

tremulousness, which said, "I know you think me a pretty woman, too young to preach"; no casting up or

down of the eyelids, no compression of the lips, no attitude of the arms that said, "But you must think of me

as a saint." She held no book in her ungloved hands, but let them hang down lightly crossed before her, as she

stood and turned her grey eyes on the people. There was no keenness in the eyes; they seemed rather to be

shedding love than making observations; they had the liquid look which tells that the mind is full of what it

has to give out, rather than impressed by external objects. She 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 gather a calm vividness, like flowers at evening. It was a small oval face, of a uniform

transparent whiteness, with an egglike line of cheek and chin, a full but firm mouth, a delicate nostril, and a

low perpendicular brow, surmounted by a rising arch of parting between smooth locks of pale reddish hair.

The hair was drawn straight back behind the ears, and covered, except for an inch or two above the brow, by

a net Quaker cap. The eyebrows, of the same colour as the hair, were perfectly horizontal and firmly

pencilled; the eyelashes, though no darker, were long and abundantnothing 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 expression; they looked so simple, so candid, so

gravely loving, that no accusing scowl, no light sneer could help melting away before their glance. Joshua

Rann gave a long cough, as if he were clearing his throat in order to come to a new understanding with

himself; Chad Cranage lifted up his leather skullcap and scratched his head; and Wiry Ben wondered how

"A sweet woman," the stranger said to himself, "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 considerate view of

facilitating art and psychology, "makes up," her characters, so that there may be no mistake about them. But

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

She closed her eyes, and hanging her head down a little continued in the same moderate tone, as if speaking

to some one quite near her: "Saviour of sinners! When a poor woman laden with sins, went out to the well to

draw water, she found Thee sitting at the well. She knew Thee not; she had not sought Thee; her mind was

dark; her life was unholy. But Thou didst speak to her, Thou didst teach her, Thou didst show her that her life

lay open before Thee, and yet Thou wast ready to give her that blessing which she had never sought. Jesus,

Thou art in the midst of us, and Thou knowest all men: if there is any here like that poor womanif their

minds are dark, their lives unholyif they have come out not seeking Thee, not desiring to be taught; deal

with them according to the free mercy which Thou didst show to her Speak to them, Lord, open their ears to

my message, bring their sins to their minds, and make them thirst for that salvation which Thou art ready to

"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 Theesee 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

"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 those wordshe 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 remember

his face well: he was a very old man, and had very long white hair; his voice was very soft and beautiful, not

like any voice I had ever heard before. I was a little girl and scarcely knew anything, and this old man seemed

to me such a 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 tonight, like the picture in

"That man of God was Mr. Wesley, who spent his life in doing what our blessed Lord didpreaching the

Gospel to the poorand 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.

"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 oatcake, and lived

coarse; and we haven't been to school much, nor read books, and we don't know much about anything but

what happens just round us. We are just the sort of people that want to hear good news. For when anybody's

well off, they don't much mind about hearing news from distant parts; but if a poor man or woman's in

trouble and has hard work to make out a living, they like to have a letter to tell 'em they've got a friend as will

help 'em. To be sure, we can't help knowing something about God, even if we've never heard the Gospel, the

good news that our Saviour brought us. For we know everything comes from God: don't you say almost every

day, 'This and that will happen, please God,' and 'We shall begin to cut the grass soon, please God to send us

a little more sunshine'? We know very well we are altogether in the hands of God. We didn't bring ourselves

into the world, we can't keep ourselves alive while we're sleeping; the daylight, and the wind, and the corn,

and the cows to give us milkeverything we have comes from God. And he gave us our souls and put love

between parents and children, and husband and wife. But is that as much as we want to know about God? We

see he is great and mighty, and can do what he will: we are lost, as if we was struggling in great waters, when

"But perhaps doubts come into your mind like this: Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he

only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn't cost him much to give us our little

handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the

worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us when we die?

And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us;

else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our

life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?

"Ah, dear friends, we are in sad want of good news about God; and what does other good news signify if we

haven't that? For everything else comes to an end, and when we die we leave it all. But God lasts when

Then Dinah told how the good news had been brought, and how the mind of God towards the poor had been

made manifest in the life of Jesus, dwelling 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 people; he

preached out of doors to them, and he made friends of poor workmen, and taught them and took pains with

them. Not but what he did good to the rich too, for he was full of love to all men, only he saw as the poor

were more in want of his help. So he cured the lame and the sick and the blind, and he worked miracles to

feed the hungry because, he said, he was sorry for them; and he was very kind to the little children and

comforted those who had lost their friends; and he spoke very tenderly to poor sinners that were sorry for

"Ah, wouldn't you love such a man if you saw himif he were here in this village? What a kind heart he

must have! What a friend he would be to go to in trouble! How pleasant it must be to be taught by him.

"Well, dear friends, who WAS this man? Was he only a good mana very good man, and no morelike

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 thingsthe God we want to know

about. So then, all the love that Jesus showed to the poor is the same love that God has for us. We can

understand what Jesus felt, because he came in a body like ours and spoke words such as we speak to each

other. We were afraid to think what God was before the God who made the world and the sky and the

thunder and lightning. We could never see him; we could only see the things he had made; and some of these

things was very terrible, so as we might well tremble when we thought of 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

"But let us see a little more about what Jesus came on earth for. Another time he said, 'I came to seek and to

save that which was lost'; and another time, 'I came not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance.'

Hitherto the traveller had been chained to the spot against his will by the charm of Dinah's mellow treble

tones, which had a variety of modulation like that of a fine instrument touched with the unconscious skill of

musical instinct. The simple things she said seemed like novelties, as a melody strikes us with a new feeling

when we hear it sung by the pure voice of a boyish chorister; the quiet depth of conviction with which she

spoke seemed in itself an evidence for the truth of her message. He saw that she had thoroughly arrested her

hearers. The 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 pausing 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 the tears came into some of the hardest eyes. The stranger had

ceased to doubt, as he had done at the first glance, that she could fix the attention of her rougher hearers, but

still he wondered whether she could have that power of rousing their more violent emotions, which must

surely be a necessary seal of her vocation as a Methodist preacher, until she came to the words, "Lost!

Sinners!" when there was a great change in her voice and manner. She had made a long pause before the

exclamation, and the pause seemed to be filled by agitating thoughts that showed themselves in her features.

Her pale face became paler; the circles under her eyes deepened, as they did when tears halfgather 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 Ranter than Dinah. She was not preaching

as she heard others preach, but speaking directly from her own emotions and under the inspiration of her own

But now she had entered into a new current of feeling. Her manner became less calm, her utterance more

rapid and agitated, as she tried to bring home to the people their guilt their wilful darkness, their state of

disobedience to Godas 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, feeding on the husks of this miserable world, far away from God their

Father; and then the love of the Saviour, who was waiting and watching for their return.

There was many a responsive sigh and groan from her fellow Methodists, but the village mind does not

easily take fire, and a little smouldering vague anxiety that might easily die out again was the utmost effect

Dinah's preaching had wrought in them at present. Yet no one had retired, except the children and "old

Feyther Taft," who being too deaf to catch many words, had some time ago gone back to his inglenook. Wiry

Ben was feeling very uncomfortable, and almost wishing he had not come to hear Dinah; he thought what she

said would haunt him somehow. Yet he couldn't help liking to look at her and listen to her, though he dreaded

every moment that she would fix her eyes on him and address him in particular. She had already addressed

Sandy Jim, who was now holding the baby to relieve his wife, and the big softhearted 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

In front of Sandy Jim stood Chad's Bess, who had shown an unwonted quietude and fixity of attention ever

since Dinah had begun to speak. Not that the matter of the discourse had arrested her at once, for she was lost

in a puzzling speculation as to what pleasure and satisfaction there could be in life to a young woman who

wore a cap like Dinah's. Giving up this inquiry in despair, she took to studying Dinah's nose, eyes, mouth,

and hair, and wondering whether it was better to have such a sort of pale face as that, or fat red cheeks and

round black eyes like her own. But gradually the influence of the general gravity told upon her, and she

became conscious of what Dinah was saying. The gentle tones, the loving persuasion, did not touch her, but

when the more severe appeals came she began to be frightened. Poor Bessy had always been considered a

naughty girl; she was conscious of it; if it was necessary to be very good, it was clear she must be in a bad

way. She couldn't find her places at church as Sally Rann could, she had often been tittering when she

"curcheyed" to Mr. Irwine; and these religious deficiencies were accompanied by a corresponding slackness

in the minor morals, for Bessy belonged unquestionably to that unsoaped lazy class of feminine characters

with whom you may venture to "eat an egg, an 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 terrified sense that

God, whom she had always thought of as very far off, was very near to her, and that Jesus was close by

looking at her, though she could not see him. For Dinah had that belief in visible manifestations of Jesus,

which is common among the Methodists, and she communicated it irresistibly to her hearers: she made them

feel that he was among them bodily, and might at any moment show himself to them in some way that would

"See!" she exclaimed, turning to the left, with her eyes fixed on a point above the heads of the people. "See

where our blessed Lord stands and weeps and stretches out his arms towards you. Hear what he says: 'How

often would I have gathered you as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!'...and ye

would not," she repeated, in a tone of pleading reproach, turning her eyes on the people again. "See the print

of the nails on his dear hands and feet. It is your sins that made them! Ah! How pale and worn he looks! He

has gone through all that great agony in the garden, when his soul was exceeding sorrowful even unto death,

and the great drops of sweat fell like blood to the ground. They spat upon him and buffeted him, they

scourged him, they mocked him, they laid the heavy cross on his bruised shoulders. Then they nailed him up.

Ah, what pain! His lips are parched with thirst, and they mock him still in this great agony; yet with those

parched lips he prays for them, 'Father, 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 drop in the cup of bitterness. 'My God, my God!' he cries, 'why hast Thou forsaken me?'

"All this he bore for you! For youand you never think of him; for youand 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

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 earrings and fine

gowns and caps, and you never think of the Saviour who died to save your precious soul. Your cheeks will be

shrivelled one day, your hair will be grey, your poor body will be thin and tottering! Then you will begin to

feel that your soul is not saved; then you will have to stand before God dressed in 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

Poor Bessy's wideopen black eyes began to fill with tears, her great red cheeks and lips became quite pale,

"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 spiritshe only wanted to have better lace than

other girls. And one day when she put her new cap on and looked in the glass, she saw a bleeding Face

crowned with thorns. That face is looking at you now"here Dinah pointed to a spot close in front of

Bessy"Ah, tear off those follies! Cast them away from you, as if they were stinging adders. They ARE

stinging youthey are poisoning your soulthey are dragging you down into 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 hastily away and

began to work at his anvil by way of reassuring himself. "Folks mun ha' hossshoes, praichin' or no praichin':

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 filledhow 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

"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 blessedness is; and because I know it, I want you to have it too. I am poor,

like you: I have to get my living 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 isnot to hate anything but sin; to be full of love to every

creature; to be frightened at nothing; to be sure that all things will turn to good; not to mind pain, because it is

our Father's will; to know that nothingno, not if the earth was to be burnt up, or the waters come and

drown usnothing could part us from God who loves us, and who fills our souls with peace and joy, because

"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.

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

Dinah had been speaking at least an hour, and the reddening light of the parting day seemed to give a solemn

emphasis to her closing words. The stranger, who had been interested in the course of her sermon as if it had

been the development of a dramafor there is this sort of fascination in all sincere unpremeditated

eloquence, which opens to one the inward drama of the speaker's emotionsnow 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

IN less than an hour from that time, Seth Bede was walking by Dinah's side along the hedgerowpath that

skirted the pastures and green cornfields which lay between the village and the Hall Farm. Dinah had taken

off her little Quaker bonnet again, and was holding it in her hands that she might have a freer enjoyment of

the cool evening twilight, and Seth could see the expression of her face quite clearly as he walked by her side,

timidly revolving something he wanted to say to her. It was an expression of unconscious placid gravityof

absorption in thoughts that had no connection with the present moment or with her own personalityan

expression that is most of all discouraging to a lover. Her very walk was discouraging: it had that quiet

elasticity that asks for no support. Seth felt this dimly; he said to himself, "She's too good and holy for any

man, let alone me," and the words he had been summoning rushed back again before they had reached his

lips. But another thought gave him courage: "There's 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 yardgates of the Hall Farm at last

"Yes," said Dinah, quietly. "I'm called there. It was borne in upon my mind while I was meditating on Sunday

night, as Sister Allen, who's in a decline, is in need of me. I saw her as plain as we see that bit of thin white

cloud, lifting up 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 loath to

go, for my 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 marry her, for I canna think as she'd make him happy. It's a deep

mysterythe 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 HER, 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 Rachel; and they seemed to him but

a few days for the love he had to her.' I know those words 'ud come true with me, Dinah, if so be you'd give

me hope as I might win you after seven years was over. I know you think a husband 'ud be taking up too

much o' your thoughts, because St. Paul says, 'She that's married careth for the things of the world how she

may please her husband'; and may happen you'll think me overbold to speak to you about it again, after what

you told me o' your mind last Saturday. But I've been thinking it over again by night and by day, and I've

prayed not to be 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 striving after the same gifts; and I'd never be the husband to make a claim on

you as could interfere with your doing the work God has fitted you for. I'd make a shift, and fend indoor and

out, to give you more liberty more than you can have now, for you've got to get your own living now, and

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. His cheeks became

flushed as he went on his mild grey eyes filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he spoke the last

sentence. They had reached one of those very narrow passes between two tall stones, which performed the

office of a stile in Loamshire, and Dinah paused as she turned towards Seth and said, in her tender but calm

treble notes, "Seth Bede, I thank you for your love towards me, and if I could think of any man as more than a

Christian brother, I think it would be you. But my heart is not free to marry. That is good for other women,

and it is a great and a blessed thing to be a wife and mother; but 'as God has distributed to every man, as the

Lord hath called every man, so let him walk.' God has called me to minister to others, not to have any joys or

sorrows of my own, but to rejoice with them that do rejoice, and to weep with those that weep. He has called

me to speak his word, and he has greatly owned my work. It could only be on a very clear showing that I

could leave the brethren and sisters at Snowfield, who are favoured with very little of this world's good;

where the trees are few, so that a child might count them, and there's very hard living for the poor in the

winter. It has been given me to help, to comfort, and strengthen the little flock there and to call in many

wanderers; and my soul is filled with these things from my rising up till my lying down. My life is too short,

and God's work is too great for me to think of making a home for myself in this world. I've not turned a deaf

ear to your words, Seth, for when I saw as your love was given to me, I thought it might be a leading of

Providence for me to change my way of life, and that we should be fellowhelpers; 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 inthe times when I've prayed by the sick and dying, and the happy hours I've had preaching,

when my heart was filled with love, and the Word was given to me abundantly. And when I've opened the

Bible for direction, I've always lighted on some clear word to tell me where my work lay. I believe what you

say, Seth, that you would try to be a help and not a hindrance to my work; but I see that our marriage is not

God's willHe draws my heart another way. I desire to live and die without husband or children. I seem to

have no room in my soul for wants and fears of my own, it has pleased God to fill my heart so full with the

Seth was unable to reply, and they walked on in silence. At last, as they were nearly at the yardgate, 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. I trusted as the strong love God has given me towards you

was a leading for us both; but it seems it was only meant for my trial. Perhaps I feel more for you than I 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 begun; She is my soul's bright morningstar, And she my

That may be wrong, and I am to be taught better. But you wouldn't be displeased with me if things turned out

"No, Seth; but I counsel you to wait patiently, and not lightly to leave your own country and kindred. Do

nothing without the Lord's clear bidding. It's a bleak and barren country there, not like this land of Goshen

you've been used to. We mustn't be in a hurry to fix and choose our own lot; we must wait to be guided."

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

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

They had now reached the yardgate, 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

"Let us leave that, Seth. It's good to live only a moment at a time, as I've read in one of Mr. Wesley's books.

It isn't for you and me to lay plans; we've nothing to do but to obey and to trust. Farewell."

Dinah pressed his hand with rather a sad look in her loving eyes, and then passed through the gate, while Seth

turned away to walk lingeringly home. But instead of taking the direct road, he chose to turn back along the

fields through which he and Dinah had already passed; and I think his blue linen handkerchief was very wet

with tears long before he had made up his mind that it was time for him to set his face steadily homewards.

He was but threeandtwenty, and had only just learned what it is to loveto love with that adoration which

a young man gives to a woman whom he feels to be greater and better than himself. Love of this sort is hardly

distinguishable from religious feeling. What deep and worthy love is so, whether of woman or child, or art or

music. Our caresses, our tender words, our still rapture under the influence of autumn sunsets, or pillared

vistas, or calm majestic statues, or Beethoven symphonies all bring with them the consciousness that they are

mere waves and ripples in an unfathomable ocean of love and beauty; our emotion in its keenest moment

passes from expression 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

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 afterglow from the time when

Wesley and his fellowlabourer fed on the hips and haws of the Cornwall hedges, after exhausting limbs and

That afterglow has long faded away; and the picture we are apt to make of Methodism in our imagination is

not an amphitheatre of green hills, or the deep shade of broadleaved sycamores, where a crowd of rough

men and wearyhearted women drank in a faith which was a rudimentary culture, which linked their thoughts

with the past, lifted their imagination above the sordid details of their own narrow lives, and suffused their

souls with the sense of a pitying, loving, infinite Presence, sweet as summer to the houseless needy. It is too

possible that to some of my readers Methodism may mean nothing more than lowpitched gables up dingy

streets, sleek grocers, sponging preachers, and hypocritical jargonelements which are regarded as an

That would be a pity; for I cannot pretend that Seth and Dinah were anything else than Methodistsnot

indeed of that modern type which reads quarterly reviews and attends in chapels with pillared porticoes, but

of a very oldfashioned 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

impossibie for me to represent their diction as correct, or their instruction as liberal. Still if I have read

religious history arightfaith, hope, and charity have not always been found in a direct ratio with a

sensibility to the three concords, and it is possiblethank 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 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,

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 bebind, telling him to "hold on tight"; and instead of bursting out into wild accusing

apostrophes to God and destiny, he is resolving, as he now walks homewards under the solemn starlight, to

repress his sadness, to be less bent on having his own will, and to live more for others, as Dinah does.

A GREEN valley with a brook running through it, full almost to overflowing with the late rains, overhung by

low stooping willows. Across this brook a plank is thrown, and over this plank Adam Bede is passing with

his undoubting step, followed close by Gyp with the basket; evidently making his way to the thatched house,

with a stack of 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 firstborn has come late in life. She is an anxious, spare, yet vigorous old woman, clean

as a snowdrop. Her grey hair is turned neatly back under a pure linen cap with a black band round it; her

broad chest is covered with a buff neckerchief, and below this you see a sort of short bedgown made of

bluecheckered linen, tied round the waist and descending to the hips, from whence there is a considerable

length of linsey woolsey petticoat. For Lisbeth is tall, and in other points too there is a strong likeness

between her and her son Adam. Her dark eyes are somewhat dim nowperhaps from too much cryingbut

her broadly marked eyebrows are still black, her teeth are sound, and as she stands knitting rapidly and

unconsciously with her work hardened hands, she has as firmly upright an attitude as when she is carrying a

pail of water on her head from the spring. There is the same type of frame and the same keen activity of

temperament in mother and son, but it was not from her that Adam got his well filled brow and his

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; 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 eyesah, so like our mother's!averted from us in cold alienation;

and our last darling child startles us with the air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long

years ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritagethe mechanical instinct, the keen sensibility to

harmony, the unconscious skill of the modelling handgalls 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

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

But where's father?" said Adam quickly, as he entered the house and glanced into the room on the left hand,

which was used as a workshop. "Hasn't he done the coffin for Tholer? There's the stuff standing just as I left

"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

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

"What art goin' to do, Adam?" said the mother, with a tone and look of alarm. "Thee wouldstna go to work

Adam, too angry to speak, walked into the workshop. 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 saved 'em o'

"Let be!" said Adam impetuously, shaking her off and seizing one of the planks that stood against the wall.

"It's fine talking about having supper when here's a coffin promised to be ready at Brox'on by seven o'clock

tomorrow morning, and ought to ha' been there now, and not a nail struck yet. My throat's too full to

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

"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

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

"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' churchyard, an' thee not to follow me. I shanna rest i' my grave if I donna

see thee at th' last; an' how's they to let thee know as I'm adyin', if thee't gone aworkin' i' distant parts, an'

Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able to hold a pen for's hand shakin', besides not knowin'

where thee art? Thee mun forgie thy feytherthee munna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to

thee afore he took to th' drink. He's a clever workman, an' taught thee thy trade, remember, an's niver gen me

a blow nor so much as an ill wordno, not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha' 'm go to the workhus thy

own feytheran' him as was a finegrowed man an' handy at everythin' amost as thee art thysen,

Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobsa sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where

real sorrows are to be borne and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.

"Now, Mother, don't cry and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex me without that? What's th' use o' telling me

things as I only think too much on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, for the sake o'

keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking where it's no use: I like to keep my breath for doing

"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

"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 at Lisbeth when she called him, and

moved his forepaws uneasily, well knowing that she was inviting him to supper, he was in a divided state of

mind, and remained seated on his haunches, again fixing his eyes 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

"Go, Gyp; go, lad!" Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty

But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to

cry over her knitting. Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and if Solomon

was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman to a continual

dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eyea fury with long nails, acrid and selfish. Depend

upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she

contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tidbits for them and spending nothing on herself. Such

a woman as Lisbeth, for exampleat once patient and complaining, selfrenouncing and exacting, brooding

the livelong day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen tomorrow, and crying very

readily both at the good and the evil. But a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and

So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old dayclock 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

"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

It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the days, 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.

"It's none o' thy feyther as is aworkin'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, with an anxious look, had

passed into the workshop and said, "Addy, how's this? What! Father's forgot the coffin?"

"Aye, lad, th' old tale; but I shall get it done," said Adam, looking up and casting one of his bright keen

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

"No, lad, I'd rather go on, now I'm in harness. Thee't help me to carry it to Brox'on when it's done. I'll call

thee up at sunrise. Go and eat thy supper, and shut the door so as I mayn't hear Mother's talk."

Seth knew that Adam always meant what he said, and was not to be persuaded into meaning anything else. So

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

"Come, then," said Lisbeth, "but donna thee ate the taters, for Adam 'ull happen ate 'em if I leave 'em stannin'.

He loves a bit o' taters an' gravy. But he's been so sore an' angered, he wouldn't ate 'em, for all I'd putten 'em

by o' purpose for him. An' he's been athreatenin' to go away again," she went on, whimpering, "an' I'm fast

sure he'll go some dawnin' afore I'm up, an' niver let me know aforehand, an' he'll niver come back again

when once he's gone. An' I'd better niver ha' had a son, as is like no other body's son for the deftness an' th'

handiness, an' so looked on by th' grit folks, an' tall an' upright like a poplartree, an' me to be parted from

"Come, Mother, donna grieve thyself in vain," said Seth, in a soothing voice. "Thee'st not half so good reason

to think as Adam 'ull go away as to think he'll stay with thee. He may say such a thing when he's in

wrathand he's got excuse for being wrathful sometimesbut his heart 'ud never let him go. Think how

he's stood by us all when it's been none so easypaying his savings to free me from going for a soldier, an'

turnin' his earnin's into wood for father, when he's got plenty o' uses for his money, and many a young man

like him 'ud ha' been married and settled before now. He'll never turn round and knock down his own work,

"Donna talk to me about's marr'in'," said Lisbeth, crying afresh. "He's set's heart on that Hetty Sorrel, as 'ull

niver save a penny, an' 'ull toss up her head at's old mother. An' to think as he might ha' Mary Burge, an' be

took partners, an' be a big man wi' workmen under him, like Mester BurgeDolly's told me so o'er and o'er

againif it warna as he's set's heart on that bit of a wench, as is o' no more use nor the gillyflower on the

wall. An' he so wise at bookin' an' figurin', an' not to know no better nor that!"

"But, Mother, thee know'st we canna love just where other folks 'ud have us. There's nobody but God can

control the heart of man. I could ha' wished myself as Adam could ha' made another choice, but I wouldn't

reproach him for what he can't help. And I'm not sure but what he tries to o'ercome it. But it's a matter as he

doesn't like to be spoke to about, and I can only pray to the Lord to bless and direct him."

"Aye, thee't allays ready enough at prayin', but I donna see as thee gets much wi' thy prayin'. Thee wotna get

double earnin's o' this side Yule. Th' Methodies 'll niver make thee half the man thy brother is, for all they're

"It's partly truth thee speak'st there, Mother," said Seth, mildly; "Adam's far before me, an's done more for me

than I can ever do for him. God distributes talents to every man according as He sees good. But thee mustna

undervally prayer. Prayer mayna bring money, but it brings us what no money can buya 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

"Unaisy? I'm i' th' right on't to be unaisy. It's well seen on THEE what it is niver to be unaisy. Thee't gi' away

all thy earnin's, an' niver be unaisy as thee'st nothin' laid up again' a rainy day. If Adam had been as aisy as

thee, he'd niver ha' had no money to pay for thee. Take no thought for the morrowtake no thoughtthat's

what thee't allays sayin'; an' what comes on't? Why, as Adam has to take thought for thee."

"Those are the words o' the Bible, Mother," said Seth. "They don't mean as we should be idle. They mean we

shouldn't be overanxious and worreting ourselves about what'll happen to morrow, but do our duty and

"Aye, aye, that's the way wi' thee: thee allays makes a peck o' thy own words out o' a pint o' the Bible's. I

donna see how thee't to know as 'take no thought for the morrow' means all that. An' when the Bible's such a

big book, an' thee canst read all thro't, an' ha' the pick o' the texes, I canna think why thee dostna pick better

words as donna mean so much more nor they say. Adam doesna pick a that'n; I can understan' the tex as he's

"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 overworldly, I doubt. However, that saying's partly true; for

"Well, how'm I to know? It sounds like a tex. But what's th' matter wi' th' lad? Thee't hardly atin' a bit o'

supper. Dostna mean to ha' no more nor that bit o' oatcake? An' thee lookst as white as a flick o' new bacon.

"Nothing 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

"Ha' a drop o' warm broth?" said Lisbeth, whose motherly feeling now got the better of her "nattering" habit.

"Nay, Mother, thank thee; thee't very good," said Seth, gratefully; and encouraged by this touch of

tenderness, he went on: "Let me pray a bit with thee for Father, and Adam, and all of usit'll comfort thee,

Lisbeth, though disposed always to take the negative side in her conversations with Seth, had a vague sense

that there was some comfort and safety in the fact of his piety, and that it somehow relieved her from the

So the mother and son knelt down together, and Seth prayed for the poor wandering father and for those who

were sorrowing for him at home. And when he came to the petition that Adam might never be called to set up

his tent in a far country, but that his mother might be cheered and comforted by his presence all the days of

When they rose from their knees, Seth went to Adam again and said, "Wilt only lie down for an hour or two,

Meantime Lisbeth had dried her eyes, and now followed Seth, holding something in her hands. It was the

brownandyellow platter containing the baked potatoes with the gravy in them and bits of meat which she

had cut and mixed among them. Those were dear times, when wheaten bread and fresh meat were delicacies

to working people. She set the dish down rather timidly on the bench by Adam's side and said, "Thee canst

In half an hour all was quiet; no sound was to be heard in the house but the loud ticking of the old dayclock

and the ringing of Adam's tools. The night was very still: when Adam opened the door to look out at twelve

o'clock, the only motion seemed to be in the glowing, twinkling stars; every blade of grass was asleep.

Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination;

and it was so tonight with Adam. While his muscles were working lustily, his mind seemed as passive as a

spectator at a diorama: scenes of the sad past, and probably sad future, floating before him and giving place

He saw how it would be tomorrow morning, when he had carried the coffin to Broxton and was at home

again, having his breakfast: his father perhaps would come in ashamed to meet his son's glance would sit

down, looking older and more tottering than he had done the morning before, and hang down his head,

examining the floor quarries; while Lisbeth would ask him how he supposed the coffin had been got ready,

that he had slinked off and left undonefor Lisbeth was always the first to utter the word of reproach,

"So it will go on, worsening and worsening," thought Adam; "there's no slipping uphill again, and no

standing still when once youve begun to slip down." And then the day came back to him when he was a little

fellow and used to run by his father's side, proud to be taken out to work, and prouder still to hear his father

boasting to his fellowworkmen how "the little chap had an uncommon notion o' carpentering." What a fine

active fellow his father was then! When people asked Adam whose little lad he was, he had a sense of

distinction as he answered, "I'm Thias Bede's lad." He was quite sure everybody knew Thias Bededidn't he

make the wonderful pigeonhouse at Broxton parsonage? Those were happy days, especially when Seth, who

was three years the younger, began to go out working too, and Adam began to be a teacher as well as a

learner. But then came the days of sadness, when Adam was someway on in his teens, and Thias began to

loiter at the publichouses, and Lisbeth began to cry at home, and to pour forth her plaints in the hearing of

her sons. Adam remembered well the night of shame and anguish when he first saw his father quite wild and

foolish, shouting a song out fitfully among his drunken companions at the "Waggon Overthrown." He had

run away once when he was only eighteen, making his escape in the morning twilight with a little blue bundle

over his shoulder, and his "mensuration book" in his pocket, and saying to himself very decidedly that he

could bear the vexations of home no longerhe would go and seek his fortune, setting up his stick at the

crossways and bending his steps the way it fell. But by the time he got to Stoniton, the thought of his mother

and Seth, left behind to endure everything without him, became too importunate, and his resolution failed

him. He came back the next day, but the misery and terror his mother had gone through in those two days had

"No!" Adam said to himself tonight, "that must never happen again. It 'ud make a poor balance when my

doings are cast up at the last, if my poor old mother stood o' the wrong side. My back's broad enough and

strong enough; I should be no better than a coward to go away and leave the troubles to be borne by them as

aren't half so able. 'They that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of those that are weak, and not to please

themselves.' There's a text wants no candle to show't; it shines by its own light. It's plain enough you get into

the wrong road i' this life if you run after this and that only for the sake o' making things easy and pleasant to

yourself. A pig may poke his nose into the trough and think o' nothing outside it; but if you've got a man's

heart and soul in you, you can't be easy amaking your own bed an' leaving the rest to lie on the stones. Nay,

nay, I'll never slip my neck out o' the yoke, and leave the load to be drawn by the weak uns. Father's a sore

cross to me, an's likely to be for many a long year to come. What then? I've got th' health, and the limbs, and

At this moment a smart rap, as if with a willow wand, was given at the house door, and Gyp, instead of

barking, as might have been expected, gave a loud howl. Adam, very much startled, went at once to the door

and opened it. Nothing was there; all was still, as when he opened it an hour before; the leaves were

motionless, and the light of the stars showed the placid fields on both sides of the brook quite empty of

visible life. Adam walked round the house, and still saw nothing except a rat which darted into the woodshed

as he passed. He went in again, wondering; the sound was so peculiar that the moment he heard it it called up

the image of the willow wand striking the door. He could not help a little shudder, as he remembered how

often his mother had told him of just such a sound coming as a sign when some one was dying. Adam was

not a man to be gratuitously superstitious, but he had the blood of the peasant in him as well as of the artisan,

and a peasant can no more help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when he

sees a camel. Besides, he had that mental combination which is at once humble in the region of mystery and

keen in the region of knowledge: it was the depth of his reverence quite as much as his hard common sense

which gave him his disinclination to doctrinal religion, and he often checked Seth's argumentative

spiritualism by saying, "Eh, it's a big mystery; thee know'st but little about it." And so it happened that Adam

was at once penetrating and credulous. If a new building had fallen down and he had been told that this was a

divine judgment, he would have said, "May be; but the bearing o' the roof and walls wasn't right, else it

wouldn't ha' come down"; yet he believed in dreams and prognostics, and to his dying day he bated his breath

a little when he told the story of the stroke with the willow wand. I tell it as he told it, not attempting to

reduce it to its natural elementsin our eagerness to explain impressions, we often lose our hold of the

But he had the best antidote against imaginative dread in the necessity for getting on with the coffin, and for

the next ten minutes his hammer was ringing so uninterruptedly, that other sounds, if there were any, might

well be overpowered. A pause came, however, when he had to take up his ruler, and now again came the

strange rap, and again Gyp howled. Adam was at the door without the loss of a moment; but again all was

still, and the starlight showed there was nothing but the dewladen grass in front of the cottage.

Adam for a moment thought uncomfortably about his father; but of late years he had never come home at

dark hours from Treddleston, and there was every reason for believing that he was then sleeping off his

drunkenness at the "Waggon Overthrown." Besides, to Adam, the conception of the future was so inseparable

from the painful image of his father that the fear of any fatal accident to him was excluded by the deeply

infixed fear of his continual degradation. The next thought that occurred to him was one that made him slip

off his shoes and tread lightly upstairs, to listen at the bedroom doors. But both Seth and his mother were

Adam came down and set to work again, saying to himself, "I won't open the door again. It's no use staring

about to catch sight of a sound. Maybe there's a world about us as we can't see, but th' ear's quicker than the

eye and catches a sound from't now and then. Some people think they get a sight on't too, but they're mostly

folks whose eyes are not much use to 'em at anything else. For my part, I think it's better to see when your

Such thoughts as these are apt to grow stronger and stronger as daylight quenches the candles and the birds

begin to sing. By the time the red sunlight shone on the brass nails that formed the initials on the lid of the

coffin, any lingering foreboding from the sound of the willow wand was merged in satisfaction that the work

was done and the promise redeemed. There was no need to call Seth, for he was already moving overhead,

"Now, lad," said Adam, as Seth made his appearance, "the coffin's done, and we can take it over to Brox'on,

and be back again before half after six. I'll take a mouthful o' oatcake, and then we'll be off."

The coffin was soon propped on the tall shoulders of the two brothers, and they were making their way,

followed close by Gyp, out of the little woodyard into the lane at the back of the house. It was but about a

mile and a half to Broxton over the opposite slope, and their road wound very pleasantly along lanes and

across fields, where the pale woodbines and the dogroses were scenting the hedgerows, and the birds were

twittering and trilling in the tall leafy boughs of oak and elm. It was a strangely mingled picturethe fresh

youth of the summer morning, with its Edenlike peace and loveliness, the stalwart strength of the two

brothers in their rusty working clothes, and the long coffin on their shoulders. They paused for the last time

before a small farmhouse outside the village of Broxton. By six o'clock the task was done the coffin nailed

down, and Adam and Seth were on their way home. They chose a shorter way homewards, which would take

them across the fields and the brook in front of the house. Adam had not mentioned to Seth what had

happened in the night, but he still retained sufficient impression from it himself to say, "Seth, lad, if Father

isn't come home by the time we've had our breakfast, I think it'll be as well for thee to go over to Treddles'on

and look after him, and thee canst get me the brass wire I want. Never mind about losing an hour at thy work;

"I'm willing," said Seth. "But see what clouds have gathered since we set out. I'm thinking we shall have

more rain. It'll be a sore time for th' haymaking if the meadows are flooded again. The brook's fine and full

now: another day's rain 'ud cover the plank, and we should have to go round by the road."

They were coming across the valley now, and had entered the pasture through which the brook ran.

"Why, what's that sticking against the willow?" continued Seth, beginning to walk faster. Adam's heart rose

to his mouth: the vague anxiety about his father was changed into a great dread. He made no answer to Seth,

but ran forward preceded by Gyp, who began to bark uneasily; and in two moments he was at the bridge.

This was what the omen meant, then! And the greyhaired father, of whom he had thought with a sort of

hardness a few hours ago, as certain to live to be a thorn in his side was perhaps even then struggling with

that watery death! This was the first thought that flashed through Adam's conscience, before he had time to

seize the coat and drag out the tall heavy body. Seth was already by his side, helping him, and when they had

it on the bank, the two sons in the first moment knelt and looked with mute awe at the glazed eyes, forgetting

that there was need for actionforgetting everything but that their father lay dead before them. Adam was

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

Poor Lisbeth was busy preparing her sons' breakfast, and their porridge was already steaming on the fire. Her

kitchen always looked the pink of cleanliness, but this morning she was more than usually bent on making

"The lads 'ull be fine an' hungry," she said, halfaloud, as she stirred the porridge. "It's a good step to

Brox'on, an' it's hungry air o'er the hillwi' that heavy coffin too. Eh! It's heavier now, wi' poor Bob Tholer

in't. Howiver, I've made a drap more porridge nor common this mornin'. The feyther 'ull happen come in arter

a bit. Not as he'll ate much porridge. He swallers sixpenn'orth o' ale, an' saves a hap'orth o' porridgethat's

his way o' layin' by money, as I've told him many a time, an' am likely to tell him again afore the day's out.

But now Lisbeth heard the heavy "thud" of a running footstep on the turf, and, turning quickly towards the

door, she saw Adam enter, looking so pale and overwhelmed that she screamed aloud and rushed towards

"Hush, Mother," Adam said, rather hoarsely, "don't be frightened. Father's tumbled into the water. Belike we

may bring him round again. Seth and me are going to carry him in. Get a blanket and make it hot as the fire."

In reality Adam was convinced that his father was dead but he knew there was no other way of repressing his

mother's impetuous wailing grief than by occupying her with some active task which had hope in it.

He ran back to Seth, and the two sons lifted the sad burden in heartstricken silence. The wideopen glazed

eyes were grey, like Seth's, and had once looked with mild pride on the boys before whom Thias had lived to

hang his head in shame. Seth's chief feeling was awe and distress at this sudden snatching away of his father's

soul; but Adam's mind rushed back over the past in a flood of relenting and pity. When death, the great

Reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.

BEFORE twelve o'clock there had been some heavy storms of rain, and the water lay in deep gutters on the

sides of the gravel walks in the garden of Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly

tossed by the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicatestemmed border flowers had been dashed

down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy morningbecause it was nearly time hayharvest should

But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they would never think of but for the rain. If

it had not been a wet morning, Mr. Irwine would not have been in the diningroom playing at chess with his

mother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass some cloudy hours very easily by

their help. Let me take you into that diningroom and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of

Broxton, Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest Church reformer would

have found it difficult to look sour. We will enter very softly and stand still in the open doorway, without

awaking the glossy brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her two puppies beside her; or the

The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window at one end; the walls, you see, are

new, and not yet painted; but the furniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty, and there

is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the large diningtable is very threadbare, though it

contrasts pleasantly enough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth there is a massive

silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the

sideboard with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once that the inhabitants of this

room have inherited more blood than wealth, and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely

cut nostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a broad flat back and an abundance of

powdered hair, all thrown backward and tied behind with a black ribbona bit of conservatism in costume

which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round by and by, and in the meantime we

can look at that stately old lady, his mother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose richtoned complexion is well

set off by the complex wrappings of pure white cambric and lace about her head and neck. She is as erect in

her comely embonpoint as a statue of Ceres; and her dark face, with its delicate aquiline nose, firm proud

mouth, and small, intense, black eye, is so keen and sarcastic in its expression that you instinctively substitute

a pack of cards for the chessmen and imagine her telling your fortune. The small brown hand with which

she is lifting her queen is laden with pearls, diamonds, and turquoises; and a large black veil is very carefully

adjusted over the crown of her cap, and falls in sharp contrast on the white folds about her neck. It must take

a long time to dress that old lady in the morning! But it seems a law of nature that she should be dressed so:

she is clearly one of those children of royalty who have never doubted their right divine and never met with

"There, Dauphin, tell me what that is!" says this magnificent old lady, as she deposits her queen very quietly

and folds her arms. "I should be sorry to utter a word disagreeable to your feelings."

"Ah, you witchmother, you sorceress! How is a Christian man to win a game off you? I should have

sprinkled the board with holy water before we began. You've not won that game by fair means, now, so don't

"Yes, yes, that's what the beaten have always said of great conquerors. But see, there's the sunshine falling on

the board, to show you more clearly what a foolish move you made with that pawn. Come, shall I give you

"No, Mother, I shall leave you to your own conscience, now it's clearing up. We must go and plash up the

mud a little, mus'n't we, Juno?" This was addressed to the brown setter, who had jumped up at the sound of

the voices and laid her nose in an insinuating way on her master's leg. "But I must go upstairs first and see

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

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

If you know how much of human speech is mere purposeless impulse or habit, you will not wonder when I

tell you that this identical objection had been made, and had received the same kind of answer, many hundred

times in the course of the fifteen years that Mr. Irwine's sister Anne had been an invalid. Splendid old ladies,

who take a long time to dress in the morning, have often slight sympathy with sickly daughters.

But while Mr. Irwine was still seated, leaning back in his chair and stroking Juno's head, the servant came to

the door and said, "If you please, sir, Joshua Rann wishes to speak with you, if you are at liberty."

"Let him be shown in here," said Mrs. Irwine, taking up her knitting. "I always like to hear what Mr. Rann

In two minutes Mr. Rann appeared at the door with very deferential bows, which, however, were far from

conciliating Pug, who gave a sharp bark and ran across the room to reconnoitre the stranger's legs; while the

two puppies, regarding Mr. Rann's prominent calf and ribbed worsted stockings from a more sensuous point

of view, plunged and growled over them in great enjoyment. Meantime, Mr. Irwine turned round his chair

and said, "Well, Joshua, anything the matter at Hayslope, that you've come over this damp morning? Sit

down, sit down. Never mind the dogs; give them a friendly kick. Here, Pug, you rascal!"

It is very pleasant to see some men turn round; pleasant as a sudden rush of warm air in winter, or the flash of

firelight in the chill dusk. Mr. Irwine was one of those men. He bore the same sort of resemblance to his

mother that our loving memory of a friend's face often bears to the face itself: the lines were all more

generous, the smile brighter, the expression heartier. If the outline had been less finely cut, his face might

have been called jolly; but that was not the right word for its mixture of bonhomie and distinction.

"Thank Your Reverence," answered Mr. Rann, endeavouring to look unconcerned about his legs, but shaking

them alternately to keep off the puppies; "I'll stand, if you please, as more becoming. I hope I see you an'

"Yes, Joshua, thank you. You see how blooming my mother looks. She beats us younger people hollow. But

"Why, sir, I had to come to Brox'on to deliver some work, and I thought it but right to call and let you know

the goinson as there's been i' the village, such as I hanna seen i' my time, and I've lived in it man and boy

sixty year come St. Thomas, and collected th' Easter dues for Mr. Blick before Your Reverence come into the

parish, and been at the ringin' o' every bell, and the diggin' o' every grave, and sung i' the choir long afore

Bartle Massey come from nobody knows where, wi' his countersingin' and fine anthems, as puts everybody

out but himselfone takin' it up after another like sheep ableatin' i' th' fold. I know what belongs to bein' a

parish clerk, and I know as I should be wantin' i' respect to Your Reverence, an' church, an' king, if I was t'

allow such goinson wi'out speakin'. I was took by surprise, an' knowed nothin' on it beforehand, an' I was so

flustered, I was clean as if I'd lost my tools. I hanna slep' more nor four hour this night as is past an' gone; an'

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

"Thieves! No, siran' yet, as I may say, it is thieves, an' a thievin' the church, too. It's the Methodisses as is

like to get th' upper hand i' th' parish, if Your Reverence an' His Honour, Squire Donnithorne, doesna think

well to say the word an' forbid it. Not as I'm adictatin' to you, sir; I'm not forgettin' myself so far as to be

wise above my betters. Howiver, whether I'm wise or no, that's neither here nor there, but what I've got to say

I sayas the young Methodis woman as is at Mester Poyser's was a preachin' an' aprayin' on the Green

"Preaching on the Green!" said Mr. Irwine, looking surprised but quite serene. "What, that pale pretty young

woman I've seen at Poyser's? I saw she was a Methodist, or Quaker, or something of that sort, by her dress,

"It's a true word as I say, sir," rejoined Mr. Rann, compressing his mouth into a semicircular form and

pausing long enough to indicate three notes of exclamation. "She preached on the Green last night; an' she's

"Well, Bessy Cranage is a heartylooking lass; I daresay she'll come round again, Joshua. Did anybody else

"No, sir, I canna say as they did. But there's no knowin' what'll come, if we're t' have such preachin's as that

agoin' on ivery weekthere'll be no livin' i' th' village. For them Methodisses make folks believe as if they

take a mug o' drink extry, an' make theirselves a bit comfortable, they'll have to go to hell for't as sure as

they're born. I'm not a tipplin' man nor a drunkard nobody can say it on mebut I like a extry quart at

Easter or Christmas time, as is nat'ral when we're goin' the rounds a singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin';

or when I'm a collectin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' a neighbourly chat at Mester Casson's now

an' then, for I was brought up i' the Church, thank God, an' ha' been a parish clerk this twoan'thirty year: I

"Well, Your Reverence, I'm not for takin' any measures again' the young woman. She's well enough if she'd

let alone preachin'; an' I hear as she's agoin' away back to her own country soon. She's Mr. Poyser's own

niece, an' I donna wish to say what's anyways disrespectful o' th' family at th' Hall Farm, as I've measured for

shoes, little an' big, welly iver sin' I've been a shoemaker. But there's that Will Maskery, sir as is the

rampageousest Methodis as can be, an' I make no doubt it was him as stirred up th' young woman to preach

last night, an' he'll be abringin' other folks to preach from Treddles'on, if his comb isn't cut a bit; an' I think

as he should be let know as he isna t' have the makin' an' mendin' o' church carts an' implemen's, let alone

"Well, but you say yourself, Joshua, that you never knew any one come to preach on the Green before; why

should you think they'll come again? The Methodists don't come to preach in little villages like Hayslope,

where there's only a handful of labourers, too tired to listen to them. They might almost as well go and preach

"Nay, sir, he's no gift at stringin' the words together wi'out book; he'd be stuck fast like a cow i' wet clay. But

he's got tongue enough to speak disrespectful about's neebors, for he said as I was a blind Phariseeausin'

the Bible i' that way to find nicknames for folks as are his elders an' betters!and what's worse, he's been

heard to say very unbecomin' words about Your Reverence; for I could bring them as 'ud swear as he called

you a 'dumb dog,' an' a 'idle shepherd.' You'll forgi'e me for sayin' such things over again."

"Better not, better not, Joshua. Let evil words die as soon as they're spoken. Will Maskery might be a great

deal worse fellow than he is. He used to be a wild drunken rascal, neglecting his work and beating his wife,

they told me; now he's thrifty and decent, and he and his wife look comfortable together. If you can bring me

any proof that he interferes with his neighbours and creates any disturbance, I shall think it my duty as a

clergyman and a magistrate to interfere. But it wouldn't become wise people like you and me to be making a

fuss about trifles, as if we thought the Church was in danger because Will Maskery lets his tongue wag rather

foolishly, or a young woman talks in a serious way to a handful of people on the Green. We must 'live and let

live,' Joshua, in religion as well as in other things. You go on doing your duty, as parish clerk and sexton, as

well as you've always done it, and making those capital thick boots for your neighbours, and things won't go

"Your Reverence is very good to say so; an' I'm sensable as, you not livin' i' the parish, there's more upo' my

"To be sure; and you must mind and not lower the Church in people's eyes by seeming to be frightened about

it for a little thing, Joshua. I shall trust to your good sense, now to take no notice at all of what Will Maskery

says, either about you or me. You and your neighbours can go on taking your pot of beer soberly, when

you've done your day's work, like good churchmen; and if Will Maskery doesn't like to join you, but to go to

a prayermeeting at Treddleston instead, let him; that's no business of yours, so long as he doesn't hinder you

from doing what you like. And as to people saying a few idle words about us, we must not mind that, any

more than the old churchsteeple minds the rooks cawing about it. Will Maskery comes to church every

Sunday afternoon, and does his wheelwright's business steadily in the weekdays, and as long as he does that

"Ah, sir, but when he comes to church, he sits an' shakes his head, an' looks as sour an' as coxy when we're

asingin' as I should like to fetch him a rap across the jowlGod forgi'e me an' Mrs. Irwine, an' Your

Reverence too, for speakin' so afore you. An' he said as our Christmas singin' was no better nor the cracklin'

"Well, he's got a bad ear for music, Joshua. When people have wooden heads, you know, it can't be helped.

He won't bring the other people in Hayslope round to his opinion, while you go on singing as well as you do."

"Yes, sir, but it turns a man's stomach t' hear the Scripture misused i' that way. I know as much o' the words o'

the Bible as he does, an' could say the Psalms right through i' my sleep if you was to pinch me; but I know

better nor to take 'em to say my own say wi'. I might as well take the Sacrimentcup home and use it at

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, the sound of a booted step and the clink of a spur were heard on the stone

floor of the entrance hall, and Joshua Rann moved hastily aside from the doorway to make room for some

"Come in, come in, godson!" Mrs. Irwine answered, in the deep halfmasculine tone which belongs to the

vigorous old woman, and there entered a young gentleman in a ridingdress, with his right arm in a sling;

whereupon followed that pleasant confusion of laughing interjections, and handshakings, and "How are

you's?" mingled with joyous short barks and wagging of tails on the part of the canine members of the family,

which tells that the visitor is on the best terms with the visited. The young gentleman was Arthur

Donnithorne, known in Hayslope, variously, as "the young squire," "the heir," and "the captain." He was only

a captain in the Loamshire Militia, but to the Hayslope tenants he was more intensely a captain than all the

young gentlemen of the same rank in his Majesty's regularshe outshone them as the planet Jupiter

outshines the Milky Way. If you want to know more particularly how he looked, call to your remembrance

some tawnywhiskered, brownlocked, clearcomplexioned young Englishman whom you have met with in

a foreign town, and been proud of as a fellow countrymanwellwashed, highbred, whitehanded, yet

looking as if he could deliver well from 'the left shoulder and floor his man: I will not be so much of a tailor

as to trouble your imagination with the difference of costume, and insist on the striped waistcoat, longtailed

Turning round to take a chair, Captain Donnithorne said, "But don't let me interrupt Joshua's businesshe

"Humbly begging Your Honour's pardon," said Joshua, bowing low, "there was one thing I had to say to His

"Belike, sir, you havena heared as Thias Bede's deaddrownded this morning, or more like overnight, i' the

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

"An' Seth Bede's been to me this morning to say he wished me to tell Your Reverence as his brother Adam

begged of you particular t' allow his father's grave to be dug by the White Thorn, because his mother's set her

heart on it, on account of a dream as she had; an' they'd ha' come theirselves to ask you, but they've so much

to see after with the crowner, an' that; an' their mother's took on so, an' wants 'em to make sure o' the spot for

fear somebody else should take it. An' if Your Reverence sees well and good, I'll send my boy to tell 'em as

soon as I get home; an' that's why I make bold to trouble you wi' it, His Honour being present."

"To be sure, Joshua, to be sure, they shall have it. I'll ride round to Adam myself, and see him. Send your

boy, however, to say they shall have the grave, lest anything should happen to detain me. And now, good

"Poor old Thias!" said Mr. Irwine, when Joshua was gone. "I'm afraid the drink helped the brook to drown

him. I should have been glad for the load to have been taken off my friend Adam's shoulders in a less painful

way. That fine fellow has been propping up his father from ruin for the last five or six years."

"He's a regular trump, is Adam," said Captain Donnithorne. "When I was a little fellow, and Adam was a

strapping lad of fifteen, and taught me carpentering, I used to think if ever I was a rich sultan, I would make

Adam my grandvizier. And I believe now he would bear the exaltation as well as any poor wise man in an

Eastern story. If ever I live to be a largeacred man instead of a poor devil with a mortgaged allowance of

pocketmoney, I'll have Adam for my right hand. He shall manage my woods for me, for he seems to have a

better notion of those things than any man I ever met with; and I know he would make twice the money of

them that my grandfather does, with that miserable old Satchell to manage, who understands no more about

timber than an old carp. I've mentioned the subject to my grandfather once or twice, but for some reason or

other he has a dislike to Adam, and I can do nothing. But come, Your Reverence, are you for a ride with me?

It's splendid out of doors now. We can go to Adam's together, if you like; but I want to call at the Hall Farm

"You must stay and have lunch first, Arthur," said Mrs. Irwine. "It's nearly two. Carroll will bring it in

"I want to go to the Hall Farm too," said Mr. Irwine, "to have another look at the little Methodist who is

"Oh, by Jove!" said Captain Donnithorne, laughing. "Why, she looks as quiet as a mouse. There's something

rather striking about her, though. I positively felt quite bashful the first time I saw hershe was sitting

stooping over her sewing in the sunshine outside the house, when I rode up and called out, without noticing

that she was a stranger, 'Is Martin Poyser at home?' I declare, when she got up and looked at me and just said,

'He's in the house, I believe: I'll go and call him,' I felt quite ashamed of having spoken so abruptly to her. She

looked like St. Catherine in a Quaker dress. It's a type of face one rarely sees among our common people."

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

"I don't know how I can manage that, Mother; it will hardly do for me to patronize a Methodist preacher,

even if she would consent to be patronized by an idle shepherd, as Will Maskery calls me. You should have

come in a little sooner, Arthur, to hear Joshua's denunciation of his neighbour Will Maskery. The old fellow

wants me to excommunicate the wheelwright, and then deliver him over to the civil armthat is to say, to

your grandfatherto be turned out of house and yard. If I chose to interfere in this business, now, I might get

up as pretty a story of hatred and persecution as the Methodists need desire to publish in the next number of

their magazine. It wouldn't take me much trouble to persuade Chad Cranage and half a dozen other

bullheaded fellows that they would be doing an acceptable service to the Church by hunting Will Maskery

out of the village with ropeends and pitchforks; and then, when I had furnished them with half a sovereign

to get gloriously drunk after their exertions, I should have put the climax to as pretty a farce as any of my

"It is really insolent of the man, though, to call you an 'idle shepherd' and a 'dumb dog,'" said Mrs. Irwine. "I

should be inclined to check him a little there. You are too easytempered, Dauphin."

"Why, Mother, you don't think it would be a good way of sustaining my dignity to set about vindicating

myself from the aspersions of Will Maskery? Besides, I'm not so sure that they ARE aspersions. I AM a lazy

fellow, and get terribly heavy in my saddle; not to mention that I'm always spending more than I can afford in

bricks and mortar, so that I get savage at a lame beggar when he asks me for sixpence. Those poor lean

cobblers, who think they can help to regenerate mankind by setting out to preach in the morning twilight

before they begin their day's work, may well have a poor opinion of me. But come, let us have our luncheon.

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

"Oh, very well. Tell Bridget to say I'll go up and see Miss Anne presently. You can use your right arm quite

well now, Arthur," Mr. Irwine continued, observing that Captain Donnithorne had taken his arm out of the

"Yes, pretty well; but Godwin insists on my keeping it up constantly for some time to come. I hope I shall be

able to get away to the regiment, though, in the beginning of August. It's a desperately dull business being

shut up at the Chase in the summer months, when one can neither hunt nor shoot, so as to make one's self

pleasantly sleepy in the evening. However, we are to astonish the echoes on the 30th of July. My grandfather

has given me carte blanche for once, and I promise you the entertainment shall be worthy of the occasion.

The world will not see the grand epoch of my majority twice. I think I shall have a lofty throne for you,

Godmamma, or rather two, one on the lawn and another in the ballroom, that you may sit and look down

"I mean to bring out my best brocade, that I wore at your christening twenty years ago," said Mrs. Irwine.

"Ah, I think I shall see your poor mother flitting about in her white dress, which looked to me almost like a

shroud that very day; and it WAS her shroud only three months after; and your little cap and christening dress

were buried with her too. She had set her heart on that, sweet soul! Thank God you take after your mother's

family, Arthur. If you had been a puny, wiry, yellow baby, I wouldn't have stood godmother to you. I should

have been sure you would turn out a Donnithorne. But you were such a broadfaced, broadchested,

"But you might have been a little too hasty there, Mother," said Mr. Irwine, smiling. "Don't you remember

how it was with Juno's last pups? One of them was the very image of its mother, but it had two or three of its

father's tricks notwithstanding. Nature is clever enough to cheat even you, Mother."

"Nonsense, child! Nature never makes a ferret in the shape of a mastiff. You'll never persuade me that I can't

tell what men are by their outsides. If I don't like a man's looks, depend upon it I shall never like HIM. I don't

want to know people that look ugly and disagreeable, any more than I want to taste dishes that look

disagreeable. If they make me shudder at the first glance, I say, take them away. An ugly, piggish, or fishy

"Talking of eyes," said Captain Donnithorne, "that reminds me that I've got a book I meant to bring you,

Godmamma. It came down in a parcel from London the other day. I know you are fond of queer, wizardlike

stories. It's a volume of poems, 'Lyrical Ballads.' Most of them seem to be twaddling stuff, but the first is in a

different style'The Ancient Mariner' is the title. I can hardly make head or tail of it as a story, but it's a

strange, striking thing. I'll send it over to you; and there are some other books that you may like to see,

Irwinepamphlets about Antinomianism and Evangelicalism, whatever they may be. I can't think what the

fellow means by sending such things to me. I've written to him to desire that from henceforth he will send me

"Well, I don't know that I'm very fond of isms myself; but I may as well look at the pamphlets; they let one

see what is going on. I've a little matter to attend to, Arthur," continued Mr. Irwine, rising to leave the room,

The little matter that Mr. Irwine had to attend to took him up the old stone staircase (part of the house was

very old) and made him pause before a door at which he knocked gently. "Come in," said a woman's voice,

and he entered a room so darkened by blinds and curtains that Miss Kate, the thin middleaged lady standing

by the bedside, would not have had light enough for any other sort of work than the knitting which lay on the

little table near her. But at present she was doing what required only the dimmest light sponging the aching

head that lay on the pillow with fresh vinegar. It was a small face, that of the poor sufferer; perhaps it had

once been pretty, but now it was worn and sallow. Miss Kate came towards her brother and whispered, "Don't

speak to her; she can't bear to be spoken to today." Anne's eyes were closed, and her brow contracted as if

from intense pain. Mr. Irwine went to the bedside and took up one of the delicate hands and kissed it, a slight

pressure from the small fingers told him that it was worthwhile to have come upstairs for the sake of doing

that. He lingered a moment, looking at her, and then turned away and left the room, treading very gentlyhe

had taken off his boots and put on slippers before he came upstairs. Whoever remembers how many things he

has declined to do even for himself, rather than have the trouble of putting on or taking off his boots, will not

And Mr. Irwine's sisters, as any person of family within ten miles of Broxton could have testified, were such

stupid, uninteresting women! It was quite a pity handsome, clever Mrs. Irwine should have had such

commonplace daughters. That fine old lady herself was worth driving ten miles to see, any day; her beauty,

her well preserved faculties, and her oldfashioned dignity made her a graceful subject for conversation in

turn with the King's health, the sweet new patterns in cotton dresses, the news from Egypt, and Lord Dacey's

lawsuit, which was fretting poor Lady Dacey to death. But no one ever thought of mentioning the Miss

Irwines, except the poor people in Broxton village, who regarded them as deep in the science of medicine,

and spoke of them vaguely as "the gentlefolks." If any one had asked old Job Dummilow who gave him his

flannel jacket, he would have answered, "the gentlefolks, last winter"; and widow Steene dwelt much on the

virtues of the "stuff" the gentlefolks gave her for her cough. Under this name too, they were used with great

effect as a means of taming refractory children, so that at the sight of poor Miss Anne's sallow face, several

small urchins had a terrified sense that she was cognizant of all their worst misdemeanours, and knew the

precise number of stones with which they had intended to hit Farmer Britton's ducks. But for all who saw

them through a less mythical medium, the Miss Irwines were quite superfluous existencesinartistic figures

crowding the canvas of life without adequate effect. Miss Anne, indeed, if her chronic headaches could have

been accounted for by a pathetic story of disappointed love, might have had some romantic interest attached

to her: but no such story had either been known or invented concerning her, and the general impression was

quite in accordance with the fact, that both the sisters were old maids for the prosaic reason that they had

Nevertheless, to speak paradoxically, the existence of insignificant people has very important consequences

in the world. It can be shown to affect the price of bread and the rate of wages, to call forth many evil tempers

from the selfish and many heroisms from the sympathetic, and, in other ways, to play no small part in the

tragedy of life. And if that handsome, generousblooded clergyman, the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, had not had

these two hopelessly maiden sisters, his lot would have been shaped quite differently: he would very likely

have taken a comely wife in his youth, and now, when his hair was getting grey under the powder, would

have had tall sons and blooming daughterssuch possessions, in short, as men commonly think will repay

them for all the labour they take under the sun. As it washaving with all his three livings no more than

seven hundred ayear, and seeing no way of keeping his splendid mother and his sickly sister, not to reckon a

second sister, who was usually spoken of without any adjective, in such ladylike ease as became their birth

and habits, and at the same time providing for a family of his ownhe remained, you see, at the age of

eightandforty, a bachelor, not making any merit of that renunciation, but saying laughingly, if any one

alluded to it, that he made it an excuse for many indulgences which a wife would never have allowed him.

And perhaps he was the only person in the world who did not think his sisters uninteresting and superfluous;

for his was one of those largehearted, sweetblooded natures that never know a narrow or a grudging

thought; Epicurean, if you will, with no enthusiasm, no selfscourging sense of duty; but yet, as you have

seen, of a sufficiently subtle moral fibre to have an unwearying tenderness for obscure and monotonous

suffering. It was his largehearted indulgence that made him ignore his mother's hardness towards her

daughters, which was the more striking from its contrast with her doting fondness towards himself; he held it

See the difference between the impression a man makes on you when you walk by his side in familiar talk, or

look at him in his home, and the figure he makes when seen from a lofty historical level, or even in the eyes

of a critical neighbour who thinks of him as an embodied system or opinion rather than as a man. Mr. Roe,

the "travelling preacher" stationed at Treddleston, had included Mr. Irwine in a general statement concerning

the Church clergy in the surrounding district, whom he described as men given up to the lusts of the flesh and

the pride of life; hunting and shooting, and adorning their own houses; asking what shall we eat, and what

shall we drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?careless of dispensing the bread of life to their flocks,

preaching at best but a carnal and soulbenumbing morality, and trafficking in the souls of men by receiving

money for discharging the pastoral office in parishes where they did not so much as look on the faces of the

people more than once ayear. The ecclesiastical historian, too, looking into parliamentary reports of that

period, finds honourable members zealous for the Church, and untainted with any sympathy for the "tribe of

canting Methodists," making statements scarcely less melancholy than that of Mr. Roe. And it is impossible

for me to say that Mr. Irwine was altogether belied by the generic classification assigned him. He really had

no very lofty aims, no theological enthusiasm: if I were closely questioned, I should be obliged to confess

that he felt no serious alarms about the souls of his parishioners, and would have thought it a mere loss of

time to talk in a doctrinal and awakening manner to old "Feyther Taft," or even to Chad Cranage the

blacksmith. If he had been in the habit of speaking theoretically, he would perhaps have said that the only

healthy form religion could take in such minds was that of certain dim but strong emotions, suffusing

themselves as a hallowing influence over the family affections and neighbourly duties. He thought the custom

of baptism more important than its doctrine, and that the religious benefits the peasant drew from the church

where his fathers worshipped and the sacred piece of turf where they lay buried were but slightly dependent

on a clear understanding of the Liturgy or the sermon. Clearly the rector was not what is called in these days

an "earnest" man: he was fonder of church history than of divinity, and had much more insight into men's

characters than interest in their opinions; he was neither laborious, nor obviously selfdenying, nor very

copious in almsgiving, and his theology, you perceive, was lax. His mental palate, indeed, was rather pagan,

and found a savouriness in a quotation from Sophocles or Theocritus that was quite absent from any text in

Isaiah or Amos. But if you feed your young setter on raw flesh, how can you wonder at its retaining a relish

for uncooked partridge in afterlife? And Mr. Irwine's recollections of young enthusiasm and ambition were

On the other hand, I must plead, for I have an affectionate partiality towards the rector's memory, that he was

not vindictiveand some philanthropists have been so; that he was not intolerantand there is a rumour

that some zealous theologians have not been altogether free from that blemish; that although he would

probably have declined to give his body to be burned in any public cause, and was far from bestowing all his

goods to feed the poor, he had that charity which has sometimes been lacking to very illustrious virtuehe

was tender to other men's failings, and unwilling to impute evil. He was one of those men, and they are not

the commonest, of whom we can know the best only by following them away from the marketplace, the

platform, and the pulpit, entering with them into their own homes, hearing the voice with which they speak to

the young and aged about their own hearthstone, and witnessing their thoughtful care for the everyday wants

of everyday companions, who take all their kindness as a matter of course, and not as a subject for panegyric.

Such men, happily, have lived in times when great abuses flourished, and have sometimes even been the

living representatives of the abuses. That is a thought which might comfort us a little under the opposite

factthat it is better sometimes NOT to follow great reformers of abuses beyond the threshold of their

But whatever you may think of Mr. Irwine now, if you had met him that June afternoon riding on his grey

cob, with his dogs running beside himportly, upright, manly, with a goodnatured smile on his finely

turned lips as he talked to his dashing young companion on the bay mare, you must have felt that, however ill

he harmonized with sound theories of the clerical office, he somehow harmonized extremely well with that

See them in the bright sunlight, interrupted every now and then by rolling masses of cloud, ascending the

slope from the Broxton side, where the tall gables and elms of the rectory predominate over the tiny

whitewashed church. They will soon be in the parish of Hayslope; the grey churchtower and village roofs lie

before them to the left, and farther on, to the right, they can just see the chimneys of the Hall Farm.

EVIDENTLY that gate is never opened, for the long grass and the great hemlocks grow close against it, and

if it were opened, it is so rusty that the force necessary to turn it on its hinges would be likely to pull down

the square stonebuilt pillars, to the detriment of the two stone lionesses which grin with a doubtful

carnivorous affability above a coat of arms surmounting each of the pillars. It would be easy enough, by the

aid of the nicks in the stone pillars, to climb over the brick wall with its smooth stone coping; but by putting

our eyes close to the rusty bars of the gate, we can see the house well enough, and all but the very corners of

It is a very fine old place, of red brick, softened by a pale powdery lichen, which has dispersed itself with

happy irregularity, so as to bring the red brick into terms of friendly companionship with the limestone

ornaments surrounding the three gables, the windows, and the doorplace. But the windows are patched with

wooden panes, and the door, I think, is like the gateit is never opened. How it would groan and grate

against the stone fioor if it were! For it is a solid, heavy, handsome door, and must once have been in the

habit of shutting with a sonorous bang behind a liveried lackey, who had just seen his master and mistress off

But at present one might fancy the house in the early stage of a chancery suit, and that the fruit from that

grand double row of walnuttrees on the right hand of the enclosure would fall and rot among the grass, if it

were not that we heard the booming bark of dogs echoing from great buildings at the back. And now the

half weaned calves that have been sheltering themselves in a gorse built hovel against the lefthand wall

come out and set up a silly answer to that terrible bark, doubtless supposing that it has reference to buckets of

Yes, the house must be inhabited, and we will see by whom; for imagination is a licensed trespasser: it has no

fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity. Put your face to one of the

glass panes in the righthand window: what do you see? A large open fireplace, with rusty dogs in it, and a

bare boarded floor; at the far end, fleeces of wool stacked up; in the middle of the floor, some empty

cornbags. That is the furniture of the diningroom. And what through the lefthand window? Several

clotheshorses, a pillion, a spinningwheel, and an old box wide open and stuffed full of coloured rags. At

the edge of this box there lies a great wooden doll, which, so far as mutilation is concerned, bears a strong

resemblance to the finest Greek sculpture, and especially in the total loss of its nose. Near it there is a little

The history of the house is plain now. It was once the residence of a country squire, whose family, probably

dwindling down to mere spinsterhood, got merged in the more territorial name of Donnithorne. It was once

the Hall; it is now the Hall Farm. Like the life in some coast town that was once a wateringplace, and is now

a port, where the genteel streets are silent and grassgrown, and the docks and warehouses busy and resonant,

the life at the Hall has changed its focus, and no longer radiates from the parlour, but from the kitchen and the

Plenty of life there, though this is the drowsiest time of the year, just before hayharvest; and it is the

drowsiest time of the day too, for it is close upon three by the sun, and it is half past three by Mrs. Poyser's

handsome eightday clock. But there is always a stronger sense of life when the sun is brilliant after rain; and

now he is pouring down his beams, and making sparkles among the wet straw, and lighting up every patch of

vivid green moss on the red tiles of the cowshed, and turning even the muddy water that is hurrying along

the channel to the drain into a mirror for the yellowbilled ducks, who are seizing the opportunity of getting a

drink with as much body in it as possible. There is quite a concert of noises; the great bulldog, chained

against the stables, is thrown into furious exasperation by the unwary approach of a cock too near the mouth

of his kennel, and sends forth a thundering bark, which is answered by two fox hounds shut up in the

opposite cowhouse; the old topknotted hens, scratching with their chicks among the straw, set up a

sympathetic croaking as the discomfited cock joins them; a sow with her brood, all very muddy as to the legs,

and curled as to the tail, throws in some deep staccato notes; our friends the calves are bleating from the

home croft; and, under all, a fine ear discerns the continuous hum of human voices.

For the great barndoors are thrown wide open, and men are busy there mending the harness, under the

superintendence of Mr. Goby, the "whittaw," otherwise saddler, who entertains them with the latest

Treddleston gossip. It is certainly rather an unfortunate day that Alick, the shepherd, has chosen for having

the whittaws, since the morning turned out so wet; and Mrs. Poyser has spoken her mind pretty strongly as to

the dirt which the extra nurnber of men's shoes brought into the house at dinnertime. Indeed, she has not yet

recovered her equanimity on the subject, though it is now nearly three hours since dinner, and the

housefloor is perfectly clean again; as clean as everything else in that wonderful house place, where the

only chance of collecting a few grains of dust would be to climb on the saltcoffer, and put your finger on the

high mantelshelf on which the glittering brass candlesticks are enjoying their summer sinecure; for at this

time of year, of course, every one goes to bed while it is yet light, or at least light enough to discern the

outline of objects after you have bruised your shins against them. Surely nowhere else could an oak

clockcase and an oak table have got to such a polish by the hand: genuine "elbow polish," as Mrs. Poyser

called it, for she thanked God she never had any of your varnished rubbish in her house. Hetty Sorrel often

took the opportunity, when her aunt's back was turned, of looking at the pleasing reflection of herself in those

polished surfaces, for the oak table was usually turned up like a screen, and was more for ornament than for

use; and she could see herself sometimes in the great round pewter dishes that were ranged on the shelves

above the long deal dinnertable, or in the hobs of the grate, which always shone like jasper.

Everything was looking at its brightest at this moment, for the sun shone right on the pewter dishes, and from

their reflecting surfaces pleasant jets of light were thrown on mellow oak and bright brassand on a still

pleasanter object than these, for some of the rays fell on Dinah's finely moulded cheek, and lit up her pale red

hair to auburn, as she bent over the heavy household linen which she was mending for her aunt. No scene

could have been more peaceful, if Mrs. Poyser, who was ironing a few things that still remained from the

Monday's wash, had not been making a frequent clinking with her iron and moving to and fro whenever she

wanted it to cool; carrying the keen glance of her bluegrey eye from the kitchen to the dairy, where Hetty

was making up the butter, and from the dairy to the back kitchen, where Nancy was taking the pies out of the

oven. Do not suppose, however, that Mrs. Poyser was elderly or shrewish in her appearance; she was a

goodlooking woman, not more than eightandthirty, of fair complexion and sandy hair, wellshapen,

lightfooted. The most conspicuous article in her attire was an ample checkered linen apron, which almost

covered her skirt; and nothing could be plainer or less noticeable than her cap and gown, for there was no

weakness of which she was less tolerant than feminine vanity, and the preference of ornament to utility. The

family likeness between her and her niece Dinah Morris, with the contrast between her keenness and Dinah's

seraphic gentleness of expression, might have served a painter as an excellent suggestion for a Martha and

Mary. Their eyes were just of the same colour, but a striking test of the difference in their operation was seen

in the demeanour of Trip, the blackandtan terrier, whenever that much suspected dog unwarily exposed

himself to the freezing arctic ray of Mrs. Poyser's glance. Her tongue was not less keen than her eye, and,

whenever a damsel came within earshot, seemed to take up an unfinished lecture, as a barrelorgan takes up a

The fact that it was churning day was another reason why it was inconvenient to have the whittaws, and why,

consequently, Mrs. Poyser should scold Molly the housemaid with unusual severity. To all appearance Molly

had got through her afterdinner work in an exemplary manner, had "cleaned herself" with great dispatch,

and now came to ask, submissively, if she should sit down to her spinning till milking time. But this

blameless conduct, according to Mrs. Poyser, shrouded a secret indulgence of unbecoming wishes, which she

"Spinning, indeed! It isn't spinning as you'd be at, I'll be bound, and let you have your own way. I never knew

your equals for gallowsness. To think of a gell o' your age wanting to go and sit with halfadozen men! I'd

ha' been ashamed to let the words pass over my lips if I'd been you. And you, as have been here ever since

last Michaelmas, and I hired you at Treddles'on stattits, without a bit o' characteras 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 twofisted 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

cornersanybody '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 youthat'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 threelegged stool to sit on, and

never a blanket to cover you, and a bit o' oatcake for your dinner, as three children are asnatching at."

"I'm sure I donna want t' go wi' the whittaws," said Molly, whimpering, and quite overcome by this Dantean

picture of her future, "on'y we allays used to comb the wool for 'n at Mester Ottley's; an' so I just axed ye. I

"Mr. Ottley's, indeed! It's fine talking o' what you did at Mr. Ottley's. Your missis there might like her floors

dirted wi' whittaws for what I know. There's no knowing what people WONNA likesuch ways as I've

heard of! I never had a gell come into my house as seemed to know what cleaning was; I think people live

like pigs, for my part. And as to that Betty as was dairymaid at Trent's before she come to me, she'd ha' left

the cheeses without turning from week's end to week's end, and the dairy thralls, I might ha' wrote my name

on 'em, when I come downstairs after my illness, as the doctor said it was inflammationit was a mercy I

got well of it. And to think o' your knowing no better, Molly, and been here agoing i' nine months, and not

for want o' talking to, neitherand what are you stanning there for, like a jack as is run down, instead o'

getting your wheel out? You're a rare un for sitting down to your work a little while after it's time to put by."

The small chirruping voice that uttered this request came from a little sunnyhaired 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

"Cold, is it, my darling? Bless your sweet face!" said Mrs. Poyser, who was remarkable for the facility with

which she could relapse from her official objurgatory to one of fondness or of friendly converse. "Never

mind! Mother's done her ironing now. She's going to put the ironing things away."

"No, no, no; Totty 'ud get her feet wet," said Mrs. Poyser, carrying away her iron. "Run into the dairy and see

"I tould 'ike a bit o' pumtake," rejoined Totty, who seemed to be provided with several relays of requests; at

the same time, taking the opportunity of her momentary leisure to put her fingers into a bowl of starch, and

drag it down so as to empty the contents with tolerable completeness on to the ironing sheet.

"Did ever anybody see the 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

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

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

"You look th' image o' your Aunt Judith, Dinah, when you sit a sewing. I could almost fancy it was thirty

years back, and I was a little gell at home, looking at Judith as she sat at her work, after she'd done the house

up; only it was a little cottage, Father's was, and not a big rambling house as gets dirty i' one corner as fast as

you clean it in anotherbut 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 broader i' the shoulders. Judith and me allays hung together,

though she had such queer ways, but your mother and her never could agree. Ah, your mother little 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 carrying a ounce. And she was just the

same from the first o' my remembering her; it made no difference in her, as I could see, when she took to the

Methodists, only she talked a bit different and wore a different sort o' cap; but she'd never in her life spent a

"She was a blessed woman," said Dinah; "God had given her a loving, selfforgetting nature, and He

perfected it by grace. And she was very fond of you too, Aunt Rachel. I 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

"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 ascratching 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 woolgathering 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 goodnatur'd to my kin, for all they're poor, and made 'em welcome to the house; and 'ud do

for you, I'll be bound, as much as ever he'd do for Hetty, though she's his own niece. And there's linen in the

house as I could well spare you, for I've got lots o' sheeting and tableclothing, and towelling, as isn't made

up. There's a piece o' sheeting I could give you as that squinting Kitty spunshe was a rare girl to spin, for

all she squinted, and the children couldn't abide her; and, you know, the spinning's going on constant, and

there's new linen wove twice as fast as the old wears out. But where's the use o' talking, if ye wonna be

persuaded, and settle down like any other woman in her senses, i'stead o' wearing yourself out with walking

and preaching, and giving away every penny you get, so as you've nothing saved against sickness; and all the

things 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

"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 Biblethe parsons and people as have got nothing to do but learn itdo 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

corn, and the best newmilk cheeeses '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 gives us different sorts of work, according as

He fits us for it and calls us to it. I can no more help spending my life in trying to do what I can for the souls

of others, than you could help running if you heard little Totty crying at the other end of the house; the voice

would go to your heart, you would think the dear child was in trouble or in danger, and you couldn't rest

"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, rising and walking towards the door, "I know it 'ud be just the same if I was to talk to

you for hours. You'd make me the same answer, at th' end. I might as well talk to the running brook and tell it

The causeway outside the kitchen door was dry enough now for Mrs. Poyser to stand there quite pleasantly

and see what was going on in the yard, the grey worsted stocking making a steady 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, awestricken tone, "If there isn't Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine acoming

into the yard! I'll lay my life they're come to speak about your preaching on the Green, Dinah; it's you must

answer 'em, for I'm dumb. I've said enough a'ready about your bringing such disgrace upo' your uncle's

family. I wouldn't ha' minded if you'd been Mr. Poyser's own niecefolks must put up wi' their own kin, as

they put up wi' their own nosesit's their own flesh and blood. But to think of a niece o' mine being cause o'

my husband's being turned out of his farm, and me brought him no fortin but my savin's"

"Nay, dear Aunt Rachel," said Dinah gently, "you've no cause for such fears. I've strong assurance that no

evil will happen to you and my uncle and the children from anything I've done. I didn't preach without

"Direction! I know very well what you mean by direction," said Mrs. Poyser, knitting in a rapid and agitated

manner. "When there's a bigger maggot than usial in your head you call it 'direction'; and then nothing can

stir youyou look like the statty o' the outside o' Treddles'on church, astarin' and a smilin' whether it's fair

By this time the two gentlemen had reached the palings and had got down from their horses: it was plain they

meant to come in. Mrs. Poyser advanced to the door to meet them, curtsying low and trembling between

anger with Dinah and anxiety to conduct 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

"Well, Mrs. Poyser, how are you after this stormy morning?" said Mr. Irwine, with his stately cordiality. "Our

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

"No, indeed, thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said the captain, looking eagerly round the kitchen, as if 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

"Oh, you're pleased to say so, sir. Pray take a seat," said Mrs. Poyser, relieved a little by this compliment and

the captain's evident goodhumour, but still glancing anxiously at Mr. Irwine, who, she saw, was looking at

"Poyser is not at home, is he?" said Captain Donnithorne, seating himself where he could see along the short

"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

"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

"Why, sir, you can hardly miss him, except it's o' Treddles'on marketdaythat'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'

"Ah, the Scantlands would go much better with Choyce's farm, especially as he wants dairyland and you've

got plenty. I think yours is the prettiest farm on the estate, though; and do you know, Mrs. Poyser, if I were

going to marry and settle, I should be tempted to turn you out, and do up this fine old house, and turn farmer

"Oh, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, rather alarmed, "you wouldn't like it at all. As for farming, it's putting money into

your pocket wi' your right hand and fetching it out wi' your left. As fur as I can see, it's raising victual for

other folks and just getting a mouthful for yourself and your children as you go along. Not as you'd be like a

poor man as wants to get his breadyou could afford to lose as much money as you liked i' farmingbut

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 housethe

draughts in it are enough to cut you through, and it's my opinion the floors upstairs are very rotten, and the

"Why, that's a terrible picture, Mrs. Poyser. I think I should be doing you a service to turn you out of such a

place. But there's no chance of that. I'm not likely to settle for the next twenty years, till I'm a stout gentleman

of forty; and my grandfather would never consent to part with such good tenants as you."

"Well, sir, if he thinks so well o' Mr. Poyser for a tenant I wish you could put in a word for him to allow us

some new gates for the Five closes, for my husband's been asking and asking till he's tired, and to think o'

what he's done for the farm, and's never had a penny allowed him, be the times bad or good. And as I've said

to my husband often and often, I'm sure if the captain had anything to do with it, it wouldn't be so. Not as I

wish to speak 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 sheafand after all, at th' end o' the year, it's like as if you'd been cooking a feast and had got the

Mrs. Poyser, once launched into conversation, always sailed along without any check from her preliminary

awe of the gentry. The confidence she felt in her own powers of exposition was a motive force that overcame

"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

"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 milkpans, and would adjust his opinion of her to the appearance of her dairy.

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

THE dairy was certainly worth looking at: it was a scene to sicken for with a sort of calenture in hot and

dusty streetssuch coolness, such purity, such fresh fragrance of newpressed cheese, of firm butter, of

wooden vessels perpetually bathed in pure water; such soft colouring of red earthenware and creamy

surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, grey limestone and rich orangered rust on the iron weights and

hooks and hinges. But one gets only a confused notion of these details when they surround a distractingly

pretty girl of seventeen, standing on little pattens and rounding her dimpled arm to lift a pound of butter out

Hetty blushed a deep rosecolour 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 sparkles from under

long, curled, dark eyelashes; and while her aunt was discoursing to him about the limited amount of milk that

was to be spared for butter and cheese so long as the calves were not all weaned, and a large quantity but

inferior quality of milk yielded by the shorthorn, which had been bought on experiment, together with other

matters which must be interesting to a young gentleman who would one day be a landlord, Hetty tossed and

patted her pound of butter with quite a selfpossessed, coquettish air, slyly conscious that no turn of her head

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 mammals, 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 mischiefa beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for

inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Hetty Sorrel's was that sort of beauty. Her

aunt, Mrs. Poyser, who professed to despise all personal attractions and intended to be the severest of

mentors, continually gazed at Hetty's charms by the sly, fascinated in spite of herself; and after administering

such a scolding as naturally flowed from her anxiety to do well by her husband's niecewho 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 rosepetal, 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 shelllike ears; it is of little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of

her pinkandwhite neckerchief, tucked into her low plumcoloured stuff boddice, or how the linen

buttermaking apron, with its bib, seemed a thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, since it fell in such

charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thicksoled buckled shoes lost all that clumsiness which

they must certainly have had when empty of her foot and ankleof little use, unless you have seen a woman

who affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though you might conjure up the image of a

lovely woman, she would not in the least resemble that distracting kittenlike maiden. I might mention all the

divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your life utterly forgotten yourself in straining

your eyes after the mounting lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when the freshopened blossoms fill

them with a sacred silent beauty like that of fretted aisles, where would be the use of my descriptive

catalogue? I could never make you know what I meant by a bright spring day. Hetty's was a springtide

beauty; it was the beauty of young frisking things, roundlimbed, gambolling, circumventing you by a false

air of innocencethe innocence of a young star browed calf, for example, that, being inclined for a

promenade out of bounds, leads you a severe steeplechase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in

And they are the prettiest attitudes and movements into which a pretty girl is thrown in making up

buttertossing movements that give a charming curve to the arm, and a sideward inclination of the round

white neck; little patting and rolling movements with the palm of the hand, and nice adaptations and

finishings which cannot at all be effected without a great play of the pouting mouth and the dark eyes. And

then the butter itself seems to communicate a fresh charmit is so pure, so sweetscented; 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

"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, I know I shall hardly have a chance, for all the smart young farmers will take care to secure

Hetty smiled and blushed, but before she could answer, Mrs. Poyser interposed, scandalized at the mere

"Indeed, sir, you are very kind to take that notice of her. And I'm sure, whenever you're pleased to dance with

her, she'll be proud and thankful, if she stood still all the rest o' th' evening."

"Oh no, no, that would be too cruel to all the other young fellows who can dance. But you will promise me

two dances, won't you?" the captain continued, determined to make Hetty look at him and speak to him.

Hetty dropped the prettiest little curtsy, and stole a halfshy, halfcoquettish glance at him as she said, "Yes,

"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 thereall those who will be fine young men and women when

"Oh dear, sir, that 'ull be a long time first," said Mrs. Poyser, quite overcome at the young squire's speaking

so lightly of himself, and thinking how her husband would be interested in hearing her recount this

remarkable specimen of highborn humour. The captain was thought to be "very full of his jokes," and was a

great favourite throughout the estate on account of his free manners. Every tenant was quite sure things

would be different when the reins got into his handsthere was to be a millennial abundance of new gates,

"Where IS the little un, Hetty?" said Mrs. Poyser. "She came in here not long ago."

The proud mother, unable to resist the temptation to show her Totty, passed at once into the back kitchen, in

search of her, not, however, without misgivings lest something should have happened to render her person

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

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

"No, I'm sure your pretty arms were never meant for such heavy weights. But you go out a walk sometimes

these pleasant evenings, don't you? Why don't you have a walk in the Chase sometimes, now it's so green and

"Aunt doesn't like me to go awalking only when I'm going somewhere," said Hetty. "But I go through the

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

"It isn't Mrs. Best, it's Mrs. Pomfret, the lady's maid, as I go to see. She's teaching me tentstitch and the

The reason why there had been space for this teteatete can only be known by looking into the back kitchen,

where Totty had been discovered rubbing a stray bluebag against her nose, and in the same moment

allowing some liberal indigo drops to fall on her afternoon pinafore. But now she appeared holding her

mother's handthe end of her round nose rather shiny from a recent and hurried application of soap and

"Here she is!" said the captain, lifting her up and setting her on the low stone shelf. "Here's Totty! By the by,

"Oh, sir, we call her sadly out of her name. Charlotte's her christened name. It's a name i' Mr. Poyser's family:

his grandmother was named Charlotte. But we began with calling her Lotty, and now it's got to Totty. To be

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

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

"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 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, "Oh

for shame, you naughty gell! Not to thank the captain for what he's given you I'm sure, sir, it's very kind of

you; but she's spoiled shameful; her father won't have her said nay in anything, and there's no managing her.

"Oh, she's a funny little fatty; I wouldn't have her different. But I must be going now, for I suppose the rector

With a "goodbye," a bright glance, and a bow to Hetty Arthur left the dairy. But he was mistaken in

imagining himself waited for. The rector had been so much interested in his conversation with Dinah that he

would not have chosen to close it earlier; and you shall hear now what they had been saying to each other.

DINAH, who had risen when the gentlemen came in, but still kept hold of the sheet she was mending,

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

wellfavoured countenance! Oh that the good seed might fall on that soil, for it would surely flourish." The

agreeable impression must have been mutual, for Mr. Irwine bowed to her with a benignant deference, which

would have been equally in place if she had been the most dignified lady of his acquaintance.

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

"No, sir, I come from Snowfield, in Stonyshire. But my aunt was very kind, wanting me to have rest from my

work there, because I'd been ill, and she invited me to come and stay with her for a while."

"Ah, I remember Snowfield very well; I once had occasion to go there. It's a dreary bleak place. They were

building a cotton mill there; but that's many years ago now. I suppose the place is a good deal changed by

"It IS changed so far as the mill has brought people there, who get a livelihood for themselves by working in

it, and make it better for the tradesfolks. I work in it myself, and have reason to be grateful, for thereby I have

enough and to spare. But it's still a bleak place, as you say, sirvery different from this country."

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

"I had an aunt there once; she brought me up, for I was an orphan. But she was taken away seven years ago,

and I have no other kindred that I know of, besides my Aunt Poyser, who is very good to me, and would have

me come and live in this country, which to be sure is a good land, wherein they eat bread without scarceness.

But I'm not free to leave Snowfield, where I was first planted, and have grown deep into it, like the small

"Ah, I daresay you have many religious friends and companions there; you are a Methodista Wesleyan, I

"Yes, my aunt at Snowfield belonged to the Society, and I have cause to be thankful for the privileges I have

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

"It doesn't forbid them, sir, when they've a clear call to the work, and when their ministry is owned by the

conversion of sinners and the strengthening of God's people. Mrs. Fletcher, as you may have heard about,

was the first woman to preach in the Society, I believe, before she was married, when she was Miss

Bosanquet; and Mr. Wesley approved of her undertaking the work. She had a great gift, and there are many

others now living who are precious fellowhelpers in the work of the ministry. I understand there's been

voices raised against it in the Society of late, but I cannot but think their counsel will come to nought. It isn't

for men to make channels for God's Spirit, as they make channels for the watercourses, and say, 'Flow here,

"But don't you find some danger among your peopleI don't mean to say that it is so with you, far from

itbut don't you find sometimes that both men and women fancy themselves channels for God's Spirit, and

are quite mistaken, so that they set about a work for which they are unfit and bring holy things into

"Doubtless it is so sometimes; for there have been evildoers among us who have sought to deceive the

brethren, and some there are who deceive their own selves. But we are not without discipline and correction

to put a check upon these things. There's a very strict order kept among us, and the brethren and sisters watch

for each other's souls as they that must give account. They don't go every one his own way and say, 'Am I my

"But tell meif I may ask, and I am really interested in knowing ithow you first came to think of

"Indeed, sir, I didn't think of it at allI'd been used from the time I was sixteen to talk to the little children,

and teach them, and sometimes I had had my heart enlarged to speak in class, and was much drawn out in

prayer with the sick. But I had felt no call to preach, for when I'm not greatly wrought upon, I'm too much

given to sit still and keep by myself. It seems as if I could sit silent all day long with the thought of God

overflowing my soulas the pebbles lie bathed in the Willow Brook. For thoughts are so greataren't they,

sir? They seem to lie upon us like a deep flood; and it's my besetment to forget where I am and everything

about me, and lose myself in thoughts that I could give no account of, for I could neither make a beginning

nor ending of them in words. That was my way as long as I can remember; but sometimes it seemed as if

speech came to me without any will of my own, and words were given to me that came out as the tears come,

because our hearts are full and we can't help it. And those were always times of great blessing, though I had

never thought it could be so with me before a congregation of people. But, sir, we are led on, like the little

children, by a way that we know not. I was called to preach quite suddenly, and since then I have never been

"But tell me the circumstancesjust how it was, the very day you began to preach."

"It was one Sunday I walked with brother Marlowe, who was an aged man, one of the local preachers, all the

way to HettonDeeps that's a village where the people get their living by working in the leadmines, and

where there's no church nor preacher, but they live like sheep without a shepherd. It's better than twelve miles

from Snowfield, so we set out early in the morning, for it was summertime; and I had a wonderful sense of

the Divine love as we walked over the hills, where there's no trees, you know, sir, as there is here, to make

the sky look smaller, but you see the heavens stretched out like a tent, and you feel the everlasting arms

around you. But before we got to Hetton, brother Marlowe was seized with a dizziness that made him afraid

of falling, for he overworked himself sadly, at his years, in watching and praying, and walking so many miles

to speak the Word, as well as carrying on his trade of linenweaving. And when we got to the village, the

people were expecting him, for he'd appointed the time and the place when he was there before, and such of

them as cared to hear the Word of Life were assembled on a spot where the cottages was thickest, so as others

might be drawn to come. But he felt as he couldn't stand up to preach, and he was forced to lie down in the

first of the cottages we came to. So I went to tell the people, thinking we'd go into one of the houses, and I

would read and pray with them. But as I passed along by the cottages and saw the aged and trembling women

at the doors, and the hard looks of the men, who seemed to have their eyes no more filled with the sight of the

Sabbath morning than if they had been dumb oxen that never looked up to the sky, I felt a great movement in

my soul, and I trembled as if I was shaken by a strong spirit entering into my weak body. And I went to

where the little flock of people was gathered together, and stepped on the low wall that was built against the

green hillside, and I spoke the words that were given to me abundantly. And they all came round me out of all

the cottages, and many wept over their sins, and have since been joined to the Lord. That was the beginning

Dinah had let her work fall during this narrative, which she uttered in her usual simple way, but with that

sincere articulate, thrilling treble by which she always mastered her audience. She stooped now to gather up

her sewing, and then went on with it as before. Mr. Irwine was deeply interested. He said to himself, "He

must be a miserable prig who would act the pedagogue here: one might as well go and lecture the trees for

"And you never feel any embarrassment from the sense of your youththat you are a lovely young woman

"No, I've no room for such feelings, and I don't believe the people ever take notice about that. I think, sir,

when God makes His presence felt through us, we are like the burning bush: Moses never took any heed what

sort of bush it washe only saw the brightness of the Lord. I've preached to as rough ignorant people as can

be in the villages about Snowfieldmen that looked very hard and wildbut they never said an uncivil

word to me, and often thanked me kindly as they made way for me to pass through the midst of them."

"THAT I can believethat I can well believe," said Mr. Irwine, emphatically. "And what did you think of

"Very quiet, sir, but I saw no signs of any great work upon them, except in a young girl named Bessy

Cranage, towards whom my heart yearned greatly, when my eyes first fell on her blooming youth, given up to

folly and vanity. I had some private talk and prayer with her afterwards, and I trust her heart is touched. But

I've noticed that in these villages where the people lead a quiet life among the green pastures and the still

waters, tilling the ground and tending the cattle, there's a strange deadness to the Word, as different as can be

from the great towns, like Leeds, where I once went to visit a holy woman who preaches there. It's wonderful

how rich is the harvest of souls up those highwalled streets, where you seemed to walk as in a prisonyard,

and the ear is deafened with the sounds of worldly toil. I think maybe it is because the promise is sweeter

when this life is so dark and weary, and the soul gets more hungry when the body is ill at ease."

"Why, yes, our farmlabourers are not easily roused. They take life almost as slowly as the sheep and cows.

But we have some intelligent workmen about here. I daresay you know the Bedes; Seth Bede, by the by, is a

"Yes, I know Seth well, and his brother Adam a little. Seth is a gracious young mansincere and without

offence; and Adam is like the patriarch Joseph, for his great skill and knowledge and the kindness he shows

"Perhaps you don't know the trouble that has just happened to them? Their father, Matthias Bede, was

drowned in the Willow Brook last night, not far from his own door. I'm going now to see Adam."

"Ah, their poor aged mother!" said Dinah, dropping her hands and looking before her with pitying eyes, as if

she saw the object of her sympathy. "She will mourn heavily, for Seth has told me she's of an anxious,

As she rose and was beginning to fold up her work, Captain Donnithorne, having exhausted all plausible

pretexts for remaining among the milkpans, came out of the dairy, followed by Mrs. Poyser. Mr. Irwine now

rose also, and, advancing towards Dinah, held out his hand, and said, "Goodbye. 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, Mrs. Poyser, except that Miss Anne has one of her bad headaches today. By the by, we all

"I'm very glad, indeed, sir. It is but seldom I make one, but I remembered Mrs. Irwine was fond of 'em. Please

to give my duty to her, and to Miss Kate and Miss Anne. They've never been to look at my poultry this long

while, and I've got some beautiful speckled chickens, black and white, as Miss Kate might like to have some

"Well, I'll tell her; she must come and see them. Goodbye," said the rector, mounting his horse.

"Just ride slowly on, Irwine," said Captain Donnithorne, mounting also. "I'll overtake you in three minutes.

I'm only going to speak to the shepherd about the whelps. Goodbye, Mrs. Poyser; tell your husband I shall

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 bulldog, who

performed a Pyrrhic dance, that every moment seemed to threaten the breaking of his chain. Mrs. 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 unobserved; 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

Mrs. Poyser, however, though she noticed the bonnet, deferred remarking on it until she had disburdened

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

"No, he was not at all angry; he was very friendly to me. I was quite drawn out to speak to him; I hardly

know how, for I had always thought of him as a worldly Sadducee. But his countenance is as pleasant as the

"Pleasant! And what else did y' expect to find him but pleasant?" said Mrs. Poyser impatiently, resuming her

knitting. "I should think his countenance is pleasant indeed! And him a gentleman born, and's got a mother

like a picter. You may go the country round and not find such another woman turned sixtysix. It's

summatlike to see such a man as that i' the desk of a Sunday! As I say to Poyser, it's like looking at a full

crop o' wheat, or a pasture with a fine dairy o' cows in it; it makes you think the world's comfortablelike.

But as for such creaturs as you Methodisses run after, I'd as soon go to look at a lot o' bare ribbed runts on a

common. Fine folks they are to tell you what's right, as look as if they'd never tasted nothing better than

baconsword and sourcake i' their lives. But what did Mr. Irwine say to you about that fool's trick o'

"He only said he'd heard of it; he didn't seem to feel any displeasure about it. But, dear aunt, don't think any

more about that. He told me something that I'm sure will cause you sorrow, as it does me. Thias Bede was

drowned last night in the Willow Brook, and I'm thinking that the aged mother will be greatly in need of

comfort. Perhaps I can be of use to her, so I have fetched my bonnet and am going to set out."

"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 Methodist; but, for the matter o' that,

it's the flesh and blood folks are made on as makes the difference. Some cheeses are made o' skimmed milk

and some o' new milk, and it's no matter what you call 'em, you may tell which is which by the look and the

smell. But as to Thias Bede, he's better out o' the way nor inGod forgi' me for saying sofor 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 comfort her inside. Sit

down, child, and be easy, for you shan't stir out till you've had a cup o' tea, and so I tell you."

During the latter part of this speech, Mrs. Poyser had been reaching down the teathings 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 teacups), when Hetty came out of the dairy relieving her tired arms by lifting them up,

"Molly," she said, rather languidly, "just run out and get me a bunch of dockleaves: the butter's ready to

"Not as you'd care much, I daresay, if you did hear; for you're too featherheaded to mind if everybody was

dead, so as you could stay upstairs adressing yourself for two hours by the clock. But anybody 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 be drownded for what you'd careyou'd be perking at the glass the next

"Adam Bededrowned?" said Hetty, letting her arms fall and looking rather bewildered, but suspecting that

"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

"Oh, how dreadful!" said Hetty, looking serious, but not deeply affected; and as Molly now entered with the

dockleaves, she took them silently and returned to the dairy without asking further questions.

WHILE she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant butter as the primrose is set off by its 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, occasional regimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurablethose were the warm

rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its little foolish tunes over and over again. We do not

hear that Memnon's statue gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind, or in response

to any other influence divine or human than certain shortlived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to

accommodate ourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned instruments called human

souls have only a very limited range of music, and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others

Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her. She was not blind to the fact that young

Luke Britton of Broxton came to Hayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her;

and that he would have made much more decided 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 avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas. She

knew still better, that Adam Bedetall, upright, clever, brave Adam Bedewho 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 given to run after the lasses, could

be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large,

but she couldn't help perceiving that Adam was "something like" a man; always knew what to say about

things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended the churn in no time; knew, with only

looking at it, the value of the chestnuttree 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 heada degree of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that countryside. Not at

all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to

Hayslope, had only broken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as for Mr. Craig, the

gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure, but he was knockkneed, and had a queer sort of

singsong in his talk; moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way to forty.

Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and would be pleased for her to marry him.

For those were times when there was no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable

artisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the 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 him

under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin Poyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he

liked a friendly chat over his own home brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay down the law to a stupid

neighbour who had no notion how to make the best of his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn

something from a clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three years ever since he had

superintended the building of the new barnAdam 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 glorious kitchen, at wellgraduated 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 masterman some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is in

the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if it's true what they say; the woman as

marries him 'ull have a good take, be't Lady day or Michaelmas," a remark which Mrs. Poyser always

followed up with her cordial assent. "Ah," she would say, "it's all very fine having a readymade rich man,

but mayhappen he'll be a readymade 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 springcart o' your own, if you've got a soft to drive you:

he'll soon turn you over into the ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains; for where's the

use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled to a geck as everybody's a laughing at? She might

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 her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not been equal to more

positive labour than the superintendence of servants and children? But Hetty had never given Adam any

steady encouragement. Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his superiority to

her other admirers, she had never brought herself to think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong,

skilful, keeneyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he had shown the least sign of

slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish tyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who

would have been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. "Mary Burge, indeed! Such a

sallowfaced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon, she looked as yellow as a crowflower and her hair was

as straight as a hank of cotton." And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from the Hall Farm,

and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him

back into the net by little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his neglect. But as to

marrying Adam, that was a very different affair! There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her

cheeks never grew a shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill when she saw him passing

along the causeway by the window, or advancing towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the

meadow; she felt nothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing that he loved her and

would not care to look at Mary Burge. He 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 wasa 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 large beautiful ear

rings, such as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top of her gown, and something to

make her handkerchief smell nice, like Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to

be obliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam had been rich and could have

But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty vague, atmospheric, shaping itself into no

selfconfessed hopes or prospects, but producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground and

go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or effort, and showing her all things through a

soft, liquid veil, as if she were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a beatified world, such

as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a

good deal of trouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself at church so as to have the

fullest view of her both sitting and standing; that he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall

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 she is thinking what a heavenly lot it must be to

have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had got a face and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping

dreams; bright, soft glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy languor. The eyes

that shed those glances were really not half so fine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad,

beseeching 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 herof little else than

recalling the sensations with which she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and became

conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her

with eyes that seemed to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with an odour like that

of a flowergarden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish thoughts! But all this happened, you must

remember, nearly sixty years ago, and Hetty was quite uneducateda simple farmer's girl, to whom a

gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until today, she had never looked farther

into the future than to the next time Captain Donnithorne 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 tomorrowand if he should speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by! That had

never happened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past, was busy fashioning what would

happen to morrowwhereabout in the Chase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put

her new rosecoloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say to her to make her return

his glancea glance which she would be living through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of

In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's troubles, or think much about poor old

Thias being drowned? Young souls, in such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterflies

sipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier of dreamsby invisible looks and impalpable

While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled with these pictures of the morrow,

Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr. Irwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain

indistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind while he was listening to Mr. Irwine's account

of Dinahindistinct, yet strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenly said,

"What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have you become an amateur of damp quarries and

Arthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention would be of any use, so he said, with his

accustomed frankness, "No, I went to look at the pretty buttermaker 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 menall cheek and

no features, like Martin Poyser'scomes out in the women of the famuly as the most charming phiz

"Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic light, but I must not have you feeding

her vanity and filling her little noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine gentlemen, or

you will spoil her for a poor man's wifehonest Craig's, for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft

glances on her. The little puss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable as it's a law

of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty. Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will

get settled, now 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 lovemaking doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till

he's in a better position. He has independence of spirit enough for two menrather an excess of pride, if

"That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's shoes and make a fine thing of that

building business, I'll answer for him. I should like to see him well settled in this parish; he would be ready

then to act as my grandvizier when I wanted one. We could plan no end of repairs and improvements

together. I've never seen the girl, though, I thinkat least I've never looked at her."

"Look at her next Sunday at churchshe sits with her father on the left of the readingdesk. You needn't

look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel then. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting

dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to me and looked lovingly at me, the struggle

between arithmetic and inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my wisdom there,

Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had 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 great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be merged any minute into a trot or a canter, and

one might have escaped from Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the necessity of

AT five o'clock Lisbeth came downstairs with a large key in her hand: it was the key of the chamber where

her husband lay dead. Throughout the day, except in her occasional outbursts of wailing grief, she had been

in incessant movement, performing the initial duties to her dead with the awe and exactitude that belong to

religious rites. She had brought out her little store of bleached linen, which she had for long years kept in

reserve for this supreme use. It seemed but yesterdaythat time so many midsummers ago, when she had

told Thias where this linen lay, that he might be sure and reach it out for her when SHE died, for she was the

elder of the two. Then there had been the work of cleansing to the strictest purity every object in the sacred

chamber, and of removing from it every trace of common daily occupation. The small window, which had

hitherto freely let in the frosty moonlight or the warm summer sunrise on the working man's slumber, must

now be darkened with a fair white sheet, for this was the sleep which is as sacred under the bare rafters as in

ceiled houses. Lisbeth had even mended a longneglected and unnoticeable rent in the checkered bit of

bedcurtain; 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 forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded;

they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the

smallest relic of their presence. And the aged peasant woman most of all believes that her dead are conscious.

Decent burial was what Lisbeth had been thinking of for herself through years of thrift, with an indistinct

expectation that she should know when she was being carried to the churchyard, followed by her husband and

her sons; and now she felt as if the greatest work of her life were to be done in seeing that Thias was buried

decently before herunder the white thorn, where once, in a dream, she had thought she lay in the coffin, yet

all the while saw the sunshine above and smelt the white blossoms that were so thick upon the thorn the

But now she had done everything that could be done today in the chamber of deathhad done it all herself,

with some aid from her sons in lifting, for she would let no one be fetched to help her from the village, not

being fond of female neighbours generally; and her favourite Dolly, the old housekeeper at Mr. Burge's, who

had come to condole with her in the morning as soon as she heard of Thias's death, was too dimsighted to be

of much use. She had locked the door, and now held the key in her hand, as she threw herself wearily into a

chair that stood out of its place in the middle of the house floor, where in ordinary times she would never

have consented to sit. The kitchen had had none of her attention that day; it was soiled with the tread of

muddy shoes and untidy with clothes and other objects out of place. But what at another time would have

been intolerable to Lisbeth's habits of order and cleanliness seemed to her now just what should be: it was

right that things should look strange and disordered and wretched, now the old man had come to his end in

that sad way; the kitchen ought not to look as if nothing had happened. Adam, overcome with the agitations

and exertions of the day after his night of hard work, had fallen asleep on a bench in the workshop; and Seth

was in the back kitchen making a fire of sticks that he might get the kettle to boil, and persuade his mother to

There was no one in the kitchen when Lisbeth entered and threw herself into the chair. She looked round with

blank eyes at the dirt and confusion on which the bright afternoon's sun shone dismally; it was all of a piece

with the sad confusion of her mindthat confusion which belongs to the first hours of a sudden sorrow,

when the poor human soul is like one who has been deposited sleeping among the ruins of a vast city, and

wakes up in dreary amazement, not knowing whether it is the growing or the dying daynot knowing why

and whence came this illimitable scene of desolation, or why he too finds himself desolate in the midst of it.

At another time Lisbeth's first thought would have been, "Where is Adam?" but the sudden death of her

husband had restored him in these hours to that first place in her affections which he had held

sixandtwenty years ago. She had forgotten his faults as we forget the sorrows of our departed childhood,

and thought of nothing but the young husband's kindness and the old man's patience. Her eyes continued to

wander blankly until Seth came in and began to remove some of the scattered things, and clear the small

"I want thee to have a cup of tea, Mother," answered Seth, tenderly. "It'll do thee good; and I'll put two or

"Comfortable! How canst talk o' ma'in' things comfortable? Let abe, let abe. There's no comfort for me no

more," she went on, the tears coming when she began to speak, "now thy poor feyther's gone, as I'n washed

for and mended, an' got's victual for him for thirty 'ear, an' him allays so pleased wi' iverything I done for

him, an' used to be so handy an' do the jobs for me when I war ill an' cumbered wi' th' babby, an' made me the

posset an' brought it upstairs as proud as could be, an' carried the lad as war as heavy as two children for five

mile an' ne'er grumbled, all the way to Warson Wake, 'cause I wanted to go an' see my sister, as war dead an'

gone the very next Christmas as e'er come. An' him to be drownded in the brook as we passed o'er the day we

war married an' come home together, an' he'd made them lots o' shelves for me to put my plates an' things on,

an' showed 'em me as proud as could be, 'cause he know'd I should be pleased. An' he war to die an' me not to

know, but to be asleepin' i' my bed, as if I caredna nought about it. Eh! An' me to live to see that! An' us as

war young folks once, an' thought we should do rarely when we war married. Let abe, lad, let abe! I wonna

ha' no tay. I carena if I ne'er ate nor drink no more. When one end o' th' bridge tumbles down, where's th' use

o' th' other stannin'? I may's well die, an' foller my old man. There's no knowin' but he'll want me."

Here Lisbeth broke from words into moans, swaying herself backwards and forwards on her chair. Seth,

always timid in his behaviour towards his mother, from the sense that he had no influence over her, felt it was

useless to attempt to persuade or soothe her till this passion was past; so he contented himself with tending

the back kitchen fire and folding up his father's clothes, which had been hanging out to dry since

morningafraid to move about in the room where his mother was, lest he should irritate her further.

But after Lisbeth had been rocking herself and moaning for some minutes, she suddenly paused and said

aloud to herself, "I'll go an' see arter Adam, for I canna think where he's gotten; an' I want him to go upstairs

wi' me afore it's dark, for the minutes to look at the corpse is like the meltin' snow."

Seth overheard this, and coming into the kitchen again, as his mother rose from her chair, he said, "Adam's

asleep in the workshop, mother. Thee'dst better not wake him. He was o'erwrought with work and trouble."

"Wake him? Who's agoin' to wake him? I shanna wake him wi' lookin' at him. I hanna seen the lad this two

hourI'd welly forgot as he'd e'er growed up from a babby when's feyther carried him."

Adam was seated on a rough bench, his head supported by his arm, which rested from the shoulder to the

elbow on the long planing table in the middle of the workshop. It seemed as if he had sat down for a few

minutes' rest and had fallen asleep without slipping from his first attitude of sad, fatigued thought. His face,

unwashed since yesterday, looked pallid and clammy; his hair was tossed shaggily about his forehead, and his

closed eyes had the sunken look which follows upon watching and sorrow. His brow was knit, and his whole

face had an expression of weariness and pain. Gyp was evidently uneasy, for he sat on his haunches, resting

his nose on his master's stretchedout leg, and dividing the time between licking the hand that hung listlessly

down and glancing with a listening air towards the door. The poor dog was hungry and restless, but would

not leave his master, and was waiting impatiently for some change in the scene. It was owing to this feeling

on Gyp's part that, when Lisbeth came into the workshop and advanced towards Adam as noiselessly as she

could, her intention not to awaken him was immediately defeated; for Gyp's excitement was too great to find

vent in anything short of a sharp bark, and in a moment Adam opened his eyes and saw his mother standing

before him. It was not very unlike his dream, for his sleep had been little more than living through again, in a

fevered delirious way, all that had happened since daybreak, and his mother with her fretful grief was present

to him through it all. The chief difference between the reality and the vision was that in his dream Hetty was

continually coming before him in bodily presencestrangely mingling herself as an actor in scenes with

which she had nothing to do. She was even by the Willow Brook; she made his mother angry by coming into

the house; and he met her with her smart clothes quite wet through, as he walked in the rain to Treddleston, to

tell the coroner. But wherever Hetty came, his mother was sure to follow soon; and when he opened his eyes,

"Eh, my lad, my lad!" Lisbeth burst out immediately, her wailing impulse returning, for grief in its freshness

feels the need of associating its loss and its lament with every change of scene and incident, "thee'st got

nobody now but thy old mother to torment thee and be a burden to thee. Thy poor feyther 'ull ne'er anger thee

no more; an' thy mother may's well go arter himthe sooner the betterfor I'm no good to nobody now.

One old coat 'ull do to patch another, but it's good for nought else. Thee'dst like to ha' a wife to mend thy

clothes an' get thy victual, better nor thy old mother. An' I shall be nought but cumber, asittin' i' th'

chimneycorner. (Adam winced and moved uneasily; he dreaded, of all things, to hear his mother speak of

Hetty.) But if thy feyther had lived, he'd ne'er ha' wanted me to go to make room for another, for he could no

more ha' done wi'out me nor one side o' the scissars can do wi'out th' other. Eh, we should ha' been both flung

away together, an' then I shouldna ha' seen this day, an' one buryin' 'ud ha' done for us both."

Here Lisbeth paused, but Adam sat in pained silencehe could not speak otherwise than tenderly to his

mother today, but he could not help being irritated by this plaint. It was not possible for poor Lisbeth to

know how it affected Adam any more than it is possible for a wounded dog to know how his moans affect the

nerves of his master. Like all complaining women, she complained in the expectation of being soothed, and

"I know thee couldst do better wi'out me, for thee couldst go where thee likedst an' marry them as thee

likedst. But I donna want to say thee nay, let thee bring home who thee wut; I'd ne'er open my lips to find

faut, for when folks is old an' o' no use, they may think theirsens well off to get the bit an' the sup, though

they'n to swallow ill words wi't. An' if thee'st set thy heart on a lass as'll bring thee nought and waste all,

when thee mightst ha' them as 'ud make a man on thee, I'll say nought, now thy feyther's dead an' drownded,

Adam, unable to bear this any longer, rose silently from the bench and walked out of the workshop into the

"Thee wutna go upstairs an' see thy feyther then? I'n done everythin' now, an' he'd like thee to go an' look at

Adam turned round at once and said, "Yes, mother; let us go upstairs. Come, Seth, let us go together."

They went upstairs, and for five minutes all was silence. Then the key was turned again, and there was a

sound of footsteps on the stairs. But Adam did not come down again; he was too weary and wornout to

encounter more of his mother's querulous grief, and he went to rest on his bed. Lisbeth no sooner entered the

kitchen and sat down than she threw her apron over her head, and began to cry and moan and rock herself as

before. Seth thought, "She will be quieter by and by, now we have been upstairs"; and he went into the back

kitchen again, to tend his little fire, hoping that he should presently induce her to have some tea.

Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes, giving a low moan with every

forward movement of her body, when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice

said to her, "Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you."

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from her face. The voice was strange to

her. Could it be her sister's spirit come back to her from the dead after all those years? She trembled and

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just

yet, but quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come

in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth's chair and leaned over her, that she might be

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes. She saw nothing at first but

a facea pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her. Her wonder increased;

perhaps it WAS an angel. But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on Lisbeth's again, and the old

woman looked down at it. It was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for

Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards.

Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah's face, said, with

something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, "Why, ye're a workin' woman!"

"Ah!" said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; "ye comed in so light, like the shadow on the wall, an' spoke i' my

ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit. Ye've got a'most the face o' one as is a sittin' on the grave i' Adam's

"I come from the Hall Farm now. You know Mrs. Poysershe's my aunt, and she has heard of your great

affliction, and is very sorry; and I'm come to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your

sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of

God was heavy upon you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the

"Ah! I know who y' are now; y' are a Methody, like Seth; he's tould me on you," said Lisbeth fretfully, her

overpowering sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone. "Ye'll make it out as trouble's a good thing,

like HE allays does. But where's the use o' talkin' to me athat'n? Ye canna make the smart less wi' talkin'.

Ye'll ne'er make me believe as it's better for me not to ha' my old man die in's bed, if he must die, an' ha' the

parson to pray by him, an' me to sit by him, an' tell him ne'er to mind th' ill words I've gi'en him sometimes

when I war angered, an' to gi' him a bit an' a sup, as long as a bit an' a sup he'd swallow. But eh! To die i' the

cold water, an' us close to him, an' ne'er to know; an' me asleepin', as if I ne'er belonged to him no more nor

Here Lisbeth began to cry and rock herself again; and Dinah said, "Yes, dear friend, your affliction is great. It

would be hardness of heart to say that your trouble was not heavy to bear. God didn't send me to you to make

light of your sorrow, but to mourn with you, if you will let me. If you had a table spread for a feast, and was

making merry with your friends, you would think it was kind to let me come and sit down and rejoice with

you, because you'd think I should like to share those good things; but I should like better to share in your

trouble and your labour, and it would seem harder to me if you denied me that. You won't send me away?

"Nay, nay; angered! who said I war angered? It war good on you to come. An' Seth, why donna ye get her

some tay? Ye war in a hurry to get some for me, as had no need, but ye donna think o' gettin' 't for them as

wants it. Sit ye down; sit ye down. I thank you kindly for comin', for it's little wage ye get by walkin' through

the wet fields to see an old woman like me....Nay, I'n got no daughter o' my ownne'er had onean' I

warna sorry, for they're poor queechy things, gells is; I allays wanted to ha' lads, as could fend for theirsens.

An' the lads 'ull be marryin'I shall ha' daughters eno', an' too many. But now, do ye make the tay as ye like

it, for I'n got no taste i' my mouth this dayit's all one what I swallerit's all got the taste o' sorrow wi't."

Dinah took care not to betray that she had had her tea, and accepted Lisbeth's invitation very readily, for the

sake of persuading the old woman herself to take the food and drink she so much needed after a day of hard

Seth was so happy now Dinah was in the house that he could not help thinking her presence was worth

purchasing with a life in which grief incessantly followed upon grief; but the next moment he reproached

himselfit was almost as if he were rejoicing in his father's sad death. Nevertheless the joy of being with

Dinah WOULD triumphit was like the influence of climate, which no resistance can overcome. And the

feeling even suffused itself over his face so as to attract his mother's notice, while she was drinking her tea.

"Thee may'st well talk o' trouble bein' a good thing, Seth, for thee thriv'st on't. Thee look'st as if thee know'dst

no more o' care an' cumber nor when thee wast a babby alyin' awake i' th' cradle. For thee'dst allays lie still

wi' thy eyes open, an' Adam ne'er 'ud lie still a minute when he wakened. Thee wast allays like a bag o' meal

as can ne'er be bruisedthough, for the matter o' that, thy poor feyther war just such another. But ye've got

the same look too" (here Lisbeth turned to Dinah). "I reckon it's wi' bein' a Methody. Not as I'm afindin' faut

wi' ye for't, for ye've no call to be frettin', an' somehow ye looken sorry too. Eh! Well, if the Methodies are

fond o' trouble, they're like to thrive: it's a pity they canna ha't all, an' take it away from them as donna like it.

I could ha' gi'en 'em plenty; for when I'd gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; and now he's

"Yes," said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth's, for her reliance, in her smallest words and

deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman's tact which proceeds from acute and ready

sympathy; "yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed for the sound of her bad cough in the

nights, instead of the silence that came when she was gone. But now, dear friend, drink this other cup of tea

"What!" said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous tone, "had ye got no feyther and

"No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby. She had no children, for she was

"Eh, she'd fine work wi' ye, I'll warrant, bringin' ye up from a babby, an' her a lone womanit's ill bringin'

up a cade lamb. But I daresay ye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye'd ne'er been angered i' your life. But what

did ye do when your aunt died, an' why didna ye come to live in this country, bein' as Mrs. Poyser's your aunt

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth's attention was attracted, told her the story of her early lifehow she had been

brought up to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life

thereall the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth. The old woman listened, and forgot to be

fretful, unconsciously subject to the soothing influence of Dinah's face and voice. After a while she was

persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this, believing that the sense of order and

quietude around her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her side.

Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinah would like to be left alone with his

Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and said at last, "Ye've got a notion o'

cleanin' up. I wouldna mind ha'in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad's wage i' fine clothes an'

waste. Ye're not like the lasses o' this countryside. I reckon folks is different at Snowfield from what they are

"They have a different sort of life, many of 'em," said Dinah; "they work at different thingssome in the

mill, and many in the mines, in the villages round about. But the heart of man is the same everywhere, and

there are the children of this world and the children of light there as well as elsewhere. But we've many more

"Well, I didna know as the Methody women war like ye, for there's Will Maskery's wife, as they say's a big

Methody, isna pleasant to look at, at all. I'd as lief look at a tooad. An' I'm thinkin' I wouldna mind if ye'd stay

an' sleep here, for I should like to see ye i' th' house i' th' mornin'. But mayhappen they'll be lookin for ye at

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

"Well, there's room; I'n got my bed laid i' th' little room o'er the back kitchen, an' ye can lie beside me. I'd be

glad to ha' ye wi' me to speak to i' th' night, for ye've got a nice way o' talkin'. It puts me i' mind o' the

swallows as was under the thack last 'ear when they fust begun to sing low an' softlike i' th' mornin'. Eh, but

my old man war fond o' them birds! An' so war Adam, but they'n ne'er comed again this 'ear. Happen

"There," said Dinah, "now the kitchen looks tidy, and now, dear Motherfor I'm your daughter tonight,

you knowI should like you to wash your face and have a clean cap on. Do you remember what David did,

when God took away his child from him? While the child was yet alive he fasted and prayed to God to spare

it, and he would neither eat nor drink, but lay on the ground all night, beseeching God for the child. But when

he knew it was dead, he rose up from the ground and washed and anointed himself, and changed his clothes,

and ate and drank; and when they asked him how it was that he seemed to have left off grieving now the child

was dead, he said, 'While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, Who can tell whether God will

be gracious to me, that the child may live? But now he is dead, wherefore should I fast? Can I bring him back

"Eh, that's a true word," said Lisbeth. "Yea, my old man wonna come back to me, but I shall go to himthe

sooner the better. Well, ye may do as ye like wi' me: there's a clean cap i' that drawer, an' I'll go i' the back

kitchen an' wash my face. An' Seth, thee may'st reach down Adam's new Bible wi' th' picters in, an' she shall

read us a chapter. Eh, I like them words'I shall go to him, but he wonna come back to me.'"

Dinah and Seth were both inwardly offering thanks for the greater quietness of spirit that had come over

Lisbeth. This was what Dinah had been trying to bring about, through all her still sympathy and absence from

exhortation. From her girlhood 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 herself; but it was always given her

when to keep silence and when to speak." And do we not all agree to call rapid thought and noble impulse by

the name of inspiration? After our subtlest analysis of the mental process, we must still say, as Dinah did, that

And so there was earnest prayerthere was faith, love, and hope pouring forth that evening in the littie

kitchen. And poor, aged, fretful Lisbeth, without grasping any distinct idea, without going through any course

of religious emotions, felt a vague sense of goodness and love, and of something right lying underneath and

beyond all this sorrowing life. She couldn't understand the sorrow; but, for these moments, under the

subduing influence of Dinah's spirit, she felt that she must be patient and still.

IT was but halfpast four the next morning when Dinah, tired of lying awake listening to the birds and

watching the growing light through the little window in the garret roof, rose and began to dress herself very

quietly, lest she should disturb Lisbeth. But already some one else was astir in the house, and had gone

downstairs, preceded by Gyp. The dog's pattering step was a sure sign that it was Adam who went down; but

Dinah was not aware of this, and she thought it was more likely to be Seth, for he had told her how Adam had

stayed up working the night before. Seth, however, had only just awakened at the sound of the opening door.

The exciting influence of the previous day, heightened at last by Dinah's unexpected presence, had not been

counteracted by any bodily weariness, for he had not done his ordinary amount of hard work; and so when he

went to bed; it was not till he had tired himself with hours of tossing wakefulness that drowsiness came, and

But Adam had been refreshed by his long rest, and with his habitual impatience of mere passivity, he was

eager to begin the new day and subdue sadness by his strong will and strong arm. The white mist lay in the

valley; it was going to be a bright warm day, and he would start to work again when he had had his breakfast.

"There's nothing but what's bearable as long as a man can work," he said to himself; "the 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 grip hold o' things outside your own lot."

As he dashed the cold water over his head and face, he felt completely himself again, and with his black eyes

as keen as ever and his thick black hair all glistening with the fresh moisture, he went into the workshop to

look out the wood for his father's coffin, intending that he and Seth should carry it with them to Jonathan

Burge's and have the coffin made by one of the workmen there, so that his mother might not see and hear the

He had just gone into the workshop when his quick ear detected a light rapid foot on the stairscertainly not

his mother's. He had been in bed and asleep when Dinah had come in, in the evening, and now he wondered

whose step this could be. A foolish thought came, and moved him strangely. As if it could be Hetty! She was

the last person likely to be in the house. And yet he felt reluctant to go and look and have the clear proof that

it was some one else. He stood leaning on a plank he had taken hold of, listening to sounds which his

imagination interpreted for him so pleasantly that the keen strong face became suffused with a timid

tenderness. The light footstep moved about the 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 figure just leaning a little to clasp the handle. A very foolish thoughtit 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

"How do you do, Adam Bede?" said Dinah, in her calm treble, pausing from her sweeping and fixing her

mild grave eyes upon him. "I trust you feel rested and strengthened again to bear the burden and heat of the

It was like dreaming of the sunshine and awaking in the moonlight. Adam had seen Dinah several times, but

always at the Hall Farm, where he was not very vividly conscious of any woman's presence except Hetty's,

and he had only in the last day or two begun to suspect that Seth was in love with her, so that his attention

had not hitherto been drawn towards her for his brother's sake. But now her slim figure, her plain black gown,

and her pale serene face impressed him with all the force that belongs to a reality contrasted with a

preoccupying fancy. For the first moment or two he made no answer, but looked at her with the concentrated,

examining glance which a man gives to an object in which he has suddenly begun to be interested. Dinah, for

the first time in her life, felt a painful selfconsciousness; 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

"Who was it took the news to the Hall Farm?" said Adam, his thoughts reverting to some one there; he

"It was Mr. Irwine, the clergyman, told me, and my aunt was grieved for your mother when she heard it, and

wanted me to come; and so is my uncle, I'm sure, now he's heard it, but he was gone out to Rosseter all

yesterday. They'll look for you there as soon as you've got time to go, for there's nobody round that hearth but

Dinah, with her sympathetic divination, knew quite well that Adam was longing to hear if Hetty had said

anything about their trouble; she was too rigorously truthful for benevolent invention, but she had contrived

to say something in which Hetty was tacitly included. Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a

child who plays at solitary hideandseek; 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.

"No, I go back to Snowfield on Saturday, and I shall have to set out to Treddleston early, to be in time for the

Oakbourne carrier. So I must go back to the farm tonight, that I may have the last day with my aunt and her

children. But I can stay here all to day, if your mother would like me; and her heart seemed inclined towards

"Ah, then, she's sure to want you today. 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

Hitherto Gyp had been assisting at this conversation in motionless silence, seated on his haunches, and

alternately looking up in his master's face to watch its expression and observing Dinah's movements about the

kitchen. The kind smile with which 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

sweepingbrush, he trotted towards her and put up his muzzle against her hand in a friendly way.

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

"Poor dog!" said Dinah, patting the rough grey coat, "I've a strange feeling about the dumb things as if they

wanted to speak, and it was a trouble to 'em because they couldn't. I can't help being sorry for the dogs

always, though perhaps there's no need. But they may well have more in them than they know how to make

Seth came down now, and was pleased to find Adam talking with Dinah; he wanted Adam to know how

much better she was than all other women. But after a few words of greeting, Adam drew him into the

By six o'clock they were all at breakfast with Lisbeth in a kitchen as clean as she could have made it herself.

The window and door were open, and the morning air brought with it a mingled scent of southernwood,

thyme, and sweetbriar from the patch of garden by the side of the cottage. Dinah did not sit down at first,

but moved about, serving the others with the warm porridge and the toasted oatcake, which she had got

ready in the usual way, for she had asked Seth to tell her just what his mother gave them for breakfast.

Lisbeth had been unusually silent since she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her

ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find all the work done, and sat still to be

waited on. Her new sensations seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting the

"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah; "I can ate it wi'out its turnin' my stomach. It

might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' know

that? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'n made it for 'em; it's well if they get

onybody as 'll make parridge at all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' body in a mornin',

an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well enough for a ma'shift."

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

"Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether the floor's cleaned or catlicked.

But thee'lt know when thee gets thy parridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it.

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

"Aye, come an' sit ye downdo," said Lisbeth, "an' ate a morsel; ye'd need, arter bein' upo' your legs this

hour an' half a'ready. Come, then," she added, in a tone of complaining affection, as Dinah sat down by her

side, "I'll be loath for ye t' go, but ye canna stay much longer, I doubt. I could put up wi' ye i' th' house better

"I'll stay till tonight if you're willing," said Dinah. "I'd stay longer, only I'm going back to Snowfield on

"Eh, I'd ne'er go back to that country. My old man come from that Stonyshire side, but he left it when he war

a young un, an' i' the right on't too; for he said as there war no wood there, an' it 'ud ha' been a bad country for

"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 saysand he knows the Southas

the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harderheaded and strongerbodied, and a deal taller.

And then he says in some o' those counties it's as flat as the back o' your hand, and you can see nothing of a

distance without 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

"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."

"Oh, I love the Stonyshire side," said Dinah; "I shouldn't like to set my face towards the countries where

they're rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills

where the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spend their days in the 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, 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 snowdropflowers as ha' lived for

days an' days when I'n gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight; but th' hungry

foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking

at Adam, "donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther and mother i' the churchyard,

an' goin' to a country as they know nothin' on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' the churchyard of

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

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

"Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; "thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther's

coffin but thysen? Who'd make it so well? An' him as know'd what good work war, an's got a son as is the

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

"An' why shouldna I like 't? It's the right thing to be done. An' what's liking got to do wi't? It's choice o'

mislikings is all I'n got i' this world. One morsel's as good as another when your mouth's out o' taste. Thee

mun set about it now this mornin' fust thing. I wonna ha' nobody to touch the coffin but thee."

"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

"Nay, nay," persisted Lisbeth, beginning to cry, "I'n set my heart on't as thee shalt ma' thy feyther's coffin.

Thee't so stiff an' masterful, thee't ne'er do as thy mother wants thee. Thee wast often angered wi' thy feyther

when he war alive; thee must be the better to him now he's gone. He'd ha' thought nothin' on't for Seth to ma's

"Say no more, Adam, say no more," said Seth, gently, though his voice told that he spoke with some effort;

He passed into the workshop immediately, followed by Adam; while Lisbeth, automatically obeying her old

habits, began to put away the breakfast things, as if she did not mean Dinah to take her place any longer.

Dinah said nothing, but presently used the opportunity of quietly joining the brothers in the workshop.

They had already got on their aprons and paper caps, and Adam was standing with his left hand on Seth's

shoulder, while he pointed with the hammer in his right to some boards which they were looking at. Their

backs were turned towards the door by which Dinah entered, and she came in so gently that they were not

aware of her presence till they heard her voice saying, "Seth Bede!" Seth started, and they both turned round.

Dinah looked as if she did not see Adam, and fixed her eyes on Seth's face, saying with calm kindness, "I

won't say farewell. I shall see you again when you come from work. So as I'm at the farm before dark, it will

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

There was a little tremor in Seth's voice. Dinah put out her hand and said, "You'll have sweet peace in your

mind today, Seth, for your tenderness and longsuffering 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

Seth's soul rushed to his eyes and lips: he had never yet confessed his secret to Adam, but now he felt a

delicious sense of disburdenment, as he answered, "Aye, Addy, I do love hertoo 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 husbandthat's

"Nay, lad, there's no telling; thee mustna lose heart. She's made out o' 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

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

jobhard work inside and out. It's a strange thing to think of a man as can lift a chair with his teeth and walk

fifty mile on end, trembling and turning hot and cold at only a look from one woman out of all the rest i' the

world. It's a mystery we can give no account of; but no more we can of the sprouting o' the seed, for that

THAT same Thursday morning, as Arthur Donnithorne was moving about in his dressingroom seeing his

welllooking British person reflected in the oldfashioned mirrors, and stared at, from a dingy olivegreen

piece of tapestry, by Pharaoh's daughter and her maidens, who ought to have been minding the infant Moses,

he was holding a discussion with himself, which, by the time his valet was tying the black silk sling over his

"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

The low whistle, which had assisted him in arriving at this resolution, here broke out into his loudest ringing

tenor, and the corridor, as he hurried along it, echoed to his favourite song from the Beggar's Opera, "When

the heart of a man is oppressed with care." Not an heroic strain; nevertheless Arthur felt himself very heroic

as he strode towards 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 candidly; candour was one of his favourite virtues; and how can a man's

candour be seen in all its lustre unless he has a few failings to talk of? But he had an agreeable confidence

that his faults were all of a generous kindimpetuous, warm blooded, leonine; never crawling, crafty,

reptilian. It was not possible for Arthur Donnithorne to do anything mean, dastardly, or cruel. "No! I'm a

devil of a fellow for getting myself into a hobble, but I always take care the load shall fall on my own

shoulders." Unhappily, there is no inherent poetical justice in hobbles, and they will sometimes obstinately

refuse to inflict their worst consequences on the prime offender, in spite of his loudly expressed wish. It was

entirely owing to this deficiency in the scheme of things that Arthur had ever brought any one into trouble

besides himself. He was nothing if not goodnatured; 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 firstrate order, all elegance and high tastejolly

housekeeping, finest stud in Loamshirepurse open to all public objectsin short, everything as different

as possible from what was now associated with the name of Donnithorne. And one of the first good actions

he would perform in that future should be to increase Irwine's income for the vicarage of Hayslope, so that he

might keep a carriage for his mother and sisters. His hearty affection for the rector dated from the age of

frocks and trousers. It was an affection partly filial, partly fraternal fraternal enough to make him like

Irwine's company better than that of most younger men, and filial enough to make him shrink strongly from

You perceive that Arthur Donnithorne was "a good fellow"all his college friends thought him such. He

couldn't bear to see any one uncomfortable; he would have been sorry even in his angriest moods for any

harm to happen to his grandfather; and his Aunt Lydia herself had the benefit of that softheartedness which

he bore towards the whole sex. Whether he would have selfmastery enough to be always as harmless and

purely beneficent as his goodnature led him to desire, was a question that no one had yet decided against

him; he was but twentyone, you remember, and we don't inquire too closely into character in the case of a

handsome generous young fellow, who will have property enough to support numerous peccadilloeswho,

if he should unfortunately break a man's legs in his rash driving, will be able to pension him handsomely; or

if he should happen to spoil a woman's existence for her, will make it up to her with expensive bonbons,

packed up and directed by his own hand. It would be ridiculous to be prying and analytic in such cases, as if

one were inquiring into the character of a confidential clerk. We use round, general, gentlemanly epithets

about a young man of birth and fortune; and ladies, with that fine intuition which is the distinguishing

attribute of their sex, see at once that he is "nice." The chances are that he will go through life without

scandalizing any one; a seaworthy vessel that no one would refuse to insure. Ships, certainly, are liable to

casualties, which sometimes make terribly evident some flaw in their construction that would never have

been discoverable in smooth water; and many a "good fellow," through a disastrous combination of

But we have no fair ground for entertaining unfavourable auguries concerning Arthur Donnithorne, who this

morning proves himself capable of a prudent resolution founded on 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 borderland 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 wellrolled gravel on one's way to

the stables, meditating an excursion. But the scent of the stables, which, in a natural state of things, ought to

be among the soothing influences of a man's life, always brought with it some irritation to Arthur. There was

no having his own way in the stables; everything was managed in the stingiest fashion. His grandfather

persisted in retaining as head groom an old dolt whom no sort of lever could move out of his old habits, and

who was allowed to hire a succession of raw Loamshire lads as his 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

Old John's wooden, deepwrinkled face was the first object that met Arthur's eyes as he entered the

stableyard, and it quite poisoned for him the bark of the two bloodhounds that kept watch there. He could

"You must have Meg saddled for me and brought to the door at half past eleven, and I shall want Rattler

"Yes, I hear, I hear, Cap'n," said old John very deliberately, following the young master into the stable. John

considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant, and young people in general as a poor

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 breakfast. The pretty creature was in one of the inner stables, and turned her

mild head as her master came beside her. Little Trot, a tiny spaniel, her inseparable companion in the stable,

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

"Why, th' lad took her too close to Dalton's hosses, an' one on 'em flung out at her, an' she's got her shank

The judicious historian abstains from narrating precisely what ensued. You understand that there was a great

deal of strong language, mingled with soothing "whoho's" while the leg was examined; that John stood by

with quite as much emotion as if he had been a cunningly carved crabtree walkingstick, and that Arthur

Donnithorne presently repassed the iron gates of the pleasureground without singing as he went.

He considered himself thoroughly disappointed and annoyed. There was not another mount in the stable for

himself and his servant besides Meg and Rattler. It was vexatious; just when 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

Windsorshut up with his grandfather, who had the same sort of affection for him as for his parchment

deeds! And to be disgusted at every turn with the management of the house and the estate! In such

circumstances a man necessarily gets in an ill humour, and works off the irritation by some excess or other.

"Salkeld would have drunk a bottle of port every day," he muttered to himself, "but I'm not well seasoned

enough for that. Well, since I can't go to Eagledale, I'll have a gallop on Rattler to Norburne this morning, and

Behind this explicit resolution there lay an implicit one. If he lunched with Gawaine and lingered chatting, he

should not reach the Chase again till nearly five, when Hetty would be safe out of his sight in the

housekeeper's room; and when she set out to go home, it would be his lazy time after dinner, so he should

keep out of her way altogether. There really would have been no harm in being kind to the little thing, and it

was worth dancing with a dozen ballroom belles only to look at Hetty for half an hour. But perhaps he had

better not take any more notice of her; it might put notions into her head, as Irwine had hinted; though 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 Norburne; and by good fortune Halsell 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 way,

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 entrancegates,

got down from the panting Rattler, and went into the house to take a hasty luncheon. But I believe there have

been men since his day who have ridden a long way to avoid a rencontre, and then galloped hastily back lest

they should miss it. It is the favourite stratagem of our passions to sham a retreat, and to turn sharp round

"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.

"Aye; he'd hev a deal haimabler groom nor what he has now," observed Daltonand the joke appeared to

him 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 dressingroom 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 remembranceimpossible to recall the feelings and reflections which had been decisive with him

then, any more than to recall the peculiar scent of the air that had freshened him when he first opened his

window. The desire to see Hetty had rushed back like an illstemmed 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

hairpooh! it was riding in that breakneck way. It was because he had made a serious affair of an idle

matter, by thinking of it as if it were of any consequence. He would amuse himself by seeing Hetty today,

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

Firtree Grovethe way Hetty was sure to come in walking from the Hall Farm. So nothing could be

simpler and more natural: meeting Hetty was a mere circumstance of his walk, not its object.

Arthur's shadow flitted rather 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 Firtree 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 silverstemmed birchjust the sort of wood most haunted

by the nymphs: you see their white sunlit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs, or peeping from behind the

smooth sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their soft liquid laughterbut if you look with 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. It was not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for you to

tread upon, but with narrow, hollow shaped, earthy paths, edged with faint dashes of delicate moss paths

which look as if they were made by the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently aside to look

It was along the broadest of these paths that Arthur Donnithorne passed, under an avenue of limes and

beeches. It was a still afternoonthe 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. Arthur strolled along carelessly, with a book under his arm, but

not looking on the ground as meditative men are apt to do; his eyes WOULD fix themselves on the distant

bend in the road round which a little figure must surely appear before long. Ah! There she comes. First a

bright patch of colour, like a tropic bird among the boughs; then a tripping figure, with a round hat on, and a

small basket under her arm; then a deep blushing, almost frightened, but brightsmiling 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 tooin fact, look

and feel as foolish as if he had been taken by surprise instead of meeting just what he expected. Poor things!

It was a pity they were not in that golden age of childhood when they would have stood face to face, eyeing

each other with timid liking, then given each other a little butterfly kiss, and toddled off to play together.

Arthur would have gone home to his silkcurtained cot, and Hetty to her homespun pillow, and both would

have slept without dreams, and tomorrow would have been a life hardly conscious of a yesterday.

Arthur turned round and walked by Hetty's side without giving a reason. They were alone together for the

first time. What an overpowering presence that first privacy is! He actually dared not look at this little

buttermaker for the first minute or two. As for Hetty, her feet rested on a cloud, and she was borne along by

warm zephyrs; she had forgotten her rosecoloured ribbons; she was no more conscious of her limbs than if

her childish soul had passed into a waterlily, 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

"You are quite right to choose this way of coming to the Chase," he said at last, looking down at Hetty; "it is

"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.

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

"Yes, sir, the lacemending as she learnt abroad, and the stockingmendingit looks just like the stocking,

"I should like to be one very much indeed." Hetty spoke more audibly now, but still rather tremulously; she

thought, perhaps she seemed as stupid to Captain Donnithorne as Luke Britton did to her.

"She expects me at four o'clock. I'm rather late today, because my aunt couldn't spare me; but the regular

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

"This is the walk where we turn up to it. But we must not go now. I'll show it you some other time, if you'd

"Do you always come back this way in the evening, or are you afraid to come so lonely a road?"

"Oh no, sir, it's never late; I always set out by eight o'clock, and it's so light now in the evening. My aunt

A deep blush overspread Hetty's face and neck. "I'm sure he doesn't; I'm sure he never did; I wouldn't let him;

I don't like him," she said hastily, and the tears of vexation had come so fast that before she had done

speaking a bright drop rolled down her hot cheek. Then she felt ashamed to death that she was crying, and for

one long instant her happiness was all gone. But in the next she felt an arm steal 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

Arthur had laid his hand on the soft arm that was nearest to him, and was stooping towards Hetty with a look

of coaxing entreaty. Hetty lifted her long dewy lashes, and met the eyes that were bent towards her with a

sweet, timid, beseeching look. What a space of time those three moments were while their eyes met and his

arms touched her! Love is such a simple thing when we have only one andtwenty 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

themselves and ripple with ever interlacing curves in the leafiest hidingplaces. While Arthur gazed into

Hetty's dark beseeching eyes, it made no difference to him what sort of English she spoke; and even if hoops

and powder had been in fashion, he would very likely not have been sensible just then that Hetty wanted

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 workwoman's matters were scattered on the path, some of them showing a

capability of rolling to great lengths. There was much to be done in picking up, and not a word was spoken;

but when Arthur hung the basket over her arm again, the poor child felt a strange difference in his look and

manner. He just pressed her hand, and said, with a look and tone that were almost chilling to her, "I have

been hindering you; I must not keep you any longer now. You will be expected at the house. Goodbye."

Without waiting for her to speak, he turned away from her and hurried back towards the road that led to the

Hermitage, leaving Hetty to pursue her way in a strange dream that seemed to have begun 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,

Arthur too was very uneasy, but his feelings were lit up for him by a more distinct consciousness. He hurried

to the Hermitage, which stood in the heart of the wood, unlocked the door with a hasty wrench, slammed it

after him, pitched Zeluco into the most distant corner, and thrusting his right hand into his pocket, first

walked four or five times up and down the scanty length of the little room, and then seated himself on the

ottoman in an uncomfortable stiff way, as we often do when we wish not to abandon ourselves to feeling.

He was getting in love with Hettythat was quite plain. He was ready to pitch everything elseno matter

wherefor the sake of surrendering himself to this delicious feeling which had just disclosed itself. It was no

use blinking the fact nowthey would get too fond of each other, if he went on taking notice of her and

what would come of it? He should have to go away in a few weeks, and the poor little thing would be

miserable. He MUST NOT see her alone again; he must keep out of her way. What a fool he was for coming

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 Hermitage. The soft air did not help his resolution, as he leaned out and looked

into the leafy distance. But he considered his resolution sufficiently fixed: there was no need to debate with

himself any longer. He had made up his mind not to meet Hetty again; and now he might give himself up to

thinking how immensely agreeable it would be if circumstances were different how pleasant it would have

been to meet her this evening as she came back, and put his arm round her again and look into her sweet face.

He wondered if the dear little thing were thinking of him tootwenty 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 againhe 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 herjust 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 whilemore 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

IT happened that Mrs. Pomfret had had a slight quarrel with Mrs. Best, the housekeeper, on this Thursday

morninga fact which had two consequences highly convenient to Hetty. It caused Mrs. Pomfret to have tea

sent up to her own room, and it inspired that exemplary lady's maid with so lively a recollection of former

passages in Mrs. Best's conduct, and of dialogues in which Mrs. Best had decidedly the inferiority as an

interlocutor with Mrs. Pomfret, that Hetty required no more presence of mind than was demanded for using

her needle, and throwing in an occasional "yes" or "no." She would have wanted to put on her hat earlier than

usual; only she had told Captain Donnithorne that she usually set out about eight o'clock, and if he SHOULD

go to the Grove again expecting to see her, and she should be gone! Would he come? Her little butterfly soul

fluttered incessantly between memory and dubious expectation. At last the minutehand of the oldfashioned

brazenfaced timepiece was on the last quarter to eight, and there was every reason for its being time to get

ready for departure. Even Mrs. Pomfret's preoccupied mind did not prevent her from noticing what looked

like a new flush of beauty in the little thing as she tied on her hat before the lookingglass.

"That child gets prettier and prettier every day, I do believe," was her inward comment. "The more's the pity.

She'll get neither a place nor a husband any the sooner for it. Sober welltodo men don't like such pretty

wives. When I was a girl, I was more admired than if I had been so very pretty. However, she's reason to be

grateful to me for teaching her something to get her bread with, better than farmhouse work. They always

told me I was goodnaturedand that's the truth, and to my hurt too, else there's them in this house that

Hetty walked hastily across the short space of pleasureground which she had to traverse, dreading to meet

Mr. Craig, to whom she could hardly have spoken civilly. How relieved she was when she had got safely

under the oaks and among the fern of the Chase! Even then she was as ready to be startled as the deer that

leaped away at her approach. 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

Donnithorne coming to meet her again along the Firtree Grove. That was the foreground of Hetty's picture;

behind it lay a bright hazy somethingdays that were not to be as the other days of her life had been. It was

as if she had been wooed by a rivergod, who might any time take her to his wondrous halls below a watery

heaven. There was no knowing what would come, since this strange entrancing delight had come. If a chest

full of lace and satin and jewels had been sent her from some unknown source, how could she but have

thought that her whole lot was going to change, and that tomorrow some still more bewildering joy would

befall her? Hetty had never read a novel; if she had ever seen one, I think the words would have been too hard

for her; how then could she find a shape for her expectations? They were as formless as the sweet languid

odours of the garden at the Chase, which had floated past her as she walked by the gate.

She is at another gate nowthat leading into Firtree Grove. She enters the wood, where it is already

twilight, and at every step she takes, the fear at her heart becomes colder. If he should not come! Oh, how

dreary it wasthe 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 slowlyhe 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

She doesn't know that there is another turning to the Hermitage, that she is close against it, and that Arthur

Donnithorne is only a few yards from her, full of one thought, and a thought of which she only is the object.

He is going to see Hetty again: that is the longing which has been growing through the last three hours to a

feverish thirst. Not, of course, to speak in the caressing way into which he had unguardedly fallen before

dinner, but to set things right with her by a kindness which would have the air of friendly civility, and prevent

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 sidealley, and looked up at him with two great drops rolling down her cheeks. What else could he do

but speak to her in a soft, soothing tone, as if she were a brighteyed spaniel with a thorn in her foot?

"Has something frightened you, Hetty? Have you seen anything in the wood? Don't be frightenedI'll take

Hetty was blushing so, she didn't know whether she was happy or miserable. To be crying againwhat did

gentlemen think of girls who cried in that way? She felt unable even to say "no," but could only look away

from him and wipe the tears from her cheek. Not before a great drop had fallen on her rosecoloured

"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

"You little frightened bird! Little tearful rose! Silly pet! You won't cry again, now I'm with you, will you?"

Ah, he doesn't know in the least what he is saying. This is not what he meant to say. His arm is stealing round

the waist again; it is tightening its clasp; he is bending his face nearer and nearer to the round cheek; his lips

are meeting those pouting childlips, 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,

There was no speaking for minutes after. They walked along with beating hearts till they came within sight of

the gate at the end of the wood. Then they looked at each other, not quite as they had looked before, for in

But already something bitter had begun to mingle itself with the fountain of sweets: already Arthur 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 eightbut my watch is too

fast. However, I'd better not go any further now. Trot along quickly with your little feet, and get home safely.

He took her hand, and looked at her halfsadly, half with a constrained smile. Hetty's eyes seemed to beseech

him not to go away yet; but he patted her cheek and said "Goodbye" again. She was obliged to turn away

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 nothingworse than nothing. He walked right on into the Chase, glad to

get out of the Grove, which surely was haunted by his evil genius. Those beeches and smooth limesthere

was something enervating in the very sight of them; but the strong knotted old oaks had no bending languor

in themthe 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

He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it was as if his horse had wheeled round

from a leap and dared to dispute his mastery. He was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He no

sooner fixed his mind on the probable consequences of giving way to the emotions which had stolen over him

todayof continuing to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for such slight caresses as he had

been betrayed into alreadythan 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 own station: that was understood to be an

amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to marriage. But this little thing

would be spoken ill of directly, if she happened to be seen walking with him; and then those excellent people,

the Poysers, to whom a good name was as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their veinshe

should hate himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that was to be his own some day, and

among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to be respected. He could no more believe that he should so fall

in his own esteem than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches all the rest of his life. He

And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of each other, and then there could be

nothing but the misery of parting, after all. No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece. There

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; 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 tomorrow, in this confounded place, where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through

the livelong day. What could he do to secure himself from any more of this folly?

There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwinetell him everything. The mere act of telling it

would make it seem trivial; the temptation would vanish, as the charm of fond words vanishes when one

repeats them to the indifferent. In every way it would help him to tell Irwine. He would ride to Broxton

Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think which of the paths would lead him

home, and made as short a walk thither as he could. He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to

WHILE that parting in the wood was happening, there was a parting in the cottage too, and Lisbeth had stood

with Adam at the door, straining her aged eyes to get the last glimpse of Seth and Dinah, as they mounted the

"Eh, I'm loath to see the last on her," she said to Adam, as they turned into the house again. "I'd ha' been

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 Bibleth' angel

asittin' on the big stone by the grave. Eh, I wouldna mind ha'in a daughter like that; but nobody ne'er marries

"Well, Mother, I hope thee WILT have her for a daughter; for Seth's got a liking for her, and I hope she'll get

"Where's th' use o' talkin' athat'n? She caresna for Seth. She's goin' away twenty mile aff. How's she to get a

likin' for him, I'd like to know? No more nor the cake 'ull come wi'out the leaven. Thy figurin' books might

ha' tould thee better nor that, I should think, else thee mightst as well read the commin print, as Seth allays

"Nay, Mother," said Adam, laughing, "the figures tell us a fine deal, and we couldn't go far without 'em, but

they don't tell us about folks's feelings. It's a nicer job to calculate THEM. But Seth's as goodhearted a lad as

ever handled a tool, and plenty o' sense, and goodlooking 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

"Eh, thee't allays stick up for thy brother. Thee'st been just the same, e'er sin' ye war little uns together. Thee

wart allays for halving iverything wi' him. But what's Seth got to do with marryin', as is on'y

threean'twenty? He'd more need to learn an' lay by sixpence. An' as for his desarving hershe's two 'ear

older nor Seth: she's pretty near as old as thee. But that's the way; folks mun allays choose by contrairies, as if

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 scoreas peevish as she would have been if he HAD wanted to marry her, and so shut himself out from

It was more than halfpast 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 little in their walk, for Dinah was trying to speak words of comfort and strength to Seth in these

parting moments. But when they saw Hetty, they paused and shook hands; Seth turned homewards, and

"Seth Bede would have come and spoken to you, my dear," she said, as she reached Hetty, "but he's very full

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 selfengrossed 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 otherwise towards one who always put in a kind word for her when her aunt was finding fault, and who

was always ready to take Totty off her handslittle tiresome Totty, that was made such a pet of by every

one, and that Hetty could see no interest in at all? Dinah had never said anything disapproving or reproachful

to Hetty during her whole visit to the Hall Farm; she had talked to her a great deal in a serious way, but Hetty

didn't mind that much, for she never listened: whatever Dinah might say, she almost always stroked Hetty's

cheek after it, and wanted to do some mending for her. Dinah was a riddle to her; Hetty looked at her much in

the same way as one might imagine a little perching bird that could only flutter from bough to bough, to look

at the swoop of the swallow or the mounting of the lark; but she did not care to solve such riddles, any more

than she cared to know what was meant by the pictures in the Pilgrim's Progress, or in the old folio Bible that

"You look very happy tonight, dear child," she said. "I shall think ot you often when I'm at Snowfield, and

see your face before me as it is now. It's a strange thingsometimes when I'm quite alone, sitting in my

room with my eyes closed, or walking over the hills, the people I've seen and known, if it's only been for a

few days, are brought before me, and I hear their voices and see them look and move almost plainer than I

ever did when they were really with me so as I could touch them. And then my heart is drawn out towards

them, and I feel their lot as if it was my own, and I take comfort in spreading it before the Lord and resting in

His love, on their behalf as well as my own. And so I feel sure you will come before me."

"It has been a very precious time to me," Dinah went on, "last night and todayseeing two such good sons

as Adam and Seth Bede. They are so tender and thoughtful for their aged mother. And she has been telling

me what Adam has done, for these many years, to help his father and his brother; it's wonderful what a spirit

of wisdom and knowledge he has, and how he's ready to use it all in behalf of them that are feeble. And I'm

sure he has a loving spirit too. I've noticed it often among my own people round Snowfield, that the strong,

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

"Yes," said Hetty abstractedly, for her mind had been all the while in the wood, and she would have found it

difficult to say what she was assenting to. Dinah saw she was not inclined to talk, but there would not have

The still twilight, with its dying western red and its few faint struggling stars, rested on the farmyard, where

there was not a sound to be heard but the stamping of the carthorses in the stable. It was about twenty

minutes after sunset. The fowls were all gone to roost, and the bulldog lay stretched on the straw outside his

kennel, with the blackandtan terrier by his side, when the fallingto of the gate disturbed them and set

them barking, like good officials, before they had any distinct knowledge of the reason.

The barking had its effect in the house, for, as Dinah and Hetty approached, the doorway was filled by a

portly figure, with a ruddy blackeyed face which bore in it the possibility of looking extremely acute, and

occasionally contemptuous, on marketdays, but had now a predominant aftersupper 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 forgivenalas! they are not alien to usbut the man who takes the wrong side on the

momentous subject of the Hebrew points must be treated as the enemy of his race. There was the same sort of

antithetic mixture in Martin Poyser: he was of so excellent a disposition that he had been kinder and more

respectful than ever to his old father since he had made a deed of gift of all his property, and no man judged

his neighbours more charitably on all personal matters; but for a farmer, like Luke Britton, for example,

whose fallows were not well cleaned, who didn't know the rudiments of hedging and ditching, and showed

but a small share of judgment in the purchase of winter stock, Martin Poyser was as hard and implacable as

the northeast wind. Luke Britton could not make a remark, even on the weather, but Martin Poyser detected

in it a taint of that unsoundness and general ignorance which was palpable in all his farming operations. He

hated to see the fellow lift the pewter pint to his mouth in the bar of the Royal George on marketday, and

the mere sight of him on the other side of the road brought a severe and critical expression into his black

eyes, as different as possible from the fatherly glance he bent on his two nieces as they approached the door.

Mr. Poyser had smoked his evening pipe, and now held his hands in his pockets, as the only resource of a

"Why, lasses, ye're rather late tonight," he said, when they reached the little gate leading into the causeway.

"The mother's begun to fidget about you, an' she's got the little un ill. An' how did you leave the old woman

Bede, Dinah? Is she much down about the old man? He'd been but a poor bargain to her this five year."

"She's been greatly distressed for the loss of him," said Dinah, "but she's seemed more comforted today. Her

son Adam's been at home all day, working at his father's coffin, and she loves to have him at home. She's

been talking about him to me almost all the day. She has a loving heart, though she's sorely given to fret and

"Adam's sure enough," said Mr. Poyser, misunderstanding Dinah's wish. "There's no fear but he'll yield well i'

the threshing. He's not one o' them as is all straw and no grain. I'll be bond for him any day, as he'll be a good

son to the last. Did he say he'd be coming to see us soon? But come in, come in," he added, making way for

The tall buildings round the yard shut out a good deal of the sky, but the large window let in abundant light to

Mrs. Poyser, seated in the rockingchair, which had been brought out of the "righthand 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

In the large wickerbottomed armchair in the lefthand chimney nook sat old Martin Poyser, a hale but

shrunken and bleached image of his portly blackhaired sonhis head hanging forward a little, and his

elbows pushed backwards so as to allow the whole of his forearm to rest on the arm of the chair. His blue

handkerchief was spread over his knees, as was usual indoors, when it was not hanging over his head; and he

sat watching what went forward with the quiet OUTWARD glance of healthy old age, which, disengaged

from any interest in an inward drama, spies out pins upon the floor, follows one's minutest motions with an

unexpectant purposeless tenacity, watches the flickering of the flame or the sungleams 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

"What a time o' night this is to come home, Hetty!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Look at the clock, do; why, it's going

on for halfpast nine, and I've sent the gells to bed this halfhour, 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 dinnertime, 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 nightgownit's well if she's

swallowed more nor 'ull make her worse i'stead o' better. But folks as have no mind to be o' use have allays

"I did set out before eight, aunt," said Hetty, in a pettish tone, with a slight toss of her head. But this clock's

so much before the clock at the Chase, there's no telling what time it'll be when I get here."

"What! You'd be wanting the clock set by gentlefolks's time, would you? An' sit up burnin' candle, an' lie

abed wi' the sun abakin' you like a cowcumber i' the frame? The clock hasn't been put forrard for the first

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, perceiving at length that the

arrival of her cousins was not likely to bring anything satisfactory to her in particular, began to cry, "Munny,

"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 rocking 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 temperament, sat up again, and pressed her cheek against the linen nightcap and kissed it,

"Come, Hetty," said Martin Poyser, in a conciliatory tone, "go and get your supper i' the pantry, as the things

are all put away; an' then you can come and take the little un while your aunt undresses herself, for she won't

lie down in bed without her mother. An' I reckon YOU could eat a bit, Dinah, for they don't keep much of a

"No, thank you, Uncle," said Dinah; "I ate a good meal before I came away, for Mrs. Bede would make a

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

"Why, what nonsense that is to talk!" said Mrs. Poyser. "Do you think you can live wi'out eatin', an' nourish

your inside wi' stickin' red ribbons on your head? Go an' get your supper this minute, child; there's a nice bit

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

"She seemed to like having me there at last; but her sons say she doesn't like young women about her

"Eh, it's a poor lookout when th' ould folks doesna like the young uns," said old Martin, bending his head

"Aye, it's ill livin' in a henroost for them as doesn't like fleas," said Mrs. Poyser. "We've all had our turn at

"But she must learn to 'commodate herself to young women," said Mr. Poyser, "for it isn't to be counted on as

Adam and Seth 'ull keep bachelors for the next ten year to please their mother. That 'ud be unreasonable. It

isn't right for old nor young nayther to make a bargain all o' their own side. What's good for one's good all

round i' the long run. I'm no friend to young fellows a marrying afore they know the difference atween a

"To be sure," said Mrs. Poyser; "if you go past your dinnertime, there'll be little relish o' your meat. You

turn it o'er an' o'er wi' your fork, an' don't eat it after all. You find faut wi' your meat, an' the faut's all i' your

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 upstairs, while thee tak'st thy things off. Thee't tired. It's time thee wast in

Hetty went close to the rockingchair, and stood without her usual smile, and without any attempt to entice

"Wilt go to Cousin Hetty, my dilling, while mother gets ready to go to bed? Then Totty shall go into Mother's

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

"Hey, hey," said Mr. Poyser, while Hetty stood without moving, "not go to Cousin Hetty? That's like a babby.

"It's no use trying to persuade her," said Mrs. Poyser. "She allays takes against Hetty when she isn't well.

Dinah, having taken off her bonnet and shawl, had hitherto kept quietly seated in the background, not liking

to thrust herself between Hetty and what was considered Hetty's proper work. But now she came forward,

and, putting out her arms, said, "Come Totty, come and let Dinah carry her upstairs along with Mother: poor,

Totty turned her face towards Dinah, and looked at her an instant, then lifted herself up, put out her little

arms, and let Dinah lift her from her mother's lap. Hetty turned away without any sign of ill humour, and,

taking her hat from the table, stood waiting with an air of indifference, to see if she should be told to do

"You may make the door fast now, Poyser; Alick's been come in this long while," said Mrs. Poyser, rising

with an appearance of relief from her low chair. "Get me the matches down, Hetty, for I must have the

The heavy wooden bolts began to roll in the house doors, and old Martin prepared to move, by gathering up

his blue handkerchief, and reaching his bright knobbed walnuttree stick from the corner. Mrs. Poyser then

led the way out of the kitchen, followed by the gandfather, and Dinah with Totty in her armsall 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 upstairs. "You

didna mean to be late, I'll be bound, but your aunt's been worrited today. Goodnight, my wench,

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

moonmore than enough strength to enable Hetty to move about and undress with perfect comfort. She

could see quite well the pegs in the old painted linenpress on which she hung her hat and gown; she could

see the head of every pin on her red cloth pincushion; she could see a reflection of herself in the old

fashioned lookingglass, quite as distinct as was needful, considering that she had only to brush her hair and

put on her nightcap. A queer old lookingglass! 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 Poyser

family a quarter of a century before, at a sale of genteel household furniture. Even now an auctioneer could

say something for it: it had a great deal of tarnished 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 candlesocket 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, instead of swinging

backwards and forwards, it was fixed in an upright position, so that she could only get one good view of her

head and neck, and that was to be had only by sitting down on a low chair before her dressingtable. And the

dressingtable was no dressingtable at all, but a small old chest of drawers, the most awkward thing in the

world to sit down before, for the big brass handles quite hurt her knees, and she couldn't get near the glass at

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.

Having taken off her gown and white kerchief, she drew a key from the large pocket that hung outside her

petticoat, and, unlocking one of the lower drawers in the chest, reached from it two short bits of wax

candlesecretly bought at Treddlestonand 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 redframed shilling lookingglass, 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 dressingroom. It was soon done, and the dark hyacinthine curves fell on her neck.

It was not heavy, massive, merely rippling hair, but soft and silken, running at every opportunity into delicate

rings. But she pushed it all backward to look like the picture, and form a dark curtain, throwing into relief her

round white neck. Then she put down her brush and comb and looked at herself, folding her arms before her,

still like the picture. Even the old mottled glass couldn't help sending back a lovely image, none the less

lovely because Hetty's stays were not of white satinsuch as I feel sure heroines must generally wear but

Oh yes! She was very pretty. Captain Donnithorne thought so. Prettier than anybody about

Hayslopeprettier than any of the ladies she had ever seen visiting at the Chaseindeed it seemed fine

ladies were rather old and uglyand prettier than Miss Bacon, the miller's daughter, who was called the

beauty of Treddleston. And Hetty looked at herself tonight with quite a different sensation from what she

had ever felt before; there was an invisible spectator whose eye rested on her like morning on the flowers. His

soft voice was saying over and over again those pretty things she had heard in the wood; his arm was round

her, and the delicate rosescent of his hair was with her still. The vainest woman is never thoroughly

conscious of her own beauty till she is loved by the man who sets her own passion vibrating in return.

But Hetty seemed to have made up her mind that something was wanting, for she got up and reached an old

black lace scarf out of the linenpress, and a pair of large earrings out of the sacred drawer from which she

had taken her candles. It was an old old scarf, full of rents, but it would make a becoming border round her

shoulders, and set off the whiteness of her upper arm. And she would take out the little earrings she had in

her earsoh, 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 elbowthey were white and plump, and dimpled to match her cheeks; but towards the wrist,

she thought with vexation that they were coarsened by butter making and other work that ladies never did.

Captain Donnithorne couldn't like her to go on doing work: he would like to see her in nice clothes, and thin

shoes, and white stockings, perhaps with silk clocks to them; for he must love her very muchno 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 could hardly dare to shape the thoughtyet how else could it be? Marry her quite secretly, as Mr.

James, the doctor's assistant, married the doctor's niece, and nobody ever found it out for a long while after,

and then it was of no use to be angry. The doctor had told her aunt all about it in Hetty's hearing. She didn't

know how it would be, but it was quite plain the old Squire could never be told anything about it, for Hetty

was ready to faint with awe and fright if she came across him at the Chase. He might have been earthborn,

for what she knew. It had never entered her mind that he had been young like other men; he had always been

the old Squire at whom everybody was frightened. Oh, it was impossible to think how it would be! But

Captain Donnithorne would know; he was a great gentleman, and could have his way in everything, and

could buy everything he liked. And nothing could be as it had been again: perhaps some day she 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 diningroom

one evening as she peeped through the little round window in the lobby; only she should not be old and ugly

like Miss Lydia, or all the same thickness like Lady Dacey, but very pretty, with her hair done in a great

many different ways, and sometimes in a pink dress, and sometimes in a white one she didn't know which

she liked best; and Mary Burge and everybody would perhaps see her going out in her carriageor rather,

they would HEAR of it: it was impossible to imagine these things happening at Hayslope in sight of her aunt.

At the thought of all this splendour, Hetty got up from her chair, and in doing so caught the little redframed

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 pigeonlike

stateliness backwards and forwards along her room, in her coloured stays and coloured skirt, and the old

How pretty the little puss looks in that odd dress! It would be the easiest folly in the world to fall in love with

her: there is such a sweet babylike roundness about her face and figure; the delicate dark rings of hair lie so

charmingly about her ears and neck; her great dark eyes with their long eyelashes touch one so strangely, as

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 anything ever goes wrong, it must be the husband's fault there: he can make her what he

likesthat 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 kittenlike glances and movements are

just what one wants to make one's hearth a paradise. Every man under such circumstances is conscious of

being a great physiognomist. Nature, he knows, has a language of her own, which she uses with strict

veracity, and he considers himself an adept in the language. Nature has written out his bride's character for

him in those exquisite lines of cheek and lip and chin, in those eyelids delicate as petals, in those long lashes

curled like the stamen of a flower, in the dark liquid depths of those wonderful eyes. How she will dote on

her children! She is almost a child herself, and the little pink round things will hang about her like florets

round the central flower; and the husband will look on, smiling benignly, able, whenever he chooses, to

withdraw into the sanctuary of his wisdom, towards which his sweet wife will look reverently, and never lift

the curtain. It is a marriage such as they made in the golden age, when the men were all wise and majestic

It was very much in this way that our friend Adam Bede thought about Hetty; only he put his thoughts into

different words. If ever she behaved with cold vanity towards him, he said to himself it is only because she

doesn't love me well enough; and he was sure that her love, whenever she gave it, would be the most precious

thing a man could 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 womanif you ever COULD, without hard

headbreaking demonstration, believe evil of the ONE supremely pretty woman who has bewitched you. No:

people who love downy peaches are apt not to think of the stone, and sometimes jar their teeth terribly

Arthur Donnithorne, too, had the same sort of notion about Hetty, so far as he had thought of her nature of all.

He felt sure she was a dear, affectionate, good little thing. The man who awakes the wondering tremulous

passion of a young girl always thinks her affectionate; and if he chances to look forward to future years,

probably imagines himself being virtuously tender to her, because the poor thing is so clingingly fond of him.

God made these dear women soand 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, nowwhat can be more exquisite? I find it impossible not to expect

some depth of soul behind a deep grey eye with a long dark eyelash, in spite of an experience which has

shown me that they may go along with deceit, peculation, and stupidity. 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 pigeonlike 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 illdefined 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

herespecially 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 futureany loving

thought of her second parentsof the children she had helped to tendof any youthful companion, any pet

animal, any relic of her own childhood even? Not one. There are some plants that have hardly any roots: you

may tear them from their native nook of rock or wall, and just lay them over your ornamental flowerpot, and

they blossom none the worse. Hetty could have cast all her past life behind her and never cared to be

reminded of it again. I think she had no feeling at all towards the old house, and did not like the Jacob's

Ladder and the long row of hollyhocks in the garden better than other flowersperhaps not so well. It was

wonderful how little she seemed to care about waiting on her uncle, who had been a good father to hershe

hardly ever remembered to reach him his pipe at the right time without being told, unless a visitor happened

to be there, who would have a better opportunity of seeing her as she walked across the hearth. Hetty did not

understand how anybody could be very fond of middleaged people. And as for those tiresome children,

Marty and Tommy and Totty, they had been the very nuisance of her lifeas 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 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 halfempty rooms of the

large old house. The boys were out of hand now, but Totty was still a daylong 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 WERE got rid of sooner or later. As for the young chickens and turkeys, Hetty

would have hated the very word "hatching," if her aunt had not bribed her to attend to the young poultry by

promising her the proceeds of one out of every brood. The round downy chicks peeping out from under their

mother's wing never touched Hetty with any pleasure; that was 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

bread under the hencoop, that you must have been a very acute personage indeed to suspect her of that

hardness. Molly, the housemaid, with a turnup nose and a protuberant jaw, was really a tenderhearted 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 deceit" of beauty,

so it is not surprising that Mrs. Poyser, with her keenness and abundant opportunity for observation, should

have formed a tolerably fair estimate of what might be expected from Hetty in the way of feeling, and in

moments of indignation she had sometimes spoken with great openness on the subject to her husband.

"She's no better than a peacock, as 'ud strut about on the wall and spread its tail when the sun shone if all the

folks i' the parish was dying: there's nothing seems to give her a turn i' th' inside, not even when we thought

Totty had tumbled into the pit. To think o' that dear cherub! And we found her wi' her little shoes stuck i' the

mud an' crying fit to break her heart by the far horsepit. But Hetty never minded it, I could see, though she's

been at the nussin' o' the child ever since it was a babby. It's my belief her heart's as hard as a pebble."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, "thee mustn't judge Hetty too hard. Them young gells are like the unripe grain;

they'll make good meal by and by, but they're squashy as yet. Thee't see Hetty 'll be all right when she's got a

"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' yoursan' 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 burnin'."

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 great a sacrifice. She could not resist spending her money in bits of finery which Mrs.

Poyser disapproved; but she would have been ready to die with shame, vexation, 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 tonight. It was well: for there now came a light tap, and Hetty, with a leaping heart, rushed to blow out

the candles and throw them into the drawer. She dared not stay to take out her earrings, but she threw off

her scarf, and let it fall on the floor, before the light tap came again. We shall know how it was that the light

tap came, if we leave Hetty for a short time and return to Dinah, at the moment when she had delivered Totty

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, where she

could place her chair. And now the first thing she did on entering her room was to seat herself in this chair

and look out on the peaceful fields beyond which the large moon was rising, just above the hedgerow elms.

She liked the pasture best where the milch cows were lying, and next to that the meadow where the grass was

halfmown, 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 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 icecrystals 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 suggestions of this sound, her thoughts became

concentrated on Hettythat sweet young thing, with life and all its trials before herthe solemn daily duties

of the wife and motherand her mind so unprepared for them all, bent merely on little foolish, selfish

pleasures, like a child hugging its toys in the beginning of a long toilsome journey in which it will have to

bear hunger and cold and unsheltered darkness. 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, selfdevoting love in Hetty's nature to

regard the coldness of her behaviour towards Adam as any indication that he was not the man she would like

to have for a husband. And this blank in Hetty's nature, instead of exciting Dinah's dislike, only touched her

with a deeper pity: the lovely face and form affected her as beauty always affects a pure and tender mind, free

from selfish jealousies. It was an excellent divine gift, that gave a deeper pathos to the need, the sin, the

sorrow with which it was mingled, as the canker in a lilywhite bud is more grievous to behold than in a

By the time Dinah had undressed and put on her nightgown, this feeling about Hetty had gathered a painful

intensity; her imagination had created a thorny thicket of sin and sorrow, in which she saw the poor thing

struggling torn and bleeding, looking with tears for rescue and finding none. It was in this way that Dinah's

imagination and sympathy acted and reacted habitually, each heightening the other. She felt a deep longing to

go now and pour 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 certain of a divine direction;

the voice that told her to go to Hetty seemed no stronger that the other voice which said that Hetty was weary,

and that going to her now in an unseasonable moment would only tend to close her heart more obstinately.

Dinah was not satisfied without a more unmistakable guidance than those inward voices. There was light

enough for her, if she opened her Bible, to discern the text sufficiently to know what it would say to her. She

knew the physiognomy of every page, and could tell on what book she opened, sometimes on what chapter,

without seeing title or number. It was a small thick Bible, worn quite round at the edges. Dinah laid it

sideways on the window ledge, where the light was strongest, and then opened it with her forefinger. The first

words she looked at were those at the top of the lefthand page: "And they all wept sore, and fell on Paul's

neck and kissed him." That was enough for Dinah; she had opened on that memorable parting at Ephesus,

when Paul had felt bound to open his heart in a last exhortation and warning. She hesitated no longer, but,

opening her own door gently, went and tapped on Hetty's. We know she had to tap twice, because Hetty had

to put out her 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

What a strange contrast the two figures made, visible enough in that mingled twilight and moonlight! Hetty,

her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening from her imaginary drama, her beautiful neck and arms bare, her

hair hanging in a curly tangle down her back, and the baubles in her ears. Dinah, covered with her long white

dress, her pale face 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.

"I knew you were not in bed, my dear," she said, in her sweet clear voice, which was irritating to Hetty,

mingling with her own peevish vexation like music with jangling chains, "for I heard you moving; and I

longed to speak to you again tonight, for it is the last but one that I shall be here, and we don't know what

may happen tomorrow to keep us apart. Shall I sit down with you while you do up your hair?"

"Oh yes," said Hetty, hastily turning round and reaching the second chair in the room, glad that Dinah looked

Dinah sat down, and Hetty began to brush together her hair before twisting it up, doing it with that air of

excessive indifference which belongs to confused selfconsciousness. But the expression of Dinah's eyes

"Dear Hetty," she said, "It has been borne in upon my mind to night that you may some day be in

troubletrouble is appointed for us all here below, and there comes a time when we need more comfort and

help than the things of this life can give. I want to tell you that if ever you are in trouble, and need a friend

that will always feel for you and love you, you have got that friend in Dinah Morris at Snowfield, and if you

come to her, or send for her, she'll never forget this night and the words she is speaking to you now. Will you

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

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; sickness comes, and we faint under the burden of our feeble bodies; we

go astray and do wrong, and bring ourselves into trouble with our fellowmen. There is no man or woman

born into this world to whom some of these trials do not fall, and so I feel that some of them must happen to

you; and I desire for you, that while you are young you should seek for strength from your Heavenly Father,

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 paleness; she had the timidity of

a luxurious pleasureseeking nature, which shrinks from the hint of pain. Dinah saw the effect, and her tender

anxious pleading became the more earnest, till Hetty, full of a vague fear that something evil was some time

It is our habit to say that while the lower nature can never understand the higher, the higher nature commands

a complete view of the lower. But I think the higher nature has to learn this comprehension, as we learn the

art of vision, by a good deal of hard experience, often with bruises and gashes incurred in taking things up by

the wrong end, and fancying our space wider than it is. Dinah had never seen Hetty affected in this way

before, and, with her usual benignant hopefulness, she trusted it was the stirring of a divine impulse. She

kissed the sobbing thing, and began to cry with her for grateful joy. But Hetty was simply in that excitable

state of mind in which there is no calculating what turn the feelings may take from one moment to another,

and for the first time she became irritated under Dinah's caress. She pushed her away impatiently, and said,

with a childish sobbing voice, "Don't talk to me so, Dinah. Why do you come to frighten me? I've never done

Poor Dinah felt a pang. She was too wise to persist, and only said mildly, "Yes, my dear, you're tired; I won't

She went out of the room almost as quietly and quickly as if she had been a ghost; but once by the side of her

own bed, she threw herself on her knees and poured out in deep silence all the passionate pity that filled her

As for Hetty, she was soon in the wood againher waking dreams being merged in a sleeping life scarcely

ARTHUR DONNITHORNE, you 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 halfpast nine, the ladies of the family having a different

breakfasthour; Arthur will have an early ride over the hill and breakfast with him. One can say everything

The progress of civilization 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 confessor

listens to us over his egg and coffee. We are more distinctly conscious that rude penances are out of the

question for gentlemen in an enlightened age, and that mortal sin is not incompatible with an appetite for

muffins. An assault on our pockets, which in more barbarous times would have been made in the brusque

form of a pistolshot, is quite a wellbred 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

However, Arthur Donnithorne, as he winds among the pleasant lanes on horseback in the morning sunshine,

has a sincere determination to open his heart to the rector, and the swirling 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 fearful; and there is something

so healthful in the sharing of a joy that is general and not merely personal, that this thought about the

hayharvest 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 storybook; but when you are

among the fields and hedgerows, it is impossible to maintain a consistent superiority to simple natural

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 figure about a hundred yards before him which it was impossible to mistake for

any one else than Adam Bede, even if there had been no grey, tailless shepherddog 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

Adam looked round as he heard the quickening clatter of the horse's heels, and waited for the horseman,

lifting his paper cap from his head with a bright smile of recognition. Next to his own brother Seth, Adam

would have done more for Arthur Donnithorne than for any other young man in the world. There was hardly

anything he would not rather have lost than the twofeet ruler which he always carried in his pocket; it was

Arthur's present, bought with his pocketmoney when he was a fairhaired lad of eleven, and when he had

profited so well by Adam's lessons in carpentering and turning as to embarrass every female in the house with

gifts of superfluous threadreels 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 fairhaired lad had grown into the whiskered

young man. Adam, I confess, was very susceptible to the influence of rank, and quite ready to give an extra

amount of respect to every one who had more advantages than himself, not being a philosopher or a proletaire

with democratic ideas, but simply a stoutlimbed clever carpenter wlth a large fund of reverence in his

nature, which inclined him to admit all established claims unless he saw very clear grounds for questioning

them. He had no theories about setting the world to rights, but he saw there was a great deal of damage done

by building with illseasoned timberby ignorant men in fine clothes making plans for outhouses and

workshops and the like without knowing the bearings of thingsby 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 farmbuildings; and if old Squire Donnithorne had asked him

the effect of this mismanagement, he would have spoken his opinion without flinching, but the impulse to a

respectful demeanour towards a "gentleman" 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 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

Towards the young squire this instinctive reverence of Adam's was assisted by boyish memories and personal

regard so you may imagine that he thought far more of Arthur's good 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

estatesuch 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 Donnithorne rode up.

"Well, Adam, how are you?" said Arthur, holding out his hand. He never shook hands with any of the

farmers, and Adam felt the honour keenly. "I could swear to your back a long way off. It's just the same back,

"Aye, sir, I remember. It 'ud be a poor lookout 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

"No, sir, I'm going 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

"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

"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 perhaps. The old man

must give up his business sometime, and he has no son; I suppose he'll want a soninlaw who can take to it.

But he has rather grasping fingers of his own, I fancy. I daresay he wants a man who can put some money

into the business. If I were not as poor as a rat, I would gladly invest some money in that way, for the sake of

having you settled on the estate. I'm sure I should profit by it in the end. And perhaps I shall be better off in a

year or two. I shall have a larger allowance now I'm of age; and when I've paid off a debt or two, I shall be

"You're very good to say so, sir, and I'm not unthankful. But" Adam continued, in a decided tone"I

shouldn't like to make any offers to Mr. Burge, or t' have any made for me. I see no clear road to a

partnership. If he should ever want to dispose of the business, that 'ud be a different matter. I should be glad

of some 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

lovemaking between Adam and Mary Burge, "we'll say no more about it at present. When is your father to

"On Sunday, sir; Mr. Irwine's coming earlier on purpose. I shall be glad when it's over, for I think my mother

'ull perhaps get easier then. It cuts one sadly to see the grief of old people; they've no way o' working it off,

"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 enough to be thankful for:

I've allays had health and strength and brains to give me a delight in my work; and I count it a great thing as

I've had Bartle Massey's nightschool to go to. He's helped me to knowledge I could never ha' got by

"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

"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

Arthur did not laugh, for he was preoccupied with some thought that made him say presently, "I should think

now, Adam, you never have any struggles within yourself. I fancy you would master a wish that you had

made up your mind it was not quite right to indulge, as easily as you would knock down a drunken fellow

who was quarrelsome with you. I mean, you are never shillyshally, first making up your mind that you

"Well," said Adam, slowly, after a moment's hesitation, "no. I don't remember ever being seesaw 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 wrong without breeding sin and trouble more than you can ever see. It's

like a bit o' bad workmanshipyou never see th' end o' the mischief it'll do. And it's a poor lookout to come

into the world to make your fellowcreatures worse off instead o' better. But there's a difference between the

things folks call wrong. I'm not for making a sin of every little fool's trick, or bit o' nonsense anybody may be

let into, like some o' them dissenters. And a man may have two minds whether it isn't worthwhile to get a

bruise or two for the sake of a bit o' fun. But it isn't my way to be see saw about anything: I think my fault

lies th' other way. When I've said a thing, if it's only to myself, it's hard for me to go back."

"Yes, that's just what I expected of you," said Arthur. "You've got an iron will, as well as an iron arm. But

however strong a man's resolution may be, it costs him something to carry it out, now and then. We may

determine not to gather any cherries and keep our hands sturdily in our pockets, but we can't prevent our

"That's true, sir, but there's nothing like settling with ourselves as there's a deal we must do without i' this life.

It's no use looking on life as if it was Treddles'on Fair, where folks only go to see shows and get fairings. If

we do, we shall find it different. But where's the use o' me talking to you, sir? You know better than I do."

"I'm not so sure of that, Adam. You've had four or five years of experience more than I've had, and I think

"Why, sir, you seem to think o' college something like what Bartle Massey does. He says college mostly

makes people like bladders just good for nothing but t' hold the stuff as is poured into 'em. But he's got a

tongue like a sharp blade, Bartle hasit never touches anything but it cuts. Here's the turning, sir. I must bid

Arthur gave his horse to the groom at the rectory gate, and walked along the gravel towards the door which

opened on the garden. He knew that the rector always breakfasted in his study, and the study lay on the left

hand of this door, opposite the diningroom. 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 readyspread bachelor breakfasttable, and by the side of

this breakfasttable was a group which would have made any room enticing. In the crimson damask

easychair sat Mr. Irwine, with that radiant freshness which he always had when he came from his morning

toilet; his finely formed plump white hand was playing along Juno's brown curly back; and close to Juno's

tail, which was wagging with calm matronly pleasure, the two brown pups were rolling over each other in an

ecstatic duet of worrying noises. On a cushion a little removed sat Pug, with the air of a maiden lady, who

looked on these familiarities as animal weaknesses, which she made as little show as possible of observing.

On the table, at Mr. Irwine~s elbow, lay the first volume of the Foulis AEschylus, which Arthur knew well by

sight; and the silver coffee pot, which Carroll was bringing in, sent forth a fragrant steam which completed

"Hallo, Arthur, that's a good fellow! You're just in time," said Mr. Irwine, as Arthur paused and stepped in

over the low window sill. "Carroll, we shall want more coffee and eggs, and haven't you got 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

"It was a tempting morning for a ride before breakfast," said Arthur; "and I used to like breakfasting with you

so when I was reading with you. My grandfather is always a few degrees colder at breakfast than at any other

Arthur was anxious not to imply that he came with any special purpose. He had no sooner found himself in

Mr. Irwine's presence than the confidence which he had thought quite easy before, suddenly appeared the

most difficult thing in the world to him, and at the very moment of shaking hands he saw his purpose in quite

a new light. How could he make Irwine understand his position unless he 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 breakfasttime better than any other moment in the day," said Mr. Irwine. "No dust has settled on

one's mind then, and it presents a clear mirror to the rays of things. I always have a favourite book by me at

breakfast, and I enjoy the bits I pick up then so much, that regularly every morning it seems to me as if I

should certainly become studious again. But presently Dent brings up a poor fellow who has killed a hare,

and when I've got through my 'justicing,' as Carroll calls it, I'm inclined for a ride round the glebe, and on my

way back I meet with the master of the workhouse, who has got a long story of a mutinous pauper to tell me;

and so the day goes on, and I'm always the same lazy fellow before evening sets in. Besides, one wants the

stimulus of sympathy, and I have never had that since poor D'Oyley left Treddleston. If you had stuck to your

books well, you rascal, I should have had a pleasanter prospect before me. But scholarship doesn't run in your

"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 aequor,' and a few shreds of that sort, will perhaps stick to

me, and I shall arrange my opinions so as to introduce them. But I don't think a knowledge of the classics is a

pressing want to a country gentleman; as far as I can see, he'd much better have a knowledge of manures. I've

been reading your friend Arthur Young's books lately, and there's nothing I should like better than to carry

out some of his ideas in putting the farmers on a better management of their land; and, as he says, making

what was a wild country, all of the same dark hue, bright and variegated with corn and cattle. My grandfather

will never let me have any power while he lives, but there's nothing I should like better than to undertake the

Stonyshire side of the estateit's in a dismal conditionand set improvements on foot, and gallop about

from one place to another and overlook them. I should like to know all the labourers, and see them touching

"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 quantity of food to maintain scholarsand rectors who appreciate scholars. And

whenever you enter on your career of model landlord may I be there to see. You'll want a portly rector to

complete the picture, and take his tithe of all the respect and honour you get by your hard work. Only don't

set your heart too strongly on the goodwill you are to get in consequence. I'm not sure that men are the

fondest of those who try to be useful to them. You know Gawaine has got the curses of the whole

neighbourhood upon him about that enclosure. You must make it quite clear to your mind which you are

most bent upon, old boy popularity or usefulnesselse you may happen to miss both."

"Oh! Gawaine is harsh in his manners; he doesn't make himself personally agreeable to his tenants. I don't

believe there's anything you can't prevail on people to do with kindness. For my part, I couldn't live in a

neighbourhood where I was not respected and beloved. And it's very pleasant to go among the tenants here

they seem 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, 'I ll

never risk a single prophecy on Arthur until I see the woman he falls in love with.' She thinks your ladylove

will rule you as the moon rules the tides. But I feel bound to stand up for you, as my pupil you know, and I

maintain that you're not of that watery quality. So mind you don't disgrace my judgment."

Arthur winced under this speech, for keen old Mrs. Irwine's opinion about him had the disagreeable effect of

a sinister omen. This, to be sure, was only another reason for persevering in his intention, and getting an

additional security against himself. Nevertheless, at this point in the conversation, he was conscious of

increased disinclination to tell his story about Hetty. He was of an impressible nature, and lived a great deal

in other people's opinions and feelings 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 seriousness of the struggle. It was not, after all, a thing to

make a fuss about; and what could Irwine do for him that he could not do for himself? He would go to

Eagledale in spite of Meg's lamenessgo on Rattler, and let Pym follow as well as he could on the old hack.

That was his thought as he sugared his coffee; but the next minute, as he was lifting the cup to his lips, he

remembered how thoroughly he had made up his mind last night to tell Irwine. No! He would not be

vacillating againhe WOULD do what he had meant to do, this time. So it would be well not to let the

personal tone of the conversation altogether drop. If they went to quite indifferent topics, his difficulty would

be heightened. It had required no noticeable pause for this rush and rebound of feeling, before he answered,

"But I think it is hardly an argument against a man's general strength of character that he should be apt to be

mastered by love. A fine constitution doesn't insure one against smallpox or any other of those inevitable

diseases. A man may be very firm in other matters and yet be under a sort of witchery from a woman."

"Yes; but there's this difference between love and smallpox, or bewitchment eitherthat if you detect the

disease at an early stage and try change of air, there is every chance of complete escape without any further

development of symptoms. And there are certain alternative doses which a man may administer to himself by

keeping unpleasant consequences before his mind: this gives you a sort of smoked glass through which you

may look at the resplendent fair one and 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

The smile that flitted across Arthur's face was a faint one, and instead of following Mr. Irwine's playful lead,

he said, quite seriously"Yes, that's the worst of it. It's a desperately vexatious thing, that after all one's

reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can't calculate on beforehand. I

don't think a man ought to be blamed so much if he is betrayed into doing things in that way, in spite of his

"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

"Why, yes, a man can't very well steal a banknote unless the banknote lies within convenient reach; but he

won't make us think him an honest man because he begins to howl at the banknote 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

"No, certainly; I pity him in proportion to his struggles, for they foreshadow the inward suffering which is the

worst form of Nemesis. Consequences are unpitying. Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, quite apart

from any fluctuations that went beforeconsequences that are hardly ever confined to ourselves. And it is

best to fix our minds on that certainty, instead of considering what may be the elements of excuse for us. But

I never knew you so inclined for moral discussion, Arthur? Is it some danger of your own that you are

In asking this question, Mr. Irwine pushed his plate away, threw himself back in his chair, and looked straight

at Arthur. He really suspected that Arthur wanted to tell him something, and thought of smoothing the way

for him by this direct question. But he was 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 intendedit would quite mislead Irwinehe would imagine there was a deep

passion for Hetty, while there was no such thing. He was conscious of colouring, and was annoyed at his

"Oh no, no danger," he said as indifferently as he could. "I don't know that I am more liable to irresolution

than other people; only there are little incidents now and then that set one speculating on what might happen

Was there a motive at work under this strange reluctance of Arthur's which had a sort of backstairs influence,

not admitted to himself? Our mental business is carried on much in the same way as the business of the State:

a great deal of hard work is done by agents who are not acknowledged. In a piece of machinery, too, I believe

there is often a small unnoticeable wheel which has a great deal to do with the motion of the large obvious

ones. Possibly there was some such unrecognized agent secretly busy in Arthur's mind at this

momentpossibly it was the fear lest he might hereafter find the fact of having made a confession to the

rector a serious annoyance, in case he should NOT be able quite to carry out his good resolutions? I dare not

The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine's mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming

indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had quickly followedthat there could be nothing serious in

that direction. There was no probability that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at her own home under

the eye of Mrs. Poyser; and the hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had no more serious

meaning than to prevent him from noticing her so as to rouse the 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,

patronizing pride in the goodwill and respect of everybody about him was a safeguard even against foolish

romance, still more against a lower kind of folly. If there had been anything special on Arthur's mind in the

previous conversation, it was clear he was not inclined to enter into 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 great effect in honour

of Britannia, and Pitt, and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the 'generous youth,' the hero of the day.

Don't you think you should get up something of the same sort to astonish our weak minds?"

The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating, the rope to which he might have clung had drifted

In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called for on business, and Arthur, bidding him goodbye,

mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction, which he tried to quell by determining to set off for

"THIS Rector of Broxton is little better than a pagan!" I hear one of my readers exclaim. "How much more

edifying it would have been if you had made him give Arthur some truly spiritual advice! You might have

Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation of the novelist to represent things as they never have been

and never will be. Then, of course, I might refashion life and character entirely after my own liking; I might

select the most unexceptionable type of clergyman and put my own admirable opinions into his mouth on all

occasions. But it happens, on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid any such arbitrary picture, and

to give a faithful account of men and things as they have mirrored themselves in my mind. The mirror is

doubtless defective, the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection faint or confused; but I feel as

much bound to tell you as precisely as I can what that reflection is, as if I were in the witnessbox, narrating

Sixty years agoit is a long time, so no wonder things have changedall clergymen were not zealous;

indeed, there is reason to believe that the number of zealous clergymen was small, and it is probable that if

one among the small minority had owned the livings of Broxton and Hayslope in the year 1799, you would

have liked him no better than you like Mr. Irwine. Ten to one, you would have thought him a tasteless,

indiscreet, methodistical man. It is so very rarely that facts hit that nice medium required by our own

enlightened opinions and refined taste! Perhaps you will say, "Do improve the facts a little, then; make them

more accordant with those correct views which it is our privilege to possess. The world is not just what we

like; do touch it up with a tasteful pencil, and make believe it is not quite such a mixed entangled affair. Let

all people who hold unexceptionable opinions act unexceptionably. Let your most faulty characters always be

on the wrong side, and your virtuous ones on the right. Then we shall see at a glance whom we are to

condemn and whom we are to approve. Then we shall be able to admire, without the slightest disturbance of

our prepossessions: we shall hate and despise with that true ruminant relish which belongs to undoubting

But, my good friend, what will you do then with your fellow parishioner who opposes your husband in the

vestry? With your newly appointed vicar, whose style of preaching you find painfully below that of his

regretted predecessor? With the honest servant who worries your soul with her one failing? With your

neighbour, Mrs. Green, who was really kind to you in your last illness, but has said several illnatured things

about you since your convalescence? Nay, with your excellent husband himself, who has other irritating

habits besides that of not wiping his shoes? These fellowmortals, every one, must be accepted as they are:

you can neither straighten their noses, nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositions; and it is these

peopleamongst whom your life is passedthat it is needful you should tolerate, pity, and love: it is these

more or less ugly, stupid, inconsistent people whose movements of goodness you should be able to admire

for whom you should cherish all possible hopes, all possible patience. And I would not, even if I had the

choice, be the clever novelist who could create a world so much better than this, in which we get up in the

morning to do our daily work, that you would be likely to turn a harder, colder eye on the dusty streets and

the common green fieldson the real breathing men and women, who can be chilled by your indifference or

injured by your prejudice; who can be cheered and helped onward by your fellow feeling, your forbearance,

So I am content to tell my simple story, without trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading

nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one's best efforts, there is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy,

truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in drawing a griffinthe longer the claws,

and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvellous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake

us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even

when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own

immediate feelingsmuch harder than to say something fine about them which is NOT the exact truth.

It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which loftyminded

people despise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous homely

existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellowmortals than a life of pomp or of

absolute indigence, of tragic suffering or of worldstirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from

cloudborne angels, from prophets, sibyls, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her

flowerpot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a screen of leaves,

falls on her mobcap, and just touches the rim of her spinningwheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap

common things which are the precious necessaries of life to heror I turn to that village wedding, kept

between four brown walls, where an awkward bridegroom opens the dance with a highshouldered,

broadfaced bride, while elderly and middleaged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and

probably with quartpots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakable contentment and goodwill.

"Foh!" says my idealistic friend, "what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an

exact likeness of old women and clowns? What a low phase of life! What clumsy, ugly people!"

But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? I am not at all sure that the

majority of the human race have not been ugly, and even among those "lords of their kind," the British, squat

figures, illshapen nostrils, and dingy complexions are not startling exceptions. Yet there is a great deal of

family love amongst us. I have a friend or two whose class of features is such that the Apollo curl on the

summit of their brows would be decidedly trying; yet to my certain knowledge tender hearts have beaten for

them, and their miniaturesflattering, but still not lovelyare kissed in secret by motherly lips. I have seen

many an excellent matron, who could have never in her best days have been handsome, and yet she had a

packet of yellow loveletters in a private drawer, and sweet children showered kisses on her sallow cheeks.

And I believe there have been plenty of young heroes, of middle stature and feeble beards, who have felt

quite sure they could never love anything more insignificant than a Diana, and yet have found themselves in

middle life happily settled with a wife who waddles. Yes! Thank God; human feeling is like the mighty rivers

that bless the earth: it does not wait for beautyit flows with resistless force and brings beauty with it.

All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and

childrenin our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of

proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet

robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, turning her mild face upward and

opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish

from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their workworn hands, those heavy clowns

taking holiday in a dingy pothouse, those rounded backs and stupid weatherbeaten faces that have bent

over the spade and done the rough work of the worldthose homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers,

their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In this world there are so many of these common coarse people,

who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful we should remember their existence, else

we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy and frame lofty theories which only fit

a world of extremes. Therefore, let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have men ready to

give the loving pains of a life to the faithful representing of commonplace thingsmen who see beauty in

these commonplace things, and delight in showing how kindly the light of heaven falls on them. There are

few prophets in the world; few sublimely beautiful women; few heroes. I can't afford to give all my love and

reverence to such rarities: I want a great deal of those feelings for my everyday fellowmen, especially for

the few in the foreground of the great multitude, whose faces I know, whose hands I touch for whom I have

to make way with kindly courtesy. Neither are picturesque lazzaroni or romantic criminals half so frequent as

your common labourer, who gets his own bread and eats it vulgarly but creditably with his own pocketknife.

It is more needful that I should have a fibre of sympathy connecting me with that vulgar citizen who weighs

out my sugar in a vilely assorted cravat and waistcoat, than with the handsomest rascal in red scarf and green

feathersmore needful that my heart should swell with loving admiration at some trait of gentle goodness in

the faulty people who sit at the same hearth with me, or in the clergyman of my own parish, who is perhaps

rather too corpulent and in other respects is not an Oberlin or a Tillotson, than at the deeds of heroes whom I

shall never know except by hearsay, or at the sublimest abstract of all clerical graces that was ever conceived

And so I come back to Mr. Irwine, with whom I desire you to be in perfect charity, far as he may be from

satisfying your demands on the clerical character. Perhaps you think he was notas he ought to have

beena living demonstration of the benefits attached to a national church? But I am not sure of that; at least

I know that the people in Broxton and Hayslope would have been very sorry to part with their clergyman, and

that most faces brightened at his approach; and until it can be proved that hatred is a better thing for the soul

than love, I must believe that Mr. Irwine's influence in his parish was a more wholesome one than that of the

zealous Mr. Ryde, who came there twenty years afterwards, when Mr. Irwine had been gathered to his

fathers. It is true, Mr. Ryde insisted strongly on the doctrines of the Reformation, visited his flock a great deal

in their own homes, and was severe in rebuking the aberrations of the fleshput a stop, indeed, to the

Christmas rounds of the church singers, as promoting drunkenness and too light a handling of sacred things.

But I gathered from Adam Bede, to whom I talked of these matters in his old age, that few clergymen could

be less successful in winning the hearts of their parishioners than Mr. Ryde. They learned a great many

notions about doctrine from him, so that almost every churchgoer under fifty began to distinguish as well

between the genuine gospel and what did not come precisely up to that standard, as if he had been born and

bred a Dissenter; and for some time after his arrival there seemed to be quite a religious movement in that

quiet rural district. "But," said Adam, "I've seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as religion's

something else besides notions. It isn't notions sets people doing the right thingit's feelings. It's the same

with the notions in religion as it is with math'maticsa man may be able to work problems straight off in's

head as he sits by the fire and smokes his pipe, but if he has to make a machine or a building, he must have a

will and a resolution and love something else better than his own ease. Somehow, the congregation began to

fall off, and people began to speak light o' Mr. Ryde. I believe he meant right at bottom; but, you see, he was

sourishtempered, and was for beating down prices with the people as worked for him; and his preaching

wouldn't go down well with that sauce. And he wanted to be like my lord judge i' the parish, punishing folks

for doing wrong; and he scolded 'em from the pulpit as if he'd been a Ranter, and yet he couldn't abide the

Dissenters, and was a deal more set against 'em than Mr. Irwine was. And then he didn't keep within his

income, for he seemed to think at first gooff that six hundred ayear was to make him as big a man as Mr.

Donnithorne. That's a sore mischief I've often seen with the poor curates jumping into a bit of a living all of a

sudden. Mr. Ryde was a deal thought on at a distance, I believe, and he wrote books, but as for math'matics

and the natur o' things, he was as ignorant as a woman. He was very knowing about doctrines, and used to

call 'em the bulwarks of the Reformation; but I've always mistrusted that sort o' learning as leaves folks

foolish and unreasonable about business. Now Mester Irwine was as different as could be: as quick!he

understood what you meant in a minute, and he knew all about building, and could see when you'd made a

good job. And he behaved as much like a gentleman to the farmers, and th' old women, and the labourers, as

he did to the gentry. You never saw HIM interfering and scolding, and trying to play th' emperor. Ah, he was

a fine man as ever you set eyes on; and so kind to's mother and sisters. That poor sickly Miss Anne he

seemed to think more of her than of anybody else in the world. There wasn't a soul in the parish had a word to

say against him; and his servants stayed with him till they were so old and pottering, he had to hire other

"Well," I said, "that was an excellent way of preaching in the weekdays; but I daresay, if your old friend Mr.

Irwine were to come to life again, and get into the pulpit next Sunday, you would be rather ashamed that he

"Nay, nay," said Adam, broadening his chest and throwing himself back in his chair, as if he were ready to

meet all inferences, "nobody has ever heard me say Mr. Irwine was much of a preacher. He didn't go into

deep speritial experience; and I know there s a deal in a man's inward life as you can't measure by the square,

and say, 'Do this and that 'll follow,' and, 'Do that and this 'll follow.' There's things go on in the soul, and

times when feelings come into you like a rushing mighty wind, as the Scripture says, and part your life in two

a'most, so you look back on yourself as if you was somebody else. Those are things as you can't bottle up in a

'do this' and 'do that'; and I'll go so far with the strongest Methodist ever you'll find. That shows me there's

deep speritial things in religion. You can't make much out wi' talking about it, but you feel it. Mr. Irwine

didn't go into those thingshe preached short moral sermons, and that was all. But then he acted pretty much

up to what he said; he didn't set up for being so different from other folks one day, and then be as like 'em as

two peas the next. And he made folks love him and respect him, and that was better nor stirring up their gall

wi' being overbusy. Mrs. Poyser used to sayyou know she would have her word about everythingshe

said, Mr. Irwine was like a good meal o' victual, you were the better for him without thinking on it, and Mr.

Ryde was like a dose o' physic, he gripped you and worreted you, and after all he left you much the same."

"But didn't Mr. Ryde preach a great deal more about that spiritual part of religion that you talk of, Adam?

"Eh, I knowna. He preached a deal about doctrines. But I've seen pretty clear, ever since I was a young un, as

religion's something else besides doctrines and notions. I look at it as if the doctrines was like finding names

for your feelings, so as you can talk of 'em when you've never known 'em, just as a man may talk o' tools

when he knows their names, though he's never so much as seen 'em, still less handled 'em. I've heard a deal o'

doctrine i' my time, for I used to go after the Dissenting preachers along wi' Seth, when I was a lad o'

seventeen, and got puzzling myself a deal about th' Arminians and the Calvinists. The Wesleyans, you know,

are strong Arminians; and Seth, who could never abide anything harsh and was always for hoping the best,

held fast by the Wesleyans from the very first; but I thought I could pick a hole or two in their notions, and I

got disputing wi' one o' the class leaders down at Treddles'on, and harassed him so, first o' this side and then

o' that, till at last he said, 'Young man, it's the devil making use o' your pride and conceit as a weapon to war

against the simplicity o' the truth.' I couldn't help laughing then, but as I was going home, I thought the man

wasn't far wrong. I began to see as all this weighing and sifting what this text means and that text means, and

whether folks are saved all by God's grace, or whether there goes an ounce o' their own will to't, was no part

o' real religion at all. You may talk o' these things for hours on end, and you'll only be all the more coxy and

conceited for't. So I took to going nowhere but to church, and hearing nobody but Mr. Irwine, for he said

notning but what was good and what you'd be the wiser for remembering. And I found it better for my soul to

be humble before the mysteries o' God's dealings, and not be making a clatter about what I could never

understand. And they're poor foolish questions after all; for what have we got either inside or outside of us

but what comes from God? If we've got a resolution to do right, He gave it us, I reckon, first or last; but I see

plain enough we shall never do it without a resolution, and that's enough for me."

Adam, you perceive, was a warm admirer, perhaps a partial judge, of Mr. Irwine, as, happily, some of us still

are of the people we have known familiarly. Doubtless it will be despised as a weakness by that lofty order of

minds who pant after the ideal, and are oppressed by a general sense that their emotions are of too exquisite a

character to find fit objects among their everyday fellowmen. I have often been favoured with the confidence

of these select natures, and find them to concur in the experience that great men are overestimated and small

men are insupportable; that if you would love a woman without ever looking back on your love as a folly, she

must die while you are courting her; and if you would maintain the slightest belief in human heroism, you

must never make a pilgrimage to see the hero. I confess I have often meanly shrunk from confessing to these

accomplished and acute gentlemen what my own experience has been. I am afraid I have often smiled with

hypocritical assent, and gratified them with an epigram on the fleeting nature of our illusions, which any one

moderately acquainted with French literature can command at a moment's notice. Human converse, I think

some wise man has remarked, is not rigidly sincere. But I herewith discharge my conscience, and declare that

I have had quite enthusiastic movements of admiration towards old gentlemen who spoke the worst English,

who were occasionally fretful in their temper, and who had never moved in a higher sphere of influence than

that of parish overseer; and that the way in which I have come to the conclusion that human nature is

lovablethe way I have learnt something of its deep pathos, its sublime mysterieshas been by living a

great deal among people more or less commonplace and vulgar, of whom you would perhaps hear nothing

very surprising if you were to inquire about them in the neighbourhoods where they dwelt. Ten to one most

of the small shopkeepers in their vicinity saw nothing at all in them. For I have observed this remarkable

coincidence, that the select natures who pant after the ideal, and find nothing in pantaloons or petticoats great

enough to command their reverence and love, are curiously in unison with the narrowest and pettiest. For

example, I have often heard Mr. Gedge, the landlord of the Royal Oak, who used to turn a bloodshot eye on

his neighbours in the village of Shepperton, sum up his opinion of the people in his own parishand they

were all the people he knewin these emphatic words: "Aye, sir, I've said it often, and I'll say it again,

they're a poor lot i' this parisha poor lot, sir, big and little." I think he had a dim idea that if he could

migrate to a distant parish, he might find neighbours worthy of him; and indeed he did subsequently transfer

himself to the Saracen's Head, which was doing a thriving business in the back street of a neighbouring

markettown. But, oddly enough, he has found the people up that back street of precisely the same stamp as

the inhabitants of Shepperton"a poor lot, sir, big and little, and them as comes for a go o' gin are no better

"HETTY, Hetty, don't you know church begins at two, and it's gone half after one a'ready? Have you got

nothing better to think on this good Sunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and him

drownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's back run cold, but you must be 'dizening

"Well, Aunt," said Hetty, "I can't be ready so soon as everybody else, when I've got Totty's things to put on.

Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet and shawl, was standing below. If ever a

girl looked as if she had been made of roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hat was

trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on a white ground. There was nothing but pink

and white about her, except in her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyser was provoked

at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as any mortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round

things. So she turned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door, followed by Hetty,

whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of some one she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the

And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suit of drab, with a redandgreen

waistcoat and a green watchribbon having a large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumbline from

that promontory where his watchpocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of a yellow tone round his neck;

and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knitted by Mrs. Poyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg.

Mr. Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that the growing abuse of topboots and

other fashions tending to disguise the nether limbs had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the human calf.

Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face, which was good humour itself as he said,

"Come, Hetty come, little uns!" and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causeway gate into

The "little uns" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven, in little fustian tailed coats and

kneebreeches, relieved by rosy cheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very small

elephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behind came patient Molly, whose task it

was to carry Totty through the yard and over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having speedily

recovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to church today, and especially on wearing her

redandblack necklace outside her tippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over this

afternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though now the clouds had rolled off and lay in

You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in the farmyard. The cocks and hens seemed

to know it, and made only crooning subdued noises; the very bulldog looked less savage, as if he would

have been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemed to call all things to rest and not to

labour. It was asleep itself on the mossgrown cowshed; on the group of white ducks nestling together with

their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sow stretched languidly on the straw, while her largest

young one found an excellent springbed on his mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd, in his new

smockfrock, taking an uneasy siesta, halfsitting, halfstanding on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion

that church, like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman who had the weather and the

ewes on his mind. "Church! NayI'n gotten summat else to think on," was an answer which he often uttered

in a tone of bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sure Alick meant no irreverence; indeed, I

know that his mind was not of a speculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed going to

church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and "Whissuntide." But he had a general impression that public

worship and religious ceremonies, like other nonproductive employments, were intended for people who

"There's Father astanding at the yardgate," said Martin Poyser. "I reckon he wants to watch us down the

"Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies," said Mrs. Poyser; "they're satisfied wi' looking,

no matter what they're looking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, afore they go to sleep."

Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching, and held it wide open, leaning on

his stickpleased to do this bit of work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, he liked to

feel that he was still usefulthat there was a better crop of onions in the garden because he was by at the

sowingand that the cows would be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoon to look

on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not very regularly at other times; on wet Sundays,

or whenever he had a touch of rheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead.

"They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the churchyard," he said, as his son came up. "It

'ud ha' been better luck if they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin'; there's no likelihoods

of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boat there, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather there's a many

"Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads," said Grandfather to the blackeyed

youngsters in kneebreeches, conscious of a marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to

"Doodbye, Dandad," said Totty. "Me doin' to church. Me dot my netlace on. Dive me a peppermint."

Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench," slowly transferred his stick to his left hand, which

held the gate open, and slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had fixed her eyes

And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again, watching them across the lane along the

Home Close, and through the far gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For the hedgerows in

those days shut out one's view, even on the bettermanaged farms; and this afternoon, the dogroses were

tossing out their pink wreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the pale honeysuckle grew

out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, and over all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw

There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and let them pass: at the gate of the Home

Close there was half the dairy of cows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand that their

large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was the mare holding her head over the bars, and beside

her the livercoloured foal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still much embarrassed by its

own straddling existence. The way lay entirely through Mr. Poyser's own fields till they reached the main

road leading to the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the crops as they went along, while

Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a running commentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a

large share in making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion on stock and their "keep"an

exercise which strengthens her understanding so much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice

"There's that shorthorned Sally," she said, as they entered the Home Close, and she caught sight of the meek

beast that lay chewing the cud and looking at her with a sleepy eye. "I begin to hate the sight o' the cow; and I

say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid of her the better, for there's that little yallow cow

"Why, thee't not like the women in general," said Mr. Poyser; "they like the shorthorns, as give such a lot o'

"What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' no more headpiece nor a sparrow. She'd

take a big cullender to strain her lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's run through. I've seen enough of

her to know as I'll niver take a servant from her house againall huggermuggerand you'd niver know,

when you went in, whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' the week; and as for

her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf in a tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i'

fault, as there's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i' their boots."

"Well, Chowne's been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her if thee lik'st," said Mr. Poyser, secretly

proud of his wife's superior power of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent marketdays he had

more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter of shorthorns. "Aye, them as choose a soft for

a wife may's well buy up the shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs may's well go after

it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you," Mrs. Poyser continued, as Totty, who had been set down now the

road was dry, toddled on in front of her father and mother. "There's shapes! An' she's got such a long foot,

"Aye, she'll be welly such a one as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she's got THY coloured eyes. I niver

remember a blue eye i' my family; my mother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty's."

"The child 'ull be none the worse for having summat as isn't like Hetty. An' I'm none for having her so

overpretty. Though for the matter o' that, there's people wi' light hair an' blue eyes as pretty as them wi' black.

If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in her cheeks, an' didn't stick that Methodist cap on her head, enough to

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, "thee dostna know the pints of a woman.

"What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice the most of 'em know how to make, by the

poor draggletails o' wives you see, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour's gone."

"Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choice when I married thee," said Mr. Poyser,

who usually settled little conjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; "and thee wast twice as buxom as

"I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of a house. There's Chowne's wife ugly

enough to turn the milk an' save the rennet, but she'll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah,

poor child, she's niver likely to be buxom as long as she'll make her dinner o' cake and water, for the sake o'

giving to them as want. She provoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went clean again' the

Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself'; 'but,' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better

nor you do yourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinking he might do well enough on

a halfempty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where she is this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay,

"Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, when she might ha' stayed wi' us all summer,

and eaten twice as much as she wanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' house at all,

for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, and was uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything.

"It's no use thinking o' that," said Mrs. Poyser. "You might as well beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah

to come an' live here comfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, I should ha' turned her, for I've

talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded her too; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do

what I can for her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'goodbye' an' got into the cart, an' looked back

at me with her pale face, as is welly like her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened to

think o' the set downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimes as if she'd a way o' knowing the rights

o' things more nor other folks have. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no more nor a

"Nay," said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as his goodnature would allow; "I'm no opinion

o' the Methodists. It's on'y tradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' them maggots.

There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't overclever at's work, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth

Bede. But you see Adam, as has got one o' the best headpieces hereabout, knows better; he's a good

"Why, goodness me," said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while her husband was speaking, "look where

Molly is with them lads! They're the field's length behind us. How COULD you let 'em do so, Hetty?

Anybody might as well set a pictur' to watch the children as you. Run back and tell 'em to come on."

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they set Totty on the top of one of the large

stones forming the true Loamshire stile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing with complacency, "Dey

The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught with great excitement to Marty and

Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going on in the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and

peeping than if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quite sure he saw a yellowhammer

on the boughs of the great ash, and while he was peeping, he missed the sight of a whitethroated stoat,

which had run across the path and was described with much fervour by the junior Tommy. Then there was a

little greenfinch, just fledged, fluttering along the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till it

managed to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be got to give any heed to these things, so

Molly was called on for her ready sympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said

Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called to them that her aunt was angry;

but Marty ran on first, shouting, "We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!" with the instinctive

"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in this pleasant surprise, "that's a good lad; why, where

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

"Well, well, now come on," said Mrs. Poyser, "and walk before Father and Mother, and take your little sister

by the hand. We must go straight on now. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday."

"But, Mother," said Marty, "you said you'd give halfacrown to find the speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I

The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement at their eldestborn's acuteness; but on

"Mother," he said, halfcrying, "Marty's got ever so much more money in his box nor I've got in mine."

"Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs. Poyser, "did ever anybody hear such naughty children? Nobody shall ever see

This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the two remaining fields the three pair of small legs

trotted on without any serious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles, alias "bullheads,"

The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh tomorrow was not a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser,

who during hay and corn harvest had often some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but no

temptation would have induced him to carry on any fieldwork, however early in the morning, on a Sunday;

for had not Michael Holdsworth had a pair of oxen "sweltered" while he was ploughing on Good Friday?

That was a demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and with wickedness of any sort

Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would have nothing to do, since money got by such means would never

"It a'most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shines so," he observed, as they passed

through the "Big Meadow." "But it's poor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience.

There's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield,' used to do the same of a Sunday as o'

weekdays, and took no heed to right or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's he come to?

"Ah, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, "you make but a poor trap to catch luck if you go and bait it

wi' wickedness. The money as is got so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leave our lads a

sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as for the weather, there's One above makes it, and we

Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habit which Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking

time by the forelock had secured their arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to two, though almost

every one who meant to go to church was already within the churchyard gates. Those who stayed at home

were chiefly mothers, like Timothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feeling as women

It was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people were standing about the churchyard so long

before service began; that was their common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church at

once, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, over the tall pews, about their illnesses and

the total failure of doctor's stuff, recommending dandelion tea, and other homemade specifics, as far

preferableabout the servants, and their growing exorbitance as to wages, whereas the quality of their

services declined from year to year, and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you could

see herabout the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, was giving for butter, and the reasonable

doubts that might be held as to his solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman, and

they were all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime the men lingered outside, and hardly any

of them except the singers, who had a humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the church

until Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that premature entrancewhat could they do in

church if they were there before service began?and they did not conceive that any power in the universe

could take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about "bus'ness."

Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance today, for he has got his clean Sunday face, which

always makes his little granddaughter cry at him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on

him at once as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference with which the big saucy fellow took

off his hat and stroked his hair to the farmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a workingman must hold

a candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himself on weekdays; by which evilsounding

rule of conduct he meant what was, after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who had horses

to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the rougher sort of workmen kept aloof from the grave

under the white thorn, where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of the farmlabourers,

made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, as fellowmourners with the mother and sons. Others

held a midway position, sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to the conversation

of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door, and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his

family passed into the church. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord of the Donnithorne

Arms, in his most striking attitudethat is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the

buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very much on one side; looking, on

the whole, like an actor who has only a monosyllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience

discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands

behind him and leaned forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that could

not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone than usual today, hushed a little by the sound of

Mr. Irwine's voice reading the final prayers of the burialservice. They had all had their word of pity for poor

Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject of their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's

bailiff, who played the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that

gentleman had the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject

of conversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself might presently be

walking up the paved road to the church door. And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine's voice

had ceased, and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the church.

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine passed. Adam and Seth were coming

next, with their mother between them; for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not

yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pause before the three mourners came on:

Lisbeth had turned round to look again towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earth

under the white thorn. Yet she cried less today than she had done any day since her husband's death. Along

with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense of her own importance in having a "burial," and in Mr.

Irwine's reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she knew the funeral psalm was going to be

sung for him. She felt this counterexcitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with her sons

towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods of their fellowparishioners.

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the loiterers followed, though some still lingered

without; the sight of Mr. Donnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhaps helping to

But presently the sound of the bassoon and the keybugles burst forth; the evening hymn, which always

I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable for anything except for the grey age of its

oaken pewsgreat square pews mostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed, from the

modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews to themselves in the middle of the righthand

row, so that it was a short process for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass, and return

to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk, grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the

arch leading into the chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. Donnithorne's family and servants.

Yet I assure you these grey pews, with the buffwashed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby

interior, and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats. And there were liberal touches

of crimson toward the chancel, for the pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crimson cloth

cushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altarcloth, embroidered with golden rays by Miss

But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm and cheering when Mr. Irwine was in the

desk, looking benignly round on that simple congregationon the hardy old men, with bent knees and

shoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge clipping and thatching; on the tall stalwart frames

and roughly cut bronzed faces of the stonecutters and carpenters; on the halfdozen welltodo farmers,

with their applecheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostly farmlabourers' wives, with their bit

of snowwhite capborder under their black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow,

folded passively over their chests. For none of the old people held bookswhy should they? Not one of them

could read. But they knew a few "good words" by heart, and their withered lips now and then moved silently,

following the service without any very clear comprehension indeed, but with a simple faith in its efflcacy to

ward off harm and bring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standing upthe little

children on the seats peeping over the edge of the grey pews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was

being sung to one of those lively psalmtunes which died out with the last generation of rectors and choral

parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe of Pan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam

was not in his usual place among the singers today, for he sat with his mother and Seth, and he noticed with

surprise that Bartle Massey was absent tooall the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his

bass notes with unusual complacency and threw an extra ray of severity into the glances he sent over his

I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in his ample white surplice that became him

so well, with his powdered hair thrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril and upper

lip; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keen countenance as there is in all human faces from

which a generous soul beams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through the old

windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, that threw pleasant touches of colour on the

I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round today, his eyes rested an instant longer than usual on the square pew

occupied by Martin Poyser and his family. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossible

not to wander thither, and rest on that round pinkandwhite figure. But Hetty was at that moment quite

careless of any glancesshe was absorbed in the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming

into church, for the carriage must surely be at the churchgate by this time. She had never seen him since she

parted with him in the wood on Thursday evening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone

on just the same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened then had brought no changes after

them; they were already like a dream. When she heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared

not look up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself. That must be old Mr. Donnithornehe

always came first, the wrinkled small old man, peering round with shortsighted glances at the bowing and

curtsying congregation; then she knew Miss Lydia was passing, and though Hetty liked so much to look at

her fashionable little coal scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn't mind it today.

But there were no more curtsiesno, he was not come; she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew

door but the housekeeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hat that had once been Miss

Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of the butler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look

nowshe might be mistakenfor, after all, she had not looked. So she lifted up her eyelids and glanced

timidly at the cushioned pew in the chancelthere was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his

spectacles with his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large giltedged prayerbook. The chill

disappointment was too hard to bear. She felt herself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry.

Oh, what SHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason; they would know she was crying because

Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderful hothouse plant in his buttonhole, was staring at

her, she knew. It was dreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she could kneel down.

Two great drops WOULD fall then, but no one saw them except goodnatured Molly, for her aunt and uncle

knelt with their backs towards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in church except faintness, of

which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drew out of her pocket a queer little flat blue smellingbottle,

and after much labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck against Hetty's nostrils. "It donna smell,"

she whispered, thinking this was a great advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you good

without biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but this little flash of temper did what the salts

could not have doneit roused her to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her might not to shed

any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain little nature: she would have borne anything rather than be

laughed at, or pointed at with any other feeling than admiration; she would have pressed her own nails into

her tender flesh rather than people should know a secret she did not want them to know.

What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, while Mr. Irwine was pronouncing the

solemn "Absolution" in her deaf ears, and through all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close

to disappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures her small ingenuity could devise to account

for Arthur's absence on the supposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see her again. And by

the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because all the rest were rising, the colour had returned to her

cheeks even with a heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches to herself, saying she hated

Arthur for giving her this painshe would like him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on

in her soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayerbook, and the eyelids with their dark fringe looked as

lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so, as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees.

But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; they rather blended with all the other deep

feelings for which the church service was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousness of our

entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all our moments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the

church service was the best channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, and resignation; its

interchange of beseeching cries for help with outbursts of faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the

familiar rhythm of its collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship could have done; as, to

those early Christians who had worshipped from their childhood upwards in catacombs, the torchlight and

shadows must have seemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of the streets. The secret

of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder the secret

escapes the unsympathizing oberver, who might as well put on his spectacles to discern odours.

But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found the service in Hayslope Church more

impressive than in most other village nooks in the kingdoma reason of which I am sure you have not the

slightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Where that good shoemaker got his notion

of reading from remained a mystery even to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got it

chiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honest conceited soul, as she had been

known to do into other narrow souls before his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musical

ear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed to inspire him with the rich chant in which

he delivered the responses. The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence, subsiding, at

the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance, like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can

compare to nothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of the wind among the autumn

boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speaking about the reading of a parish clerka man in rusty

spectacles, with stubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that is Nature's way: she will allow

a gentleman of splendid physiognomy and poetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him

the slightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrowbrowed fellow, trolling a ballad in the corner of a

Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and it was always with a sense of heightened

importance that he passed from the desk to the choir. Still more today: it was a special occasion, for an old

man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad deathnot in his bed, a circumstance the most painful to the

mind of the peasantand now the funeral psalm was to be sung in memory of his sudden departure.

Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance in the choir suffered no eclipse. It was a

solemn minor strain they sang. The old psalmtunes have many a wail among them, and the words

seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poor Thias. The mother and sons listened, each

with peculiar feelings. Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; it was part of

that decent burial which she would have thought it a greater wrong to withhold from him than to have caused

him many unhappy days while he was living. The more there was said about her husband, the more there was

done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poor Lisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and

pity are a ground of faith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, and tried to recall, as

he had done continually since his father's death, all that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment

of consciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement; for was it not written in the very

psalm they were singing that the Divine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam had

never been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty of trouble and vexation since he had been a

lad, but this was the first sorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrow because

the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for ever gone out of his reach. He had not been able to

press his father's hand before their parting, and say, "Father, you know it was all right between us; I never

forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgive me if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!"

Adam thought but little today of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on his father: his thoughts ran

constantly on what the old man's feelings had been in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his

head before the rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissive silence, we are apt to feel

twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own generosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our

anger has gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the last time in the meekness of death!

"Ah! I was always too hard," Adam said to himself. "It's a sore fault in me as I'm so hot and out o' patience

with people when they do wrong, and my heart gets shut up against 'em, so as I can't bring myself to forgive

'em. I see clear enough there's more pride nor love in my soul, for I could sooner make a thousand strokes

with th' hammer for my father than bring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' pride

and temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having his finger in what we call our duties as well as our

sins. Mayhap the best thing I ever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It's allays been

easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real tough job for me 'ud be to master my own will and temper

and go right against my own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at home tonight, I should

behave different; but there's no knowingperhaps nothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's

well we should feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there's no real making amends in this

world, any more nor you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right."

This was the keynote to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returned since his father's death, and the

solemn wail of the funeral psalm was only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with stronger

emphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with reference to Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly

and simply of the words, "In the midst of life we are in death"how the present moment is all we can call

our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of family tenderness. All very old truthsbut what we

thought the oldest truth becomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on the dead face

of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men want to impress us with the effect of a new and

wonderfully vivid light, do they not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measure its intensity

Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublime words, "The peace of God, which

passeth all understanding," seemed to blend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads of

the congregation; and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on the bonnets of the little maidens who had

slept through the sermon, the fathers collecting the prayerbooks, until all streamed out through the old

archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk, their simple civilities, and their

invitations to tea; for on a Sunday every one was ready to receive a guestit was the day when all must be in

Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they were waiting for Adam to Come up, not being

"Well, Mrs. Bede," said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, "you must keep up your heart; husbands

and wives must be content when they've lived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey."

"Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser; "they wonna have long to wait for one another then, anyhow. And ye've got two

o' the strapping'st sons i' th' country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine a

broadshouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, why you're straighter i' the back nor half

"Eh," said Lisbeth, "it's poor luck for the platter to wear well when it's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under

Adam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints; but Seth said, "Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so.

"That's true, lad, that's true," said Mr. Poyser; "and it's wrong on us to give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it's

like the children cryin' when the fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knows better

"Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, "an' it's poor work allays settin' the dead above the livin'. We shall all on us be dead

some time, I reckonit 'ud be better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin' when we're

"Well, Adam," said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were, as usual, rather incisive than soothing, and

that it would be well to change the subject, "you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hanna had a talk with

you this long while, and the missis here wants you to see what can be done with her best spinningwheel, for

it's got broke, and it'll be a nice job to mend itthere'll want a bit o' turning. You'll come as soon as you can

Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to see where Hetty was; for the children

were running on before. Hetty was not without a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white about

her than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pinkandwhite hothouse plant, with a very long

namea Scotch name, she supposed, since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took the

opportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require of him that he should feel any vexation

in observing a pouting expression on Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in her secret

heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhaps learn from him how it was Arthur had not

come to church. Not that she cared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would be given

spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fond of giving information.

Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances were received coldly, for to shift one's point of

view beyond certain limits is impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none of us aware of

the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feeble understandingit is possible they see hardly

anything in us. Moreover, Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenth year of

hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony and bachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he

had been a little heated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hetty that the "lass was well

enough," and that "a man might do worse"; but on convivial occasions men are apt to express themselves

Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who "knew his business" and who had great lights

concerning soils and compost; but he was less of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said

in confidence to her husband, "You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for my part, I think he's welly like a cock as

thinks the sun's rose o' purpose to hear him crow." For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener, and was

not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. He had also high shoulders and high cheekbones

and hung his head forward a little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. I think it was

his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch, and not his "bringing up"; for except that he had a

stronger burr in his accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire people about him. But a

"Well, Mr. Poyser," he said, before the good slow farmer had time to speak, "ye'll not be carrying your hay

tomorrow, I'm thinking. The glass sticks at 'change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' more

downfall afore twentyfour hours is past. Ye see that darkishblue cloud there upo' the 'rizonye know

"Aye, aye, I see the cloud," said Mr. Poyser, "'rizon or no 'rizon. It's right o'er Mike Holdsworth's fallow, and

"Well, you mark my words, as that cloud 'ull spread o'er the sky pretty nigh as quick as you'd spread a

tarpaulin over one o' your hayricks. It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord bless you!

Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's a pretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to,

if they'd just come to me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser? thinking o' getherin' the red currants soon, I

reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they're o'erripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to.

How do ye do, Mistress Bede?" Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by the way to Adam and Seth.

"I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberries as I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables

while ye're in trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not giving other folks' things away, for

when I've supplied the house, the garden s my own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old squire could get

as 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd be willing I've got to run my calkilation fine,

I can tell you, to make sure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to see some o' them

fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before their noses as I've got to do every year as comes."

"They look pretty fur, though," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side and speaking in rather a

subdued reverential tone. "Why, what could come truer nor that pictur o' the cock wi' the big spurs, as has got

its head knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th' firin', an' the ships behind? Why, that pictur was made afore

Christmas, and yit it's come as true as th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelsonan' they told

"Peeeeeh!" said Mr. Craig. "A man doesna want to see fur to know as th' English 'ull beat the French.

Why, I know upo' good authority as it's a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an' they live upo'

spoonmeat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledge o' the French. I should like to

know what them grasshoppers are to do against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it 'ud

astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor a Frenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they

pinch theirsells in wi' stays; and it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides."

"Where IS the captain, as he wasna at church today?" said Adam. "I was talking to him o' Friday, and he

"Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll be back again afore many days are o'er, for

he's to be at all th' arranging and preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July. But he's fond o'

getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' old squire fit one another like frost and flowers."

Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation, but the subject was not developed

farther, for now they had reached the turning in the road where Adam and his companions must say

"goodbye." The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction if he had not accepted Mr.

Poyser's invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser duly seconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep

disgrace not to make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikes must not interfere with

that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig had always been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and

Mrs. Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had "nothing to say again' him, on'y it was a pity he couldna

So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way down to the valley and up again to the

old house, where a saddened memory had taken the place of a long, long anxietywhere Adam would never

And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back to the pleasant bright houseplace at the

Hall Farmall with quiet minds, except Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only the

more puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quite voluntary; he need not have gonehe

would not have gone if he had wanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could ever be pleasant

to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to be fulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry

disappointment and doubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again, of meeting his

loving glance, and hearing his soft words with that eager yearning which one may call the "growing pain" of

NOTWITHSTANDING Mr. Craig's prophecy, the darkblue cloud dispersed itself without having produced

the threatened consequences. "The weather"as he observed the next morning "the weather, you see, 's a

ticklish thing, an' a fool 'ull hit on't sometimes when a wise man misses; that's why the almanecks get so

This unreasonable behaviour of the weather, however, could displease no one else in Hayslope besides Mr.

Craig. All hands were to be out in the meadows this morning as soon as the dew had risen; the wives and

daughters did double work in every farmhouse, that the maids might give their help in tossing the hay; and

when Adam was marching along the lanes, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, he caught the sound of

jocose talk and ringing laughter from behind the hedges. The jocose talk of haymakers is best at a distance;

like those clumsy bells round the cows' necks, it has rather a coarse sound when it comes close, and may even

grate on your ears painfully; but heard from far off, it mingles very prettily with the other joyous sounds of

nature. Men's muscles move better when their souls are making merry music, though their merriment is of a

And perhaps there is no time in a summer's day more cheering than when the warmth of the sun is just

beginning to triumph over the freshness of the morningwhen there is just a lingering hint of early coolness

to keep off languor under the delicious influence of warmth. The reason Adam was walking along the lanes at

this time was because his work for the rest of the day lay at a countryhouse about three miles off, which was

being put in repair for the son of a neighbouring squire; and he had been busy since early morning with the

packing of panels, doors, and chimney pieces, in a waggon which was now gone on before him, while

Jonathan Burge himself had ridden to the spot on horseback, to await its arrival and direct the workmen.

This little walk was a rest to Adam, and he was unconsciously under the charm of the moment. It was

summer morning in his heart, and he saw Hetty in the sunshinea sunshine without glare, with slanting rays

that tremble between the delicate shadows of the leaves. He thought, yesterday when he put out his hand to

her as they came out of church, that there was a touch of melancholy kindness in her face, such as he had not

seen before, and he took it as a sign that she had some sympathy with his family trouble. Poor fellow! That

touch of melancholy came from quite another source, but how was he to know? We look at the one little

woman's face we love as we look at the face of our mother earth, and see all sorts of answers to our own

yearnings. It was impossible for Adam not to feel that what had happened in the last week had brought the

prospect of marriage nearer to him. Hitherto he had felt keenly the danger that some other man might step in

and get possession of Hetty's heart and hand, while he himself was still in a position that made him shrink

from asking her to accept him. Even if he had had a strong hope that she was fond of himand his hope was

far from being stronghe had been too heavily burdened with other claims to provide a home for himself

and Hettya home such as he could expect her to be content with after the comfort and plenty of the Farm.

Like all strong natures, Adam had confidence in his ability to achieve something in the future; he felt sure he

should some day, if he lived, be able to maintain a family and make a good broad path for himself; but he had

too cool a head not to estimate to the full the obstacles that were to be overcome. And the time would be so

long! And there was Hetty, like a brightcheeked apple hanging over the orchard wall, within sight of

everybody, and everybody must long for her! To be sure, if she loved him very much, she would be content

to wait for him: but DID she love him? His hopes had never risen so high that he had dared to ask her. He

was clearsighted enough to be aware that her uncle and aunt would have looked kindly on his suit, and

indeed, without this encouragement he would never have persevered in going to the Farm; but it was

impossible to come to any but fluctuating conclusions about Hetty's feelings. She was like a kitten, and had

the same distractingly pretty looks, that meant nothing, for everybody that came near her.

But now he could not help saying to himself that the heaviest part of his burden was removed, and that even

before the end of another year his circumstances might be brought into a shape that would allow him to think

of marrying. It would always be a hard struggle with his mother, he knew: she would be jealous of any wife

he might choose, and she had set her mind especially against Hettyperhaps for no other reason than that

she suspected Hetty to be the woman he HAD chosen. It would never do, he feared, for his mother to live in

the same house with him when he was married; and yet how hard she would think it if he asked her to leave

him! Yes, there was a great deal of pain to be gone through with his mother, but it was a case in which he

must make her feel that his will was strongit would be better for her in the end. For himself, he would have

liked that they should all live together till Seth was married, and they might have built a bit themselves to the

old house, and made more room. He did not like "to part wi' th' lad": they had hardly every been separated for

But Adam had no sooner caught his imagination leaping forward in this waymaking arrangements for an

uncertain futurethan he checked himself. "A pretty building I'm making, without either bricks or timber.

I'm up i' the garret a'ready, and haven't so much as dug the foundation." Whenever Adam was strongly

convinced of any proposition, it took the form of a principle in his mind: it was knowledge to be acted on, as

much as the knowledge that damp will cause rust. Perhaps here lay the secret of the hardness he had accused

himself of: he had too little fellowfeeling with the weakness that errs in spite of foreseen consequences.

Without this fellowfeeling, how are we to get enough patience and charity towards our stumbling, falling

companions in the long and changeful journey? And there is but one way in which a strong determined soul

can learn itby getting his heartstrings bound round the weak and erring, so that he must share not only the

outward consequence of their error, but their inward suffering. That is a long and hard lesson, and Adam had

at present only learned the alphabet of it in his father's sudden death, which, by annihilating in an instant all

that had stimulated his indignation, had sent a sudden rush of thought and memory over what had claimed his

But it was Adam's strength, not its correlative hardness, that influenced his meditations this morning. He had

long made up his mind that it would be wrong as well as foolish for him to marry a blooming young girl, so

long as he had no other prospect than that of growing poverty with a growing family. And his savings had

been so constantly drawn upon (besides the terrible sweep of paying for Seth's substitute in the militia) that

he had not enough money beforehand to furnish even a small cottage, and keep something in reserve against a

rainy day. He had good hope that he should be "firmer on his legs" by and by; but he could not be satisfied

with a vague confidence in his arm and brain; he must have definite plans, and set about them at once. The

partnership with Jonathan Burge was not to be thought of at presentthere were things implicitly tacked to it

that he could not accept; but Adam thought that he and Seth might carry on a little business for themselves in

addition to their journeyman's work, by buying a small stock of superior wood and making articles of

household furniture, for which Adam had no end of contrivances. Seth might gain more by working at

separate jobs under Adam's direction than by his journeyman's work, and Adam, in his overhours, could do

all the "nice" work that required peculiar skill. The money gained in this way, with the good wages he

received as foreman, would soon enable them to get beforehand with the world, so sparingly as they would

all live now. No sooner had this little plan shaped itself in his mind than he began to be busy with exact

calculations about the wood to be bought and the particular article of furniture that should be undertaken

firsta kitchen cupboard of his own contrivance, with such an ingenious arrangement of slidingdoors and

bolts, such convenient nooks for stowing household provender, and such a symmetrical result to the eye, that

every good housewife would be in raptures with it, and fall through all the gradations of melancholy longing

till her husband promised to buy it for her. Adam pictured to himself Mrs. Poyser examining it with her keen

eye and trying in vain to find out a deficiency; and, of course, close to Mrs. Poyser stood Hetty, and Adam

was again beguiled from calculations and contrivances into dreams and hopes. Yes, he would go and see her

this eveningit was so long since he had been at the Hall Farm. He would have liked to go to the

nightschool, to see why Bartle Massey had not been at church yesterday, for he feared his old friend was ill;

but, unless he could manage both visits, this last must be put off till to morrowthe desire to be near Hetty

As he made up his mind to this, he was coming very near to the end of his walk, within the sound of the

hammers at work on the refitting of the old house. The sound of tools to a clever workman who loves his

work is like the tentative sounds of the orchestra to the violinist who has to bear his part in the overture: the

strong fibres begin their accustomed thrill, and what was a moment before joy, vexation, or ambition, begins

its change into energy. All passion becomes strength when it has an outlet from the narrow limits of our

personal lot in the labour of our right arm, the cunning of our right hand, or the still, creative activity of our

thought. Look at Adam through the rest of the day, as he stands on the scaffolding with the twofeet ruler in

his hand, whistling low while he considers how a difficulty about a floorjoist or a windowframe is to be

overcome; or as he pushes one of the younger workmen aside and takes his place in upheaving a weight of

timber, saying, "Let alone, lad! Thee'st got too much gristle i' thy bones yet"; or as he fixes his keen black

eyes on the motions of a workman on the other side of the room and warns him that his distances are not

right. Look at this broadshouldered man with the bare muscular arms, and the thick, firm, black hair tossed

about like trodden meadowgrass whenever he takes off his paper cap, and with the strong barytone voice

bursting every now and then into loud and solemn psalmtunes, as if seeking an outlet for superfluous

strength, yet presently checking himself, apparently crossed by some thought which jars with the singing.

Perhaps, if you had not been already in the secret, you might not have guessed what sad memories what warm

affection, what tender fluttering hopes, had their home in this athletic body with the broken fingernailsin

this rough man, who knew no better lyrics than he could find in the Old and New Version and an occasional

hymn; who knew the smallest possible amount of profane history; and for whom the motion and shape of the

earth, the course of the sun, and the changes of the seasons lay in the region of mystery just made visible by

fragmentary knowledge. It had cost Adam a great deal of trouble and work in overhours to know what he

knew over and above the secrets of his handicraft, and that acquaintance with mechanics and figures, and the

nature of the materials he worked with, which was made easy to him by inborn inherited facultyto get the

mastery of his pen, and write a plain hand, to spell without any other mistakes than must in fairness be

attributed to the unreasonable character of orthography rather than to any deficiency in the speller, and,

moreover, to learn his musical notes and partsinging. Besides all this, he had read his Bible, including the

apocryphal books; Poor Richard's Almanac, Taylor's Holy Living and Dying, The Pilgrim's Progress, with

Bunyan's Life and Holy War, a great deal of Bailey's Dictionary, Valentine and Orson, and part of a History

of Babylon, which Bartle Massey had lent him. He might have had many more books from Bartle Massey,

but he had no time for reading "the commin print," as Lisbeth called it, so busy as he was with figures in all

Adam, you perceive, was by no means a marvellous man, nor, properly speaking, a genius, yet I will not

pretend that his was an ordinary character among workmen; and it would not be at all a safe conclusion that

the next best man you may happen to see with a basket of tools over his shoulder and a paper cap on his head

has the strong conscience and the strong sense, the blended susceptibility and selfcommand, of our friend

Adam. He was not an average man. Yet such men as he are reared here and there in every generation of our

peasant artisanswith an inheritance of affections nurtured by a simple family life of common need and

common industry, and an inheritance of faculties trained in skilful courageous labour: they make their way

upwards, rarely as geniuses, most commonly as painstaking honest men, with the skill and conscience to do

well the tasks that lie before them. Their lives have no discernible echo beyond the neighbourhood where

they dwelt, but you are almost sure to find there some good piece of road, some building, some application of

mineral produce, some improvement in farming practice, some reform of parish abuses, with which their

names are associated by one or two generations after them. Their employers were the richer for them, the

work of their hands has worn well, and the work of their brains has guided well the hands of other men. They

went about in their youth in flannel or paper caps, in coats black with coaldust or streaked with lime and red

paint; in old age their white hairs are seen in a place of honour at church and at market, and they tell their

welldressed sons and daughters, seated round the bright hearth on winter evenings, how pleased they were

when they first earned their twopence aday. Others there are who die poor and never put off the workman's

coal on weekdays. They have not had the art of getting rich, but they are men of trust, and when they die

before the work is all out of them, it is as if some main screw had got loose in a machine; the master who

ADAM came back from his work in the empty waggonthat was why he had changed his clothesand was

"What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?" said Lisbeth complainingly, as he came downstairs. "Thee artna

"No, Mother," said Adam, quietly. "I'm going to the Hall Farm, but mayhap I may go to the school after, so

thee mustna wonder if I'm a bit late. Seth 'ull be at home in half an hourhe's only gone to the village; so

"Eh, an' what's thee got thy best cloose on for to go to th' Hall Farm? The Poyser folks see'd thee in 'em

yesterday, I warrand. What dost mean by turnin' worki'day into Sunday athat'n? It's poor keepin' company

But he had no sooner gone a few paces beyond the door than Lisbeth became uneasy at the thought that she

had vexed him. Of course, the secret of her objection to the best clothes was her suspicion that they were put

on for Hetty's sake; but deeper than all her peevishness lay the need that her son should love her. She hurried

after him, and laid hold of his arm before he had got halfway down to the brook, and said, "Nay, my lad,

thee wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her got nought to do but to sit by hersen an' think on thee?"

"Nay, nay, Mother," said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put his arm on her shoulder, "I'm not

angered. But I wish, for thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to

do. I'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings besides what

he owes to's father and mother, and thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must make

up thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I like. So let us have no more words

"Eh," said Lisbeth, not willing to show that she felt the real bearing of Adam's words, "and' who likes to see

thee i' thy best cloose better nor thy mother? An' when thee'st got thy face washed as clean as the smooth

white pibble, an' thy hair combed so nice, and thy eyes asparklin'what else is there as thy old mother

should like to look at half so well? An' thee sha't put on thy Sunday cloose when thee lik'st for meI'll ne'er

"Well, well; goodbye, mother," said Adam, kissing her and hurrying away. He saw there was no other

means of putting an end to the dialogue. Lisbeth stood still on the spot, shading her eyes and looking after

him till he was quite out of sight. She felt to the full all the meaning that had lain in Adam's words, and, as

she lost sight of him and turned back slowly into the house, she said aloud to herselffor it was her way to

speak her thoughts aloud in the long days when her husband and sons were at their work"Eh, he'll be tellin'

me as he's goin' to bring her home one o' these days; an' she'll be missis o'er me, and I mun look on, belike,

while she uses the blueedged platters, and breaks 'em, mayhap, though there's ne'er been one broke sin' my

old man an' me bought 'em at the fair twenty 'ear come next Whis suntide. Eh!" she went on, still louder, as

she caught up her knitting from the table, "but she'll ne'er knit the lad's stockin's, nor foot 'em nayther, while I

live; an' when I'm gone, he'll bethink him as nobody 'ull ne'er fit's leg an' foot as his old mother did. She'll

know nothin' o' narrowin' an' heelin', I warrand, an' she'll make a long toe as he canna get's boot on. That's

what comes o' marr'in' young wenches. I war gone thirty, an' th' feyther too, afore we war married; an' young

enough too. She'll be a poor dratchell by then SHE'S thirty, amarr'in' a that'n, afore her teeth's all come."

Adam walked so fast that he was at the yardgate before seven. Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not

yet come in from the meadow: every one was in the meadow, even to the blackandtan terrierno one kept

watch in the yard but the bulldog; and when Adam reached the housedoor, which stood wide open, he saw

there was no one in the bright clean houseplace. But he guessed where Mrs. Poyser and some one else

would be, quite within hearing; so he knocked on the door and said in his strong voice, "Mrs. Poyser within?"

"Come in, Mr. Bede, come in," Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She always gave Adam this title when

she received him in her own house. "You may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the

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

"Why, you might think you war come to a deadhouse," said Mrs. Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway;

"they're all i' the meadow; but Martin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cocked tonight,

ready for carrying first thing tomorrow. I've been forced t' have Nancy in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether

the red currants tonight; the fruit allays ripens so contrairy, just when every hand's wanted. An' there's no

trustin' the children to gether it, for they put more into their own mouths nor into the basket; you might as

Adam longed to say he would go into the garden till Mr. Poyser came in, but he was not quite courageous

enough, so he said, "I could be looking at your spinningwheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps

"No, I've put it away in the righthand parlour; but let it be till I can fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now

if you'd go into the garden and tell Hetty to send Totty in. The child 'ull run in if she's told, an' I know Hetty's

lettin' her eat too many currants. I'll be much obliged to you, Mr. Bede, if you'll go and send her in; an' there's

the York and Lankester roses beautiful in the garden nowyou'll like to see 'em. But you'd like a drink o'

whey first, p'r'aps; I know you're fond o' whey, as most folks is when they hanna got to crush it out."

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

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on the shelf, and dipping it into the

wheytub, "the smell o' bread's sweet t' everybody but the baker. The Miss Irwines allays say, 'Oh, Mrs.

Poyser, I envy you your dairy; and I envy you your chickens; and what a beautiful thing a farmhouse is, to

be sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; a farmhouse is a fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know the liftin', an' the

"Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn't like to live anywhere else but in a farmhouse, so well as you manage it,"

said Adam, taking the basin; "and there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing up

to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in the pail, and the fresh butter ready for market, and the

calves, and the poultry. Here's to your health, and may you allays have strength to look after your own dairy,

Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a compliment, but a quiet complacency

overspread her face like a stealing sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her blue grey eyes, as

she looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey nowwith a flavour so delicate that one

can hardly distinguish it from an odour, and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imagination with a

still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey is in my ears, mingling with the twittering

of a bird outside the wire network windowthe window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall Guelder

Adam walked round by the rickyard, at present empty of ricks, to the little wooden gate leading into the

gardenonce the well tended kitchengarden of a manorhouse; now, but for the handsome brick wall

with stone coping that ran along one side of it, a true farmhouse garden, with hardy perennial flowers,

unpruned fruit trees, and kitchen vegetables growing together in careless, half neglected abundance. In that

leafy, flowery, bushy time, to look for any one in this garden was like playing at "hideandseek." There

were the tall hollyhocks beginning to flower and dazzle the eye with their pink, white, and yellow; there were

the syringas and Guelder roses, all large and disorderly for want of trimming; there were leafy walls of scarlet

beans and late peas; there was a row of bushy filberts in one direction, and in another a huge appletree

making a barren circle under its lowspreading boughs. But what signified a barren patch or two? The garden

was so large. There was always a superfluity of broad beansit took nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to

the end of the uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them; and as for other vegetables, there was so much

more room than was necessary for them that in the rotation of crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was

of yearly occurrence on one spot or other. The very rosetrees at which Adam stopped to pluck one looked as

if they grew wild; they were all huddled together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wideopen petals,

almost all of them of the streaked pinkand white kind, which doubtless dated from the union of the houses

of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to choose a compact Provence rose that peeped out

halfsmothered by its flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his handhe thought he should be more

at ease holding something in his handas he walked on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered

there was the largest row of curranttrees, not far off from the great yewtree arbour.

But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the shaking of a bough, and a boy's voice

The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherrytree, where Adam had no difficulty in discerning a small

bluepinafored figure perched in a commodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was

below, behind the screen of peas. Yeswith her bonnet hanging down her back, and her fat face, dreadfully

smeared with red juice, turned up towards the cherrytree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth and

her redstained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I am sorry to say, more than half the cherries that

fell were hard and yellow instead of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was

already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, "There now, Totty, you've got your cherries. Run into the

house with 'em to Mothershe wants youshe's in the dairy. Run in this minute there's a good little

He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome

interruption to cherryeating; and when he set her down she trotted off quite silently towards the house,

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

He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty would not be far off, and Adam already felt

as if she were looking at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was standing with her back towards him,

and stooping to gather the lowhanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard him coming! Perhaps it was

because she was making the leaves rustle. She started when she became conscious that some one was

nearstarted so violently that she dropped the basin with the currants in it, and then, when she saw it was

Adam, she turned from pale to deep red. That blush made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had

"I frightened you," he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to

That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the grassplot, and Adam, as he rose and

gave her the basin again, looked straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to the first

Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she met his glance with a quiet sadness, which

"I'll help you," said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was nearly full of currants, and set it close

Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's heart was too full to speak, and he

thought Hetty knew all that was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence after all; she had blushed when

she saw him, and then there was that touch of sadness about her which must surely mean love, since it was

the opposite of her usual manner, which had often impressed him as indifference. And he could glance at her

continually as she bent over the fruit, while the level evening sunbeams stole through the thick appletree

boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck as if they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time

that a man can least forget in afterlife, the time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved

betrays by a slight somethinga word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelidthat she is at

least beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely perceptible to the ear or eyehe

could describe it to no oneit is a mere feathertouch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, to have

merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of everything but the present moment. So much

of our early gladness vanishes utterly from our memory: we can never recall the joy with which we laid our

heads on our mother's bosom or rode on our father's back in childhood. Doubtless that joy is wrought up into

our nature, as the sunlight of longpast mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot, but it is

gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only BELIEVE in the joy of childhood. But the first glad

moment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense

and special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour breathed in a faroff hour of happiness. It is a memory

that gives a more exquisite touch to tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds the last keenness

Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen of appletree boughs, the length of

bushy garden beyond, his own emotion as he looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and

that there was no need for them to talkAdam remembered it all to the last moment of his life.

And Hetty? You know quite well that Adam was mistaken about her. Like many other men, he thought the

signs of love for another were signs of love towards himself. When Adam was approaching unseen by her,

she was absorbed as usual in thinking and wondering about Arthur's possible return. The sound of any man's

footstep would have affected her just in the same wayshe would have FELT it might be Arthur before she

had time to see, and the blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling would have

rushed back again at the sight of any one else just as much as at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in

thinking that a change had come over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first passion, with which she was

trembling, had become stronger than vanity, had given her for the first time that sense of helpless dependence

on another's feeling which awakens the clinging deprecating womanhood even in the shallowest girl that can

ever experience it, and creates in her a sensibility to kindness which found her quite hard before. For the first

time Hetty felt that there was something soothing to her in Adam's timid yet manly tenderness. She wanted to

be treated lovinglyoh, it was very hard to bear this blank of absence, silence, apparent indifference, after

those moments of glowing love! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with lovemaking and

flattering speeches like her other admirers; he had always been so reserved to her; she could enjoy without

any fear the sense that this strong brave man loved her and was near her. It never entered into her mind that

Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently to the man who loved her in vain

because she had herself begun to love another. It was a very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so he

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

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

"Oh, I daresay," said Adam, smiling, "and been as long getting into the house as a little ant carrying a

caterpillar. Have you ever seen those tiny fellows carrying things four times as big as themselves?"

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

"Oh, I used to watch 'em often when I was a lad. But now, you see, I can carry the basket with one arm, as if

it was an empty nutshell, and give you th' other arm to lean on. Won't you? Such big arms as mine were made

Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily

"Yes," said Adam, pleased to have her ask a question about himself. "Ten years ago, when I was a lad, I went

with father to see about some work there. It's a wonderful sightrocks and caves such as you never saw in

"Why, it took us the best part o' two days' walking. But it's nothing of a day's journey for anybody as has got

a firstrate nag. The captain 'ud get there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And I shouldn't

wonder if he's back again tomorrow; he's too active to rest long in that lonely place, all by himself, for

there's nothing but a bit of a inn i' that part where he's gone to fish. I wish he'd got th' estate in his hands; that

'ud be the right thing for him, for it 'ud give him plenty to do, and he'd do't well too, for all he's so young; he's

got better notions o' things than many a man twice his age. He spoke very handsome to me th' other day about

lending me money to set up i' business; and if things came round that way, I'd rather be beholding to him nor

Poor Adam was led on to speak about Arthur because he thought Hetty would be pleased to know that the

young squire was so ready to befriend him; the fact entered into his future prospects, which he would like to

seem promising in her eyes. And it was true that Hetty listened with an interest which brought a new light

"How pretty the roses are now!" Adam continued, pausing to look at them. "See! I stole the prettiest, but I

didna mean to keep it myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, are

"It smells very sweet," he said; "those striped uns have no smell. Stick it in your frock, and then you can put

Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that Arthur could so soon get back if he

liked. There was a flash of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what

she had very often done beforestuck the rose in her hair a little above the left ear. The tender admiration in

Adam's face was slightly shadowed by reluctant disapproval. Hetty's love of finery was just the thing that

would most provoke his mother, and he himself disliked it as much as it was possible for him to dislike

"Ah," he said, "that's like the ladies in the pictures at the Chase; they've mostly got flowers or feathers or gold

things i' their hair, but somehow I don't like to see 'em they allays put me i' mind o' the painted women

outside the shows at Treddles'on Fair. What can a woman have to set her off better than her own hair, when it

curls so, like yours? If a woman's young and pretty, I think you can see her good looks all the better for her

being plain dressed. Why, Dinah Morris looks very nice, for all she wears such a plain cap and gown. It

seems to me as a woman's face doesna want flowers; it's almost like a flower itself. I'm sure yours is."

"Oh, very well," said Hetty, with a little playful pout, taking the rose out of her hair. "I'll put one o' Dinah's

caps on when we go in, and you'll see if I look better in it. She left one behind, so I can take the pattern."

"Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I daresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to

think when I saw her here as it was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people; but I never rightly

noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I thought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow

as th 'acorncup fits th' acorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without it. But you've got another sort o'

face; I'd have you just as you are now, without anything t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a

man's singing a good tuneyou don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the sound."

He took her arm and put it within his again, looking down on her fondly. He was afraid she should think he

had lectured her, imagining, as we are apt to do, that she had perceived all the thoughts he had only

halfexpressed. And the thing he dreaded most was lest any cloud should come over this evening's happiness.

For the world he would not have spoken of his love to Hetty yet, till this commencing kindness towards him

should have grown into unmistakable love. In his imagination he saw long years of his future life stretching

before him, blest with the right to call Hetty his own: he could be content with very little at present. So he

The scene had quite changed in the halfhour that Adam had been in the garden. The yard was full of life

now: Marty was letting the screaming geese through the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing

at him; the granarydoor was groaning on its hinges as Alick shut it, after dealing out the corn; the horses

were being led out to watering, amidst much barking of all the three dogs and many "whups" from Tim the

ploughman, as if the heavy animals who held down their meek, intelligent heads, and lifted their shaggy feet

so deliberately, were likely to rush wildly in every direction but the right. Everybody was come back from the

meadow; and when Hetty and Adam entered the houseplace, Mr. Poyser was seated in the threecornered

chair, and the grandfather in the large armchair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the

supper was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth herselfa cloth made of homespun

linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and of an agreeable whiteybrown hue, such as all sensible

housewives like to seenone of your bleached "shoprag" that would wear into holes in no time, but good

homespun that would last for two generations. The cold veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine might

well look tempting to hungry men who had dined at halfpast twelve o'clock. On the large deal table against

the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons and cans, ready for Alick and his companions; for the

master and servants ate their supper not far off each other; which was all the pleasanter, because if a remark

about tomorrow morning's work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick was at hand to hear it.

"Well, Adam, I'm glad to see ye," said Mr. Poyser. "What! ye've been helping Hetty to gether the curran's,

eh? Come, sit ye down, sit ye down. Why, it's pretty near a threeweek since y' had your supper with us; and

"Hetty," said Mrs. Poyser, as she looked into the basket of currants to see if the fruit was fine, "run upstairs

and send Molly down. She's putting Totty to bed, and I want her to draw th' ale, for Nancy's busy yet i' the

dairy. You can see to the child. But whativer did you let her run away from you along wi' Tommy for, and

This was said in a lower tone than usual, while her husband was talking to Adam; for Mrs. Poyser was strict

in adherence to her own rules of propriety, and she considered that a young girl was not to be treated sharply

in the presence of a respectable man who was courting her. That would not be fairplay: every woman was

young in her turn, and had her chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women not to

spoiljust as one marketwoman who has sold her own eggs must not try to balk another of a customer.

Hetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer to her aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser

Soon they were all seatedthe two rosy lads, one on each side, by the pale mother, a place being left for

Hetty between Adam and her uncle. Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating cold

broad beans out of a large dish with his pocketknife, and finding a flavour in them which he would not have

"What a time that gell is drawing th' ale, to be sure!" said Mrs. Poyser, when she was dispensing her slices of

stuffed chine. "I think she sets the jug under and forgets to turn the tap, as there's nothing you can't believe o'

them wenches: they'll set the empty kettle o' the fire, and then come an hour after to see if the water boils."

"She's drawin' for the men too," said Mr. Poyser. "Thee shouldst ha' told her to bring our jug up first."

"Told her?" said Mrs. Poyser. "Yes, I might spend all the wind i' my body, an' take the bellows too, if I was to

tell them gells everything as their own sharpness wonna tell 'em. Mr. Bede, will you take some vinegar with

your lettuce? Aye you're i' the right not. It spoils the flavour o' the chine, to my thinking. It's poor eating

where the flavour o' the meat lies i' the cruets. There's folks as make bad butter and trusten to the salt t' hide

Mrs. Poyser's attention was here diverted by the appearance of Molly, carrying a large jug, two small mugs,

and four drinking cans, all full of ale or small beeran interesting example of the prehensile power

possessed by the human hand. Poor Molly's mouth was rather wider open than usual, as she walked along

with her eyes fixed on the double cluster of vessels in her hands, quite innocent of the expression in her

"Molly, I niver knew your equilsto think o' your poor mother as is a widow, an' I took you wi' as good as

Molly had not seen the lightning, and the thunder shook her nerves the more for the want of that preparation.

With a vague alarmed sense that she must somehow comport herself differently, she hastened her step a little

towards the far deal table, where she might set down her canscaught her foot in her apron, which had

become untied, and fell with a crash and a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering explosion from

Marty and Tommy, and a serious "Ello!" from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of ale unpleasantly deferred.

"There you go!" resumed Mrs. Poyser, in a cutting tone, as she rose and went towards the cupboard while

Molly began dolefully to pick up the fragments of pottery. "It's what I told you 'ud come, over and over

again; and there's your month's wage gone, and more, to pay for that jug as I've had i' the house this ten year,

and nothing ever happened to't before; but the crockery you've broke sin' here in th' house you've been 'ud

make a parson swearGod forgi' me for saying soan' if it had been boiling wort out o' the copper, it 'ud

ha' been the same, and you'd ha' been scalded and very like lamed for life, as there's no knowing but what you

will be some day if you go on; for anybody 'ud think you'd got the St. Vitus's Dance, to see the things you've

throwed down. It's a pity but what the bits was stacked up for you to see, though it's neither seeing nor

Poor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her desperation at the lively movement of the

beerstream towards Alick's legs, she was converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the

"Ah," she went on, "you'll do no good wi' crying an' making more wet to wipe up. It's all your own

wilfulness, as I tell you, for there's nobody no call to break anything if they'll only go the right way to work.

But wooden folks had need ha' wooden things t' handle. And here must I take the brownandwhite jug, as

it's niver been used three times this year, and go down i' the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, and be

Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brownand white jug in her hand, when she

caught sight of something at the other end of the kitchen; perhaps it was because she was already trembling

and nervous that the apparition had so strong an effect on her; perhaps jugbreaking, like other crimes, has a

contagious influence. However it was, she stared and started like a ghost seer, and the precious

brownandwhite jug fell to the ground, parting for ever with its spout and handle.

"Did ever anybody see the like?" she said, with a suddenly lowered tone, after a moment's bewildered glance

round the room. "The jugs are bewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handlesthey slip o'er the finger

"Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face," said her husband, who had now joined in the laugh of the

"It's all very fine to look on and grin," rejoined Mrs. Poyser; "but there's times when the crockery seems alive

an' flies out o' your hand like a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack as it stands. What is to be broke

WILL be broke, for I never dropped a thing i' my life for want o' holding it, else I should never ha' kept the

crockery all these 'ears as I bought at my own wedding. And Hetty, are you mad? Whativer do you mean by

coming down i' that way, and making one think as there's a ghost a walking i' th' house?"

A new outbreak of laughter, while Mrs. Poyser was speaking, was caused, less by her sudden conversion to a

fatalistic view of jug breaking than by that strange appearance of Hetty, which had startled her aunt. The

little minx had found a black gown of her aunt's, and pinned it close round her neck to look like Dinah's, had

made her hair as flat as she could, and had tied on one of Dinah's highcrowned borderless net caps. The

thought of Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the sight of the gown and cap brought with it,

made it a laughable surprise enough to see them replaced by Hetty's round rosy cheeks and coquettish dark

eyes. The boys got off their chairs and jumped round her, clapping their hands, and even Alick gave a low

ventral laugh as he looked up from his beans. Under cover of the noise, Mrs. Poyser went into the back

kitchen to send Nancy into the cellar with the great pewter measure, which had some chance of being free

"Why, Hetty, lass, are ye turned Methodist?" said Mr. Poyser, with that comfortable slow enjoyment of a

laugh which one only sees in stout people. "You must pull your face a deal longer before you'll do for one;

"Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes," said Hetty, sitting down demurely. "He

"Nay, nay," said Adam, looking at her admiringly; "I only said they seemed to suit Dinah. But if I'd said

"Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr. Poyser to his wife, who now came back and took

"It little sinnifies how I looked," said Mrs. Poyser; "looks 'ull mend no jugs, nor laughing neither, as I see.

Mr. Bede, I'm sorry you've to wait so long for your ale, but it's coming in a minute. Make yourself at home

wi' th' cold potatoes: I know you like 'em. Tommy, I'll send you to bed this minute, if you don't give over

laughing. What is there to laugh at, I should like to know? I'd sooner cry nor laugh at the sight o' that poor

thing's cap; and there's them as 'ud be better if they could make theirselves like her i' more ways nor putting

on her cap. It little becomes anybody i' this house to make fun o' my sister's child, an' her just gone away

from us, as it went to my heart to part wi' her. An' I know one thing, as if trouble was to come, an' I was to be

laid up i' my bed, an' the children was to dieas there's no knowing but what they willan' the murrain was

to come among the cattle again, an' everything went to rack an' ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o'

Dinah's cap again, wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's one o' them things as looks the

brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when you're most i' need on't."

Mrs. Poyser, you perceive, was aware that nothing would be so likely to expel the comic as the terrible.

Tommy, who was of a susceptible disposition, and very fond of his mother, and who had, besides, eaten so

many cherries as to have his feelings less under command than usual, was so affected by the dreadful picture

she had made of the possible future that he began to cry; and the goodnatured father, indulgent to all

weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, "You'd better take the things off again, my lass; it

Hetty went upstairs again, and the arrival of the ale made an agreeable diversion; for Adam had to give his

opinion of the new tap, which could not be otherwise than complimentary to Mrs. Poyser; and then followed

a discussion on the secrets of good brewing, the folly of stinginess in "hopping," and the doubtful economy of

a farmer's making his own malt. Mrs. Poyser had so many opportunities of expressing herself with weight on

these subjects that by the time supper was ended, the alejug refilled, and Mr. Poyser's pipe alight she was

once more in high good humour, and ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinningwheel for his

"Ah," said Adam, looking at it carefully, "here's a nice bit o' turning wanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it

up at the turningshop in the village and do it there, for I've no convenence for turning at home. If you'll send

it to Mr. Burge's shop i' the morning, I'll get it done for you by Wednesday. I've been turning it over in my

mind," he continued, looking at Mr. Poyser, "to make a bit more convenence at home for nice jobs o'

cabinetmaking. I've always done a deal at such little things in odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's

more workmanship nor material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little business for ourselves i' that way,

for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ull take as many things as we should make, besides what we could get orders

Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step towards Adam's becoming a

"masterman," and Mrs. Poyser gave her approbation to the scheme of the movable kitchen cupboard, which

was to be capable of containing grocery, pickles, crockery, and houselinen in the utmost compactness

without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own dress, with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this

warm evening, was seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could see her quite well. And so

the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer,

for at this busy time sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five o'clock in the morning.

"I shall take a step farther," said Adam, "and go on to see Mester Massey, for he wasn't at church yesterday,

and I've not seen him for a week past. I've never hardly known him to miss church before."

"Aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's the boys' hollodays now, so we can give

"But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night?" said Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting.

"Oh, Mester Massey sits up late," said Adam. "An' the night school's not over yet. Some o' the men don't

come till late they've got so far to walk. And Bartle himself's never in bed till it's gone eleven."

"I wouldna have him to live wi' me, then," said Mrs. Poyser, "a dropping candlegrease about, as you're like

"Aye, eleven o'clock's lateit's late," said old Martin. "I ne'er sot up so i' MY life, not to say as it warna a

marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late."

"Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, "but it isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work

Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp with currantjuice; but all the rest

gave a hearty shake to the large palm that was held out to them, and said, "Come again, come again!"

"Aye, think o' that now," said Mr. Poyser, when Adam was out of on the causeway. "Sitting up till past

twelve to do extry work! Ye'll not find many men o' sixan' twenty as 'ull do to put i' the shafts wi' him. If

you can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own springcart some day, I'll be your warrant."

Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did not see the little toss of the head with

which she answered him. To ride in a springcart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now.

Bartle Massey's was one of a few scattered houses on the edge of a common, which was divided by the road

to Treddleston. Adam reached it in a quarter of an hour after leaving the Hall Farm; and when he had his

hand on the doorlatch, he could see, through the curtainless window, that there were eight or nine heads

When he entered, a reading lesson was going forward and Bartle Massey merely nodded, leaving him to take

his place where he pleased. He had not come for the sake of a lesson tonight, and his mind was too full of

personal matters, too full of the last two hours he had passed in Hetty's presence, for him to amuse himself

with a book till school was over; so he sat down in a corner and looked on with an absent mind. It was a sort

of scene which Adam had beheld almost weekly for years; he knew by heart every arabesque flourish in the

framed specimen of Bartle Massey's handwriting which hung over the schoolmaster's head, by way of

keeping a lofty ideal before the minds of his pupils; he knew the backs of all the books on the shelf running

along the whitewashed wall above the pegs for the slates; he knew exactly how many grains were gone out of

the ear of Indian corn that hung from one of the rafters; he had long ago exhausted the resources of his

imagination in trying to think how the bunch of leathery seaweed had looked and grown in its native element;

and from the place where he sat, he could make nothing of the old map of England that hung against the

opposite wall, for age had turned it of a fine yellow brown, something like that of a wellseasoned

meerschaum. The drama that was going on was almost as familiar as the scene, nevertheless habit had not

made him indifferent to it, and even in his present selfabsorbed mood, Adam felt a momentary stirring of

the old fellowfeeling, as he looked at the rough men painfully holding pen or pencil with their cramped

The reading class now seated on the form in front of the schoolmaster's desk consisted of the three most

backward pupils. Adam would have known it only by seeing Bartle Massey's face as he looked over his

spectacles, which he had shifted to the ridge of his nose, not requiring them for present purposes. The face

wore its mildest expression: the grizzled bushy eyebrows had taken their more acute angle of compassionate

kindness, and the mouth, habitually compressed with a pout of the lower lip, was relaxed so as to be ready to

speak a helpful word or syllable in a moment. This gentle expression was the more interesting because the

schoolmaster's nose, an irregular aquiline twisted a little on one side, had rather a formidable character; and

his brow, moreover, had that peculiar tension which always impresses one as a sign of a keen impatient

temperament: the blue veins stood out like cords under the transparent yellow skin, and this intimidating

brow was softened by no tendency to baldness, for the grey bristly hair, cut down to about an inch in length,

"Nay, Bill, nay," Bartle was saying in a kind tone, as he nodded to Adam, "begin that again, and then

perhaps, it'll come to you what dry spells. It's the same lesson you read last week, you know."

"Bill" was a sturdy fellow, aged fourandtwenty, an excellent stonesawyer, who could get as good wages

as any man in the trade of his years; but he found a reading lesson in words of one syllable a harder matter to

deal with than the hardest stone he had ever had to saw. The letters, he complained, were so "uncommon

alike, there was no tellin' 'em one from another," the sawyer's business not being concerned with minute

differences such as exist between a letter with its tail turned up and a letter with its tail turned down. But Bill

had a firm determination that he would learn to read, founded chiefly on two reasons: first, that Tom

Hazelow, his cousin, could read anything "right off," whether it was print or writing, and Tom had sent him a

letter from twenty miles off, saying how he was prospering in the world and had got an overlooker's place;

secondly, that Sam Phillips, who sawed with him, had learned to read when he was turned twenty, and what

could be done by a little fellow like Sam Phillips, Bill considered, could be done by himself, seeing that he

could pound Sam into wet clay if circumstances required it. So here he was, pointing his big finger towards

three words at once, and turning his head on one side that he might keep better hold with his eye of the one

word which was to be discriminated out of the group. The amount of knowledge Bartle Massey must possess

was something so dim and vast that Bill's imagination recoiled before it: he would hardly have ventured to

deny that the schoolmaster might have something to do in bringing about the regular return of daylight and

The man seated next to Bill was of a very different type: he was a Methodist brickmaker who, after spending

thirty years of his life in perfect satisfaction with his ignorance, had lately "got religion," and along with it the

desire to read the Bible. But with him, too, learning was a heavy business, and on his way out tonight he had

offered as usual a special prayer for help, seeing that he had undertaken this hard task with a single eye to the

nourishment of his soulthat he might have a greater abundance of texts and hymns wherewith to banish

evil memories and the temptations of old habitor, in brief language, the devil. For the brickmaker had been

a notorious poacher, and was suspected, though there was no good evidence against him, of being the man

who had shot a neighbouring gamekeeper in the leg. However that might be, it is certain that shortly after the

accident referred to, which was coincident with the arrival of an awakening Methodist preacher at

Treddleston, a great change had been observed in the brickmaker; and though he was still known in the

neighbourhood by his old sobriquet of "Brimstone," there was nothing he held in so much horror as any

further transactions with that evilsmelling element. He was a broadchested fellow. with a fervid

temperament, which helped him better in imbibing religious ideas than in the dry process of acquiring the

mere human knowledge of the alphabet. Indeed, he had been already a little shaken in his resolution by a

brother Methodist, who assured him that the letter was a mere obstruction to the Spirit, and expressed a fear

The third beginner was a much more promising pupil. He was a tall but thin and wiry man, nearly as old as

Brimstone, with a very pale face and hands stained a deep blue. He was a dyer, who in the course of dipping

homespun wool and old women's petticoats had got fired with the ambition to learn a great deal more about

the strange secrets of colour. He had already a high reputation in the district for his dyes, and he was bent on

discovering some method by which he could reduce the expense of crimsons and scarlets. The druggist at

Treddleston had given him a notion that he might save himself a great deal of labour and expense if he could

learn to read, and so he had begun to give his spare hours to the nightschool, resolving that his "little chap"

should lose no time in coming to Mr. Massey's dayschool as soon as he was old enough.

It was touching to see these three big men, with the marks of their hard labour about them, anxiously bending

over the worn books and painfully making out, "The grass is green," "The sticks are dry," "The corn is

ripe"a very hard lesson to pass to after columns of single words all alike except in the first letter. It was

almost as if three rough animals were making humble efforts to learn how they might become human. And it

touched the tenderest fibre in Bartle Massey's nature, for such fullgrown children as these were the only

pupils for whom he had no severe epithets and no impatient tones. He was not gifted with an imperturbable

temper, and on musicnights it was apparent that patience could never be an easy virtue to him; but this

evening, as he glances over his spectacles at Bill Downes, the sawyer, who is turning his head on one side

with a desperate sense of blankness before the letters dry, his eyes shed their mildest and most encouraging

After the reading class, two youths between sixteen and nineteen came up with the imaginary bills of parcels,

which they had been writing out on their slates and were now required to calculate "offhand"a test which

they stood with such imperfect success that Bartle Massey, whose eyes had been glaring at them ominously

through his spectacles for some minutes, at length burst out in a bitter, highpitched tone, pausing between

every sentence to rap the floor with a knobbed stick which rested between his legs.

"Now, you see, you don't do this thing a bit better than you did a fortnight ago, and I'll tell you what's the

reason. You want to learn accountsthat's well and good. But you think all you need do to learn accounts is

to come to me and do sums for an hour or so, two or three times aweek; and no sooner do you get your caps

on and turn out of doors again than you sweep the whole thing clean out of your mind. You go whistling

about, and take no more care what you're thinking of than if your heads were gutters for any rubbish to swill

through that happened to be in the way; and if you get a good notion in 'em, it's pretty soon washed out again.

You think knowledge is to be got cheapyou'll come and pay Bartle Massey sixpence aweek, and he'll

make you clever at figures without your taking any trouble. But knowledge isn't to be got with paying

sixpence, let me tell you. If you're to know figures, you must turn 'em over in your heads and keep your

thoughts fixed on 'em. There's nothing you can't turn into a sum, for there's nothing but what's got number in

iteven a fool. You may say to yourselves, 'I'm one fool, and Jack's another; if my fool's head weighed four

pound, and Jack's three pound three ounces and three quarters, how many pennyweights heavier would my

head be than Jack's?' A man that had got his heart in learning figures would make sums for himself and work

'em in his head. When he sat at his shoemaking, he'd count his stitches by fives, and then put a price on his

stitches, say half a farthing, and then see how much money he could get in an hour; and then ask himself how

much money he'd get in a day at that rate; and then how much ten workmen would get working three, or

twenty, or a hundred years at that rateand all the while his needle would be going just as fast as if he left

his head empty for the devil to dance in. But the long and the short of it isI'll have nobody in my

nightschool that doesn't strive to learn what he comes to learn, as hard as if he was striving to get out of a

dark hole into broad daylight. I'll send no man away because he's stupid: if Billy Taft, the idiot, wanted to

learn anything, I'd not refuse to teach him. But I'll not throw away good knowledge on people who think they

can get it by the sixpenn'orth, and carry it away with 'em as they would an ounce of snuff. So never come to

me again, if you can't show that you've been working with your own heads, instead of thinking that you can

With this final sentence, Bartle Massey gave a sharper rap than ever with his knobbed stick, and the

discomfited lads got up to go with a sulky look. The other pupils had happily only their writingbooks to

show, in various stages of progress from pot hooks to round text; and mere penstrokes, however perverse,

were less exasperating to Bartle than false arithmetic. He was a little more severe than usual on Jacob

Storey's Z's, of which poor Jacob had written a pageful, all with their tops turned the wrong way, with a

puzzled sense that they were not right "somehow." But he observed in apology, that it was a letter you never

wanted hardly, and he thought it had only been there "to finish off th' alphabet, like, though ampusand

At last the pupils had all taken their hats and said their "Good nights," and Adam, knowing his old master's

"Yes, my boy, yes, all but this, which I'll carry into the house; and just lock the outer door, now you're near

it," said Bartle, getting his stick in the fitting angle to help him in descending from his stool. He was no

sooner on the ground than it became obvious why the stick was necessarythe left leg was much shorter

than the right. But the schoolmaster was so active with his lameness that it was hardly thought of as a

misfortune; and if you had seen him make his way along the schoolroom floor, and up the step into his

kitchen, you would perhaps have understood why the naughty boys sometimes felt that his pace might be

indefinitely quickened and that he and his stick might overtake them even in their swiftest run.

The moment he appeared at the kitchen door with the candle in his hand, a faint whimpering began in the

chimneycorner, and a brown andtancoloured bitch, of that wiselooking breed with short legs and long

body, known to an unmechanical generation as turnspits, came creeping along the floor, wagging her tail, and

hesitating at every other step, as if her affections were painfully divided between the hamper in the

"Well, Vixen, well then, how are the babbies?" said the schoolmaster, making haste towards the

chimneycorner and holding the candle over the low hamper, where two extremely blind puppies lifted up

their heads towards the light from a nest of flannel and wool. Vixen could not even see her master look at

them without painful excitement: she got into the hamper and got out again the next moment, and behaved

with true feminine folly, though looking all the while as wise as a dwarf with a large oldfashioned head and

"Why, you've got a family, I see, Mr. Massey?" said Adam, smiling, as he came into the kitchen. "How's

"Law? What's the use o' law when a man's once such a fool as to let a woman into his house?" said Bartle,

turning away from the hamper with some bitterness. He always called Vixen a woman, and seemed to have

lost all consciousness that he was using a figure of speech. "If I'd known Vixen was a woman, I'd never have

held the boys from drowning her; but when I'd got her into my hand, I was forced to take to her. And now

you see what she's brought me tothe sly, hypocritical wench"Bartle spoke these last words in a rasping

tone of reproach, and looked at Vixen, who poked down her head and turned up her eyes towards him with a

keen sense of opprobrium"and contrived to be brought to bed on a Sunday at churchtime. I've wished

again and again I'd been a bloody minded man, that I could have strangled the mother and the brats with one

"I'm glad it was no worse a cause kept you from church," said Adam. "I was afraid you must be ill for the

first time i' your life. And I was particularly sorry not to have you at church yesterday."

"Ah, my boy, I know why, I know why," said Bartle kindly, going up to Adam and raising his hand up to the

shoulder that was almost on a level with his own head. "You've had a rough bit o' road to get over since I saw

youa rough bit o' road. But I'm in hopes there are better times coming for you. I've got some news to tell

you. But I must get my supper first, for I'm hungry, I'm hungry. Sit down, sit down."

Bartel went into his little pantry, and brought out an excellent homebaked loaf; for it was his one

extravagance in these dear times to eat bread once aday instead of oatcake; and he justified it by observing,

that what a schoolmaster wanted was brains, and oatcake ran too much to bone instead of brains. Then came

a piece of cheese and a quart jug with a crown of foam upon it. He placed them all on the round deal table

which stood against his large armchair in the chimneycorner, with Vixen's hamper on one side of it and a

windowshelf with a few books piled up in it on the other. The table was as clean as if Vixen had been an

excellent housewife in a checkered apron; so was the quarry floor; and the old carved oaken press, table, and

chairs, which in these days would be bought at a high price in aristocratic houses, though, in that period of

spiderlegs and inlaid cupids, Bartle had got them for an old song, where as free from dust as things could be

"Now, then, my boy, draw up, draw up. We'll not talk about business till we've had our supper. No man can

be wise on an empty stomach. But," said Bartle, rising from his chair again, "I must give Vixen her supper

too, confound her! Though she'll do nothing with it but nourish those unnecessary babbies. That's the way

with these womenthey've got no headpieces to nourish, and so their food all runs either to fat or to brats."

He brought out of the pantry a dish of scraps, which Vixen at once fixed her eyes on, and jumped out of her

"I've had my supper, Mr. Massey," said Adam, "so I'll look on while you eat yours. I've been at the Hall

Farm, and they always have their supper betimes, you know: they don't keep your late hours."

"I know little about their hours," said Bartle dryly, cutting his bread and not shrinking from the crust. "It's a

house I seldom go into, though I'm fond of the boys, and Martin Poyser's a good fellow. There's too many

women in the house for me: I hate the sound of women's voices; they're always either abuzz or asqueak

always either abuzz or asqueak. Mrs. Poyser keeps at the top o' the talk like a fife; and as for the young

lasses, I'd as soon look at watergrubs. I know what they'll turn tostinging gnats, stinging gnats. Here, take

"Nay, Mr. Massey," said Adam, who took his old friend's whim more seriously than usual tonight, "don't be

so hard on the creaturs God has made to be companions for us. A workingman 'ud be badly off without a

wife to see to th' house and the victual, and make things clean and comfortable."

"Nonsense! It's the silliest lie a sensible man like you ever believed, to say a woman makes a house

comfortable. It's a story got up because the women are there and something must be found for 'em to do. I tell

you there isn't a thing under the sun that needs to be done at all, but what a man can do better than a woman,

unless it's bearing children, and they do that in a poor makeshift way; it had better ha' been left to the

menit had better ha' been left to the men. I tell you, a woman 'ull bake you a pie every week of her life and

never come to see that the hotter th' oven the shorter the time. I tell you, a woman 'ull make your porridge

every day for twenty years and never think of measuring the proportion between the meal and the milka

little more or less, she'll think, doesn't signify. The porridge WILL be awk'ard now and then: if it's wrong, it's

summat in the meal, or it's summat in the milk, or it's summat in the water. Look at me! I make my own

bread, and there's no difference between one batch and another from year's end to year's end; but if I'd got any

other woman besides Vixen in the house, I must pray to the Lord every baking to give me patience if the

bread turned out heavy. And as for cleanliness, my house is cleaner than any other house on the Common,

though the half of 'em swarm with women. Will Baker's lad comes to help me in a morning, and we get as

much cleaning done in one hour, without any fuss, as a woman 'ud get done in three, and all the while be

sending buckets o' water after your ankles, and let the fender and the fireirons stand in the middle o' the

floor half the day for you to break your shins against 'em. Don't tell me about God having made such

creatures to be companions for us! I don't say but He might make Eve to be a companion to Adam in

Paradisethere was no cooking to be spoilt there, and no other woman to cackle with and make mischief,

though you see what mischief she did as soon as she'd an opportunity. But it's an impious, unscriptural

opinion to say a woman's a blessing to a man now; you might as well say adders and wasps, and foxes and

wild beasts are a blessing, when they're only the evils that belong to this state o' probation, which it's lawful

for a man to keep as clear of as he can in this life, hoping to get quit of 'em for ever in anotherhoping to get

Bartle had become so excited and angry in the course of his invective that he had forgotten his supper, and

only used the knife for the purpose of rapping the table with the haft. But towards the close, the raps became

so sharp and frequent, and his voice so quarrelsome, that Vixen felt it incumbent on her to jump out of the

"Quiet, Vixen!" snarled Bartle, turning round upon her. "You're like the rest o' the womenalways putting in

Vixen returned to her hamper again in humiliation, and her master continued his supper in a silence which

Adam did not choose to interrupt; he knew the old man would be in a better humour when he had had his

supper and lighted his pipe. Adam was used to hear him talk in this way, but had never learned so much of

Bartle's past life as to know whether his view of married comfort was founded on experience. On that point

Bartle was mute, and it was even a secret where he had lived previous to the twenty years in which happily

for the peasants and artisans of this neighbourhood he had been settled among them as their only

schoolmaster. If anything like a question was ventured on this subject, Bartle always replied, "Oh, I've seen

many placesI've been a deal in the south," and the Loamshire men would as soon have thought of asking

"Now then, my boy," said Bartle, at last, when he had poured out his second mug of ale and lighted his pipe,

"now then, we'll have a little talk. But tell me first, have you heard any particular news today?"

"Ah, they'll keep it close, they'll keep it close, I daresay. But I found it out by chance; and it's news that may

concern you, Adam, else I'm a man that don't know a superficial square foot from a solid."

Here Bartle gave a series of fierce and rapid puffs, looking earnestly the while at Adam. Your impatient

loquacious man has never any notion of keeping his pipe alight by gentle measured puffs; he is always letting

it go nearly out, and then punishing it for that negligence. At last he said, "Satchell's got a paralytic stroke. I

found it out from the lad they sent to Treddleston for the doctor, before seven o'clock this morning. He's a

"Well," said Adam, "I daresay there'd be more rejoicing than sorrow in the parish at his being laid up. He's

been a selfish, talebearing, mischievous fellow; but, after all, there's nobody he's done so much harm to as to

th' old squire. Though it's the squire himself as is to blamemaking a stupid fellow like that a sort o'

manofallwork, just to save th' expense of having a proper steward to look after th' estate. And he's lost

more by ill management o' the woods, I'll be bound, than 'ud pay for two stewards. If he's laid on the shelf, it's

to be hoped he'll make way for a better man, but I don't see how it's like to make any difference to me."

"But I see it, but I see it," said Bartle, "and others besides me. The captain's coming of age nowyou know

that as well as I do and it's to be expected he'll have a little more voice in things. And I know, and you

know too, what 'ud be the captain's wish about the woods, if there was a fair opportunity for making a

change. He's said in plenty of people's hearing that he'd make you manager of the woods tomorrow, if he'd

the power. Why, Carroll, Mr. Irwine's butler, heard him say so to the parson not many days ago. Carroll

looked in when we were smoking our pipes o' Saturday night at Casson's, and he told us about it; and

whenever anybody says a good word for you, the parson's ready to back it, that I'll answer for. It was pretty

well talked over, I can tell you, at Casson's, and one and another had their fling at you; for if donkeys set to

"Why, did they talk it over before Mr. Burge?" said Adam; "or wasn't he there o' Saturday?"

"Oh, he went away before Carroll came; and Cassonhe's always for setting other folks right, you

knowwould have it Burge was the man to have the management of the woods. 'A substantial man,' says he,

'with pretty near sixty years' experience o' timber: it 'ud be all very well for Adam Bede to act under him, but

it isn't to be supposed the squire 'ud appoint a young fellow like Adam, when there's his elders and betters at

hand!' But I said, 'That's a pretty notion o' yours, Casson. Why, Burge is the man to buy timber; would you

put the woods into his hands and let him make his own bargains? I think you don't leave your customers to

score their own drink, do you? And as for age, what that's worth depends on the quality o' the liquor. It's

"I thank you for your good word, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "But, for all that, Casson was partly i' the right

for once. There's not much likelihood that th' old squire 'ud ever consent t' employ me. I offended him about

"Oh, it was a bit o' nonsense. I'd made a frame for a screen for Miss Lyddyshe's allays making something

with her worstedwork, you knowand she'd given me particular orders about this screen, and there was as

much talking and measuring as if we'd been planning a house. However, it was a nice bit o' work, and I liked

doing it for her. But, you know, those little friggling things take a deal o' time. I only worked at it in

overhoursoften late at nightand I had to go to Treddleston over an' over again about little bits o' brass

nails and such gear; and I turned the little knobs and the legs, and carved th' open work, after a pattern, as

nice as could be. And I was uncommon pleased with it when it was done. And when I took it home, Miss

Lyddy sent for me to bring it into her drawingroom, so as she might give me directions about fastening on

the workvery fine needlework, Jacob and Rachel a kissing one another among the sheep, like a

pictureand th' old squire was sitting there, for he mostly sits with her. Well, she was mighty pleased with

the screen, and then she wanted to know what pay she was to give me. I didn't speak at randomyou know

it's not my way; I'd calculated pretty close, though I hadn't made out a bill, and I said, 'One pound thirty.' That

was paying for the mater'als and paying me, but none too much, for my work. Th' old squire looked up at this,

and peered in his way at the screen, and said, 'One pound thirteen for a gimcrack like that! Lydia, my dear, if

you must spend money on these things, why don't you get them at Rosseter, instead of paying double price

for clumsy work here? Such things are not work for a carpenter like Adam. Give him a guinea, and no more.'

Well, Miss Lyddy, I reckon, believed what he told her, and she's not overfond o' parting with the money

herselfshe's not a bad woman at bottom, but she's been brought up under his thumb; so she began fidgeting

with her purse, and turned as red as her ribbon. But I made a bow, and said, 'No, thank you, madam; I'll make

you a present o' the screen, if you please. I've charged the regular price for my work, and I know it's done

well; and I know, begging His Honour's pardon, that you couldn't get such a screen at Rosseter under two

guineas. I'm willing to give you my workit's been done in my own time, and nobody's got anything to do

with it but me; but if I'm paid, I can't take a smaller price than I asked, because that 'ud be like saying I'd

asked more than was just. With your leave, madam, I'll bid you goodmorning.' I made my bow and went out

before she'd time to say any more, for she stood with the purse in her hand, looking almost foolish. I didn't

mean to be disrespectful, and I spoke as polite as I could; but I can give in to no man, if he wants to make it

out as I'm trying to overreach him. And in the evening the footman brought me the one pound thirteen

wrapped in paper. But since then I've seen pretty clear as th' old squire can't abide me."

"That's likely enough, that's likely enough," said Bartle meditatively. "The only way to bring him round

would be to show him what was for his own interest, and that the captain may do that the captain may do."

"Nay, I don't know," said Adam; "the squire's 'cute enough but it takes something else besides 'cuteness to

make folks see what'll be their interest in the long run. It takes some conscience and belief in right and wrong,

I see that pretty clear. You'd hardly ever bring round th' old squire to believe he'd gain as much in a

straightfor'ard way as by tricks and turns. And, besides, I've not much mind to work under him: I don't want

to quarrel with any gentleman, more particular an old gentleman turned eighty, and I know we couldn't agree

long. If the captain was master o' th' estate, it 'ud be different: he's got a conscience and a will to do right, and

"Well, well, my boy, if good luck knocks at your door, don't you put your head out at window and tell it to be

gone about its business, that's all. You must learn to deal with odd and even in life, as well as in figures. I tell

you now, as I told you ten years ago, when you pommelled young Mike Holdsworth for wanting to pass a bad

shilling before you knew whether he was in jest or earnestyou're overhasty and proud, and apt to set your

teeth against folks that don't square to your notions. It's no harm for me to be a bit fiery and

stiffbackedI'm an old schoolmaster, and shall never want to get on to a higher perch. But where's the use

of all the time I've spent in teaching you writing and mapping and mensuration, if you're not to get for'ard in

the world and show folks there's some advantage in having a head on your shoulders, instead of a turnip? Do

you mean to go on turning up your nose at every opportunity because it's got a bit of a smell about it that

nobody finds out but yourself? It's as foolish as that notion o' yours that a wife is to make a workingman

comfortable. Stuff and nonsense! Stuff and nonsense! Leave that to fools that never got beyond a sum in

simple addition. Simple addition enough! Add one fool to another fool, and in six years' time six fools

morethey're all of the same denomination, big and little's nothing to do with the sum!"

During this rather heated exhortation to coolness and discretion the pipe had gone out, and Bartle gave the

climax to his speech by striking a light furiously, after which he puffed with fierce resolution, fixing his eye

"There's a good deal o' sense in what you say, Mr. Massey," Adam began, as soon as he felt quite serious, "as

there always is. But you'll give in that it's no business o' mine to be building on chances that may never

happen. What I've got to do is to work as well as I can with the tools and mater'als I've got in my hands. If a

good chance comes to me, I'll think o' what you've been saying; but till then, I've got nothing to do but to trust

to my own hands and my own headpiece. I'm turning over a little plan for Seth and me to go into the

cabinetmaking a bit by ourselves, and win a extra pound or two in that way. But it's getting late nowit'll

be pretty near eleven before I'm at home, and Mother may happen to lie awake; she's more fidgety nor usual

"Well, well, we'll go to the gate with youit's a fine night," said Bartle, taking up his stick. Vixen was at

once on her legs, and without further words the three walked out into the starlight, by the side of Bartle's

"Come to the music o' Friday night, if you can, my boy," said the old man, as he closed the gate after Adam

"Aye, aye," said Adam, striding along towards the streak of pale road. He was the only object moving on the

wide common. The two grey donkeys, just visible in front of the gorse bushes, stood as still as limestone

imagesas still as the greythatched roof of the mud cottage a little farther on. Bartle kept his eye on the

moving figure till it passed into the darkness, while Vixen, in a state of divided affection, had twice run back

"Aye, aye," muttered the schoolmaster, as Adam disappeared, "there you go, stalking alongstalking along;

but you wouldn't have been what you are if you hadn't had a bit of old lame Bartle inside you. The strongest

calf must have something to suck at. There's plenty of these big, lumbering fellows 'ud never have known

their A B C if it hadn't been for Bartle Massey. Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is it? I

must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my own any more. And those pupswhat do you

think I'm to do with 'em, when they're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was that hulking

(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into the house. Subjects are sometimes

"But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?" continued Bartle. "She's got no conscienceno

THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those halfdozen warm days which sometimes occur in the

middle of a rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was

perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on the darkgreen hedgerows and on the wild

camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on it, and there

was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple, high, high up in the faroff blue sky. Perfect weather for

an outdoor July merrymaking, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot

pause just then: all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and

yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the possible storms that may ruin the

precious fruit in the moment of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the

waggonloads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their sweetsmelling fragments on the

blackberry branches; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour of red and

gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid

young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm that pause between hay and cornharvest,

and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the captain did well to come of age just

then, when they could give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been

brewed the autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to be tapped on his twentyfirst birthday. The air had

been merry with the ringing of churchbells very early this morning, and every one had made haste to get

through the needful work before twelve, when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.

The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no blind to temper the heat with

which it fell on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she

had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next

room the room that had been Dinah'swould show her nothing below her little chin; and that beautiful bit

of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls.

And today she thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this evening she was not

to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted pinkandwhite frock, that she

might make the sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the evening,

with a tucker made of "real" lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no

ornaments besides; she had even taken out her small round earrings which she wore every day. But there

was something more to be done, apparently, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she

was to wear in the daytime, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is more than

a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious

than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large coloured glass

earrings into her ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in

a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the

earrings! Do not reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must have

known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear

rings which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of

vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand women's natures if

you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you

were studying the psychology of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as

she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the earrings nestled in the little box. Ah, you

think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the

moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have cared to have earrings rather than

anything else? And I know that she had longed for earrings from among all the ornaments she could

"Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the

grass without her hat. "I wish I had some pretty earrings!" she said in a moment, almost before she knew

what she was sayingthe wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter past them at the slightest breath.

And the next dayit was only last weekArthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That

little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like

it before; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with

growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his.

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the earrings, for now she is taking them out

of the box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her earsonly for one moment, to see how

pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the head and then

another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of earrings as one looks at her; what

should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the

tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps waternixies, and such lovely things

without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be

one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman's destiny before hera woman

spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and

press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations

But she cannot keep in the earrings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly

into the box again and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any earrings she likes, and already

she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the

lady's maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on her arms, and

treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to

wear today, because she can hang it on the chain of darkbrown berries which she has been used to wear on

grand days, with a tiny flat scentbottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her

brown berries her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of

the earrings, though it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold

border round the glass, which showed a lightbrown slightly waving lock, forming a background for two

little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion,

only a little less strong than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even

hidden in her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt's questions about

a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along her chain of darkbrown berries, and snapped the

chain round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang a little way below the

edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze

neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white today instead of the pink, which had become rather faded

under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty's cup today, for it was not quite

neweverybody would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbonand Mary Burge, she felt

sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they

really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty's dream of the

future could not make her insensible to triumph in the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so

that he would never care about looking at other people, but then those other people didn't know how he loved

her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant in their eyes even for a short space.

The whole party was assembled in the houseplace when Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday

clothes; and the bells had been ringing so this morning in honour of the captain's twenty first birthday, and

the work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their

mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once

suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care of itself; "for," said he, "there's no danger of

anybody's breaking ineverybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house up, all the men can

go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives." But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left

the house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been illlooking tramps enoo'

about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together,

them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we

knowed, some Friday night when we'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the

tramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry wants any work done, you may be

"Nonsense about murdering us in our beds," said Mr. Poyser; "I've got a gun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st

got ears as 'ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can

stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his

turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too, ready enough

Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the

last moment before starting, Nancy, the dairymaid, was closing the shutters of the houseplace, although the

window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least

The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole family except the menservants.

Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and

children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad

person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more than a

walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day, and there was time to

exchange greetings and remarks with the footpassengers who were going the same way, specking the paths

between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright coloura scarlet

waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a darkblue neckerchief

with ends flaunting across a brandnew white smock frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the

Chase, and make merry there in honour of "th' heir"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far

down this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of

the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's suggestion. The churchbells had struck up again nowa last tune,

before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the festival; and before the bells had finished,

other music was heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. Poyser's

cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory

that is to say, in brightblue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, "Let brotherly

The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges, and the vehicles

"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups

scattered under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles

surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. "I should ha'

thought there wasna so many people i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come

here, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open

"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin coming wi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight

as wonna come o'er again, to see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You remember some on 'em i'

"Aye, aye," said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge porch, from which he could see the

aged party descend. "I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned

He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther

Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nigbtcap, and leaning on his two sticks.

"Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voicefor though he knew the old man

was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety of a greeting"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen

"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company.

The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the

leastwinding carriageroad towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the

Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the

housefront, with its sloping lawn and flowerbeds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn,

standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were

to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for

the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes

see a new farmhouse rising high and prim at the end of older and lower farmoffices. The fine old remnant

stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the sun was now on the taller and more

advanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite

sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not

possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long whilenot till after dinner,

But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom

the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the

rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage

tenants and the farmservants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to day, in high spirits and a

brightblue frockcoat, the highest modehis arm no longer in a sling. So openlooking and candid, too;

but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces.

"Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I think the cottagers have the best of it: these

cloisters make a delightful diningroom on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the

dinnersto let them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had

only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he couldn't make up his

"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said Mr. Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are

constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and

oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens that no

one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of

the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too

much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and daylight."

"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston people away by having a feast for them in

the town; and I've got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of ale in

the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the dinnertables

They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the

dusty worthless old pictures had been banished for the last three generationsmouldy portraits of Queen

Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the

lions, and Julius Caesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries in his

"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old abbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I

shall do up the gallery in firstrate style. We've got no room in the house a third as large as this. That second

table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and

children to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a regular family thing of it. I

shall be 'the old squire' to those little lads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much

finer young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women and children below as well. But you

"Yes, to be sure," said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden speech to the tenantry."

"And there will be something else you'll like to hear," said Arthur. "Let us go into the library and I'll tell you

all about it while my grandfather is in the drawingroom with the ladies. Something that will surpsise you,"

"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite

given up arguing the matter with himI thought it was hopelessbut yesterday morning he asked me to

come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided on all the new

arrangements he should make in consequence of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he

intended to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea aweek, and the use of a pony

to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had

some particular dislike of Adam to get overand besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generally a reason

with him for rejecting it. There's the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to leave

me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave

to him all her life, with only five hundred ayear, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I sometimes

think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believe if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the

greatest misfortune that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series of petty

"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's

plenty of 'unloving love' in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted the post?

I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a

"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was

that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour to me

not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the employment and would not

be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all thingsit

would be a great step forward for him in business, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished to

do, to give up working for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business of his

own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at

last, and I have arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants today; and I mean to announce the

appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health. It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my

friend Adam. He's a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think so."

"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part to play," said Mr. Irwine, smiling.

But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy

who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit that I'm proud of my pupil when he does

graceful things. But I must play the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of

Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a respectable man as

"Oh no," said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience and walking along the room with his

hands in his pockets. "He's got some project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for a

supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about itit makes me too angry. I believe he

means to do all the business himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what energy he

"Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr. Irwine, rising too. "I want to tell my mother what a splendid

"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. "It must be two o'clock, for there is the gong

WHEN Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he felt rather uncomfortable at the

idea of being exalted in this way above his mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But Mr.

Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given particular orders about it, and would be

Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off. "Seth, lad," he said, "the captain has

sent to say I'm to dine upstairshe wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud be behaving ill for

me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above thee and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and

"Nay, nay, lad," said Seth, "thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'st respect, thee'st won it by thy own

deserts. The further I see thee above me, the better, so long as thee feel'st like a brother to me. It's because o'

thy being appointed over the woods, and it's nothing but what's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a

"Aye," said Adam, "but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given notice to Mr. Burge about leaving

him, and I don't like to tell anybody else about it before he knows, for he'll be a good bit hurt, I doubt. People

'ull be wondering to see me there, and they'll like enough be guessing the reason and asking questions, for

there's been so much talk up and down about my having the place, this last three weeks."

"Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the reason. That's the truth. And mother

Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds than the amount he contributed to the

rentroll. There were other people in the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than

from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was rather slower than usual on this

warm day, so Adam lingered behind when the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend;

for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's

side would be sure to turn up in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that for he disliked

any risk of being "joked" about Hettythe big, outspoken, fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his

"Well, Mester Massey," said Adam, as Bartle came up "I'm going to dine upstairs with you today: the

"Ah!" said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. "Then there's something in the windthere's

something in the wind. Have you heard anything about what the old squire means to do?"

"Why, yes," said Adam; "I'll tell you what I know, because I believe you can keep a still tongue in your head

if you like, and I hope you'll not let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasons against its

"Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out of me and then run out and cackle it in

everybody's hearing. If you trust a man, let him be a bachelorlet him be a bachelor."

"Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I'm to take the management o' the woods. The captain sent for

me t' offer it me, when I was seeing to the poles and things here and I've agreed to't. But if anybody asks any

questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn the talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you.

"I know what to do, never fear," said Bartle, moving on. "The news will be good sauce to my dinner. Aye,

aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back you for an eye at measuring and a headpiece for figures, against any

When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as to who was to be president, and who

vice, was still under discussion, so that Adam's entrance passed without remark.

"It stands to sense," Mr. Casson was saying, "as old Mr. Poyser, as is th' oldest man i' the room, should sit at

top o' the table. I wasn't butler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about dinner."

"Nay, nay," said old Martin, "I'n gi'en up to my son; I'm no tenant now: let my son take my place. Th' ould

"I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor th' oldest," said Luke Britton, who was

not fond of the critical Mr. Poyser; "there's Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th' estate."

"Well," said Mr. Poyser, "suppose we say the man wi' the foulest land shall sit at top; then whoever gets th'

"Eh, here's Mester Massey," said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the dispute, had no interest but in

conciliation; "the schoolmaster ought to be able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr.

"Why, the broadest man," said Bartle; "and then he won't take up other folks' room; and the next broadest

This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughtera smaller joke would have sufficed for

that Mr. Casson, however, did not feel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to join in the

laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the

broadest, was to be president, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice.

Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the table, fell under the immediate

observation of Mr. Casson, who, too much occupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed

his entrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam "rather lifted up and pepperylike": he thought the

gentry made more fuss about this young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson,

"Well, Mr. Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace," he said, when Adam sat down. "You've niver

"No, Mr. Casson," said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard along the table; "I've never dined here

before, but I come by Captain Donnithorne's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here."

"Nay, nay," said several voices at once, "we're glad ye're come. Who's got anything to say again' it?"

"And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna ye?" said Mr. Chowne. "That's a song I'm

"Peeh!" said Mr. Craig; "it's not to be named by side o' the Scotch tunes. I've never cared about singing

myself; I've had something better to do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna

likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o' mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at

"The Scotch tunes!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; "I've heard enough o' the Scotch tunes to last me

while I live. They're fit for nothing but to frighten the birds withthat's to say, the English birds, for the

Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for

"Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know but little about," said Mr. Craig.

"Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman," Bartle went on, without deigning to notice

Mr. Craig's remark. "They go on with the same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable

end. Anybody 'ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of somebody as deaf as old Taft,

Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position enabled him to see Hetty, who was

not far off him at the next table. Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was giving

angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby

threatened to make dusty marks on Hetty's pinkandwhite frock. No sooner were the little fat legs pushed

down than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busy in staring at the large dishes to see where the

plum pudding was for her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of patience, and at last,

with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she said, "Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty; she keeps

"What's the matter wi' the child? She can niver please you," said the mother. "Let her come by the side o' me,

Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark eyes seeming to grow larger with

pettish halfgathered tears. Quiet Mary Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that

Adam's eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be reflecting on the small value

of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad. Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings, but

she said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adam should know it. And it was quite

true that if Hetty had been plain, she would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no

one's moral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But really there was something quite

charming in her pettishness: it looked so much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe

Adam felt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity, as if he had seen a kitten setting

up its back, or a little bird with its feathers ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but it was

impossible to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest thing in the world, and that if he could have

his way, nothing should ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caught his eye, and

her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as she nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtationshe knew

WHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of birthday ale were brought up, room

was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at the side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had

been settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young squire should appear, and for the last

five minutes he had been in a state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite, and his

When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one stood up, and this moment of homage

was very agreeable to Arthur. He liked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great deal for

the goodwill of these people: he was fond of thinking that they had a hearty, special regard for him. The

pleasure he felt was in his face as he said, "My grandfather and I hope all our friends here have enjoyed their

dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall

All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy in his pockets, began with the

deliberateness of a slow striking clock. "Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em

today, for where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score. And though we've

mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many thingsone man lays down his land one way an'

another anotheran' I'll not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my ownthis I'll say, as

we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh all on us known you when you war a little un,

an' we've niver known anything on you but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an' y' act fair, an'

we're joyful when we look forrard to your being our landlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by

everybody, an' 'ull make no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I mean, an' that's what we

all mean; and when a man's said what he means, he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'.

An' I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till we'd drunk your health in it; but the

dinner was good, an' if there's anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as for the

rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the parish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all

hope, as he'll live to see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your Honour a family

man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time, an' so we'll drink our young squire's healththree

Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a shouting, with plentiful da capo,

pleasanter than a strain of sublimest music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur had

felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it was too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in

being praised. Did he not deserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something in his conduct

that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why, no man's conduct will bear too close an inspection;

and Poyser was not likely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too far, perhaps, in

flirtation, but another man in his place would have acted much worse; and no harm would comeno harm

should come, for the next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must not think

seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself.

Uncomfortable thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can be formed so rapidly

that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become easy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished,

"I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours," Arthur said, "for the good opinion of me, and the kind

feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser has been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always

be my heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect that, if I live, I shall one day or

other be your landlord; indeed, it is on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me to

celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward to this position, not merely as one of

power and pleasure for myself, but as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a

man as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much older, and are men of

experience; still, I have interested myself a good deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my

opportunities have allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in my hands, it will be my

first desire to afford my tenants all the encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and

trying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish to be looked on by all my deserving

tenants as their best friend, and nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on the

estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place at present to enter into particulars; I only meet

your good hopes concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them that what you

expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr. Poyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he

means, he had better stop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would not be perfect

if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has filled the place of both parents to me. I will say no

more, until you have joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to appear among you

Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly understood and approved Arthur's

graceful mode of proposing his grandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew well enough

that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, "he'd better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth." The

bucolic mind does not readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could not be rejected and

when it had been drunk, Arthur said, "I thank you, both for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one

more thing I wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope and believe you will. I think

there can be no man here who has not a respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my

friend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood that there is no man whose word can

be more depended on than his; that whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the

interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that I was very fond of Adam when I was

a little boy, and I have never lost my old feeling for himI think that shows that I know a good fellow when

I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the management of the woods on the estate, which

happen to be very valuable, not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has the

knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy to tell you that it is my grandfather's

wish too, and it is now settled that Adam shall manage the woodsa change which I am sure will be very

much for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join me in drinking his health, and in

wishing him all the prosperity in life that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam

Bede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sure you will agree with me that we must drink

no other person's health until we have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of his

parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and let us drink to our excellent

This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the last, and it certainly was the most

picturesque moment in the scene when Mr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned

towards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more striking than that of Arthur's when seen in

comparison with the people round them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of

his newfashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste in costume than Mr. Irwine's powder

and the wellbrushed but wellworn black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he

"This is not the first time, by a great many," he said, "that I have had to thank my parishioners for giving me

tokens of their goodwill, but neighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious the older

they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting today is a proof that when what is good comes of age and is likely to

live, there is reason for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners came of age two

years ago, for it is threeandtwenty years since I first came among you, and I see some tall finelooking

young men here, as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as pleasantly at me

when I christened them as I am happy to see them looking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say

that among all those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my friend Mr. Arthur

Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several

years, and have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot have occurred to any

one else who is present; and I have some pride as well as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high

hopes concerning him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will make him an

excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take that important position among you. We feel alike

on most matters on which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young man of

oneandtwenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which I share very heartily, and I would not

willingly omit the opportunity of saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. People in a

high station are of course more thought of and talked about and have their virtues more praised, than those

whose lives are passed in humble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that humble

everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be done well. And I agree with my friend Mr.

Arthur Donnithorne in feeling that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character which

would make him an example in any station, his merit should be acknowledged. He is one of those to whom

honour is due, and his friends should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede wellI know what he is as a

workman, and what he has been as a son and brotherand I am saying the simplest truth when I say that I

respect him as much as I respect any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some of you

are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who does not know enough of him to join heartily

As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, "A bumper to Adam Bede, and may he

No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as Mr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first

speech had been, he would have started up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity of

such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down

his glass with a swing of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others felt less

comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look contented, and so the toast was drunk with a

Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He was a good deal moved by this

public tributevery naturally, for he was in the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him

honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled with small vanity or lack of words; he

looked neither awkward nor embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head thrown a

little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest,

"I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. "I didn't expect anything o' this sort, for it's a good deal more than my

wages. But I've the more reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to all my friends

here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'ud be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all

deserve th' opinion you have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me all these

years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o' the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to

do a bit o' work, I'll do it well, be my pay big or littleand that's true. I'd be ashamed to stand before you

here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's

pretty clear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what we will, it's only making use o' the

sperrit and the powers that ha' been given to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe

me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to this new employment I've taken in hand,

I'll only say that I took it at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his expectations. I'd wish

for no better lot than to work under him, and to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care

of his int'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the right thing, and to leave the world

a bit better than he found it, which it's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether he

sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does the work with his own hands. There's

no occasion for me to say any more about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my

There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the women whispered that he didn't show himself

thankful enough, and seemed to speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that nobody

could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a chap as need to be. While such observations

were being buzzed about, mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a bailiff, and

whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen had risen, and were walking round to the table

where the wives and children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but wine and dessert

sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head

of this table, and Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a wineglass in

"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hear your husband make such a good

"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tonguetiedyou're forced partly to guess what they mean, as you do wi' the

"What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr. Irwine, laughing.

"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say it in, thank God. Not as I'm afinding

faut wi' my husband, for if he's a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to."

"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said, looking round at the applecheeked children.

"My aunt and the Miss Irwines will come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the

He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with

standing still and nodding at a distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young squire, the

hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty, but merely bowed to her as he passed along the

opposite side. The foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman was ever satisfied

with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the

most miserable day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality came across her

dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of

THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any lads and lasses who liked to dance on the

shady grass before then, there was music always at handfor was not the band of the Benefit Club capable

of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this, there was a grand band hired from Rosseter,

who, with their wonderful windinstruments and puffed out cheeks, were themselves a delightful show to

the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he

had provided himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to prefer dancing to a solo on

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of the house, the games began. There

were, of course, wellsoaped poles to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women,

races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men, and a long list of challenges to such

ambitious attempts as that of walking as many yards possible on one leg feats in which it was generally

remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellow i' the country," was sure to be pre eminent.

To crown all, there was to be a donkeyracethat sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand socialistic

idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and the sorriest donkey winning.

And soon after four o ciock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask satin and jewels and black lace, was led

out by Arthur, followed by the whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where she

was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia had requested to resign that queenly office

to the royal old lady, and Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's taste for

stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean, finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine,

with his air of punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking neutral and stiff in an

elegant peachblossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the

family, besides Mr. Gawaine, was invited today; there was to be a grand dinner for the neighbouring gentry

on the morrow, but today all the forces were required for the entertainment of the tenants.

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from the park, but a temporary bridge had

been made for the passage of the victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there on

benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white marquees up to the sunk fence.

"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep voice, when she was seated, and looked

round on the bright scene with its darkgreen background; "and it's the last feteday I'm likely to see, unless

you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you get a charming bride, else I would rather die

"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm afraid I should never satisfy you with my

"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put off with amiability, which is always the

excuse people are making for the existence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never do,

because you'll want managing, and a silly woman can't manage you. Who is that tall young man, Dauphin,

with the mild face? There, standing without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side of

"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is Seth Bede, Adam's brothera Methodist,

but a very good fellow. Poor Seth has looked rather downhearted of late; I thought it was because of his

father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to marry that sweet little Methodist

"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here that I don't know, for they're grown

"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was holding a double glass up to his eyes,

"to see the expression of that young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred spot to me.

But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look close. I can read small print without

"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very nearsighted, and those nearsighted eyes always wear the best.

I want very strong spectacles to read with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at a

distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be blind to everything that wasn't out of other

people's sight, like a man who stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars."

"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their race now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"

"The longlegged one, unless they're going to have several heats, and then the little wiry one may win."

"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand," said Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at

"To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs. Poyser. "A woman who sends me such

excellent creamcheese is not to be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her knee!

"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin Poyser's niecea very likely young person,

and welllooking too. My maid has taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very

"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you must have seen her," said Miss Irwine.

"No, I've never seen her, childat least not as she is now," said Mrs. Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty.

"Welllooking, indeed! She's a perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days. What

a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers, when it's wanted so terribly among the

good families without fortune! I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just as pretty

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was speaking of her. He feigned not to hear,

and to be occupied with something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without looking; saw

her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty praisedfor other men's opinion, you know, was like

a native climate to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and grew strong. Yes! She

was enough to turn any man's head: any man in his place would have done and felt the same. And to give her

up after all, as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always look back upon with pride.

"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't agree with you there. The common people

are not quite so stupid as you imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling, is

conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference

in their presence. The man may be no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refined

"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than married men, because they have time for

more general contemplation. Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by calling one

woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty Methodist preacher I mentioned just

now told me that she had preached to the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but the

utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason isthough she doesn't know itthat there's so much

tenderness, refinement, and purity about her. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the

"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine.

The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise Chad's Bess, whose large red

cheeks and blowsy person had undergone an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a

heavenly body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken to her earrings again

since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who

could have looked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance between her little hopes

and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage, perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling.

But then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have been inclined to box Bessy's ears, and

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere hedonish gaiety, partly because of the

prize. Some one had said there were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached the

marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation sparkling in her round eyes.

"Here is the prize for the first sackrace," said Miss Lydia, taking a large parcel from the table where the

prizes were laid and giving it to Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent grogram gown and a piece

"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?" said Arthur. "Couldn't you find

something else for this girl, and save that grimlooking gown for one of the older women?"

"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said Miss Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should

not think of encouraging a love of finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that is for

This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs. Irwine's face as she looked at

"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad

"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your prizeexcellent warm things for winter. I'm

Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gownwhich felt so hot and disagreeable too, on this July day,

and was such a great ugly thing to carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a

"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it had been something more to her taste."

"She's a boldlooking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at all one I should like to encourage."

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money before the day was over, that she

might buy something more to her mind; but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of

the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing down the odious bundle under a tree,

began to cryvery much tittered at the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her

discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just given the baby into her husband's

"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered

yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as

should ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep away from such foolery. Ye might spare

me a bit o' this grogram to make clothes for the ladye war ne'er illnatured, Bess; I ne'er said that on ye."

"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with a pettish movement, beginning to wipe away

"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said the disinterested cousin, walking quickly away

But that bonnycheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits that secured her from any rankling grief;

and by the time the grand climax of the donkeyrace came on, her disappointment was entirely lost in the

delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey by hisses, while the boys applied the

argument of sticks. But the strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the arguments

urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey

proved the firstrate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill just when the blows were

thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd, radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stonesawyer and the

fortunate rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stifflegged in the midst of its triumph.

Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made happy with a splendid pocketknife,

supplied with blades and gimlets enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned

from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be understood that Wiry Ben proposed to

amuse the company, before the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous

performancenamely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless borrowed; but this was to be

developed by the dancer in so peculiar and complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of

originality. Wiry Ben's pride in his dancingan accomplishment productive of great effect at the yearly

Wakehad needed only slightly elevating by an extra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry

would be very much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had been decidedly encouraged in

this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it was nothing but right to do something to please the young

squire, in return for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised at this opinion in so grave a

personage when you learn that Ben had requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt

quite sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music would make up for it. Adam Bede,

who was present in one of the large marquees, where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not

make a fool of himselfa remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: he was not going to let anything

"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it something you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the

clerk coming with his fiddle, and a smart fellow with a nosegay in his buttonhole."

"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to dance! It's one of the carpentersI forget

"It's Ben CranageWiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine; "rather a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I

see that fiddle scraping is too much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may rest

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst

into the "White Cockade," from which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of transitions

which his good ear really taught him to execute with some skill. It would have been an exasperating fact to

him, if he had known it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben's dancing for any one

Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps you have only seen a ballet rustic,

smiling like a merry countryman in crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements of

the head. That is as much like the real thing as the "Bird Waltz" is like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never

smiled: he looked as serious as a dancing monkeyas serious as if he had been an experimental philosopher

ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties of angularity that could be given to the

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur clapped his hands continually and

cried "Bravo!" But Ben had one admirer whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that

equalled his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy between his legs.

"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat to the music as if he was made o' clockwork. I

used to be a pretty good un at dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just to th' hair like

"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," returned Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper

story, or he'd niver come jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry to look at

"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser, who did not easily take an irritable view of

things. "But they're going away now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a bit, shall we, and see

what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking and things: I doubt he hasna had much fun."

ARTHUR had chosen the entrancehall for the ballroom: very wisely, for no other room could have heen so

airy, or would have had the advantage of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance

into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest to dance on, but then, most of the

dancers had known what it was to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those

entrancehalls which make the surrounding rooms look like closetswith stucco angels, trumpets, and

flowerwreaths on the lofty ceiling, and great medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating

with statues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with green boughs, and Mr. Craig had

been proud to show his taste and his hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase

were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were to stay till halfpast nine with the

servant maids to see the dancing, and as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there was abundant

room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in colouredpaper lamps, high up among green

boughs, and the farmers' wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more splendid;

they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with

some pity towards cousins and acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how things went

on in the great world. The lamps were already lit, though the sun had not long set, and there was that calm

light out of doors in which we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.

It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their families were moving about the lawn, among the

flowers and shrubs, or along the broad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of mossy grass

spread on each side, studded here and there with a dark flatboughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir

sweeping the ground with its branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of cottagers in the

park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being attracted towards the lights that were beginning to

gleam from the windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancingroom, and some of the

sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly. One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with

hernot from filial attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing. It had been rather a

melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been more constantly present with him than in this scene, where

everything was so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at the thoughtless faces and

gaycoloured dresses of the young womenjust as one feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured

Madonna the more when it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a bonnet. But this

presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear the better with his mother's mood, which had been

becoming more and more querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange conflict of

feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the

conflict with the jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her that Captain

Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall. Adam was getting more and more out of her reach;

she wished all the old troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother said and did.

"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not a five week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too,

"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was determined to be gentle to her today. "I

don't mean to danceI shall only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud look as if I

thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay. And thee know'st how he's behaved to me

"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right t' hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and

"Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go

home upo' that account: he won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing." He said this with some effort, for

"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do thatthe young squire 'ull be angered. Go an' do what thee't ordered to do,

an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. I know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked onan' who's to be prouder

on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an' doin' for thee all these 'ears?"

"Well, goodbye, then, Mothergoodbye, ladremember Gyp when you get home," said Adam, turning

away towards the gate of the pleasuregrounds, where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he

had been so occupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to Hetty. His eye soon

detected a distant group, which he knew to be the right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel

"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser, who was carrying Totty on his arm. "You're

going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope, now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o' partners,

an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi' you, an' she says no."

"Well, I didn't think o' dancing tonight," said Adam, already tempted to change his mind, as he looked at

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to night, all but th' old squire and Mrs.

Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us as Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young squire 'ull pick my

wife for his first partner, t' open the ball: so she'll be forced to dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the

Christmas afore the little un was born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine young fellow

"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin's nonsense, but if you stick at

everything because it's nonsense, you wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready made for you, you

"Then if Hetty 'ull d'ance with me," said Adam, yielding either to Mrs. Poyser's argument or to something

"I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll dance that with you, if you like."

"Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o'

nice partners to pick an' choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don't ask 'em."

Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do for him to dance with no one besides Hetty;

and remembering that Jonathan Burge had some reason to feel hurt today, he resolved to ask Miss Mary to

"There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must make haste in now, else the squire and the

When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly's charge had been seated on the stairs, the

foldingdoors of the drawingroom were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals, leading Mrs.

Irwine to a carpetcovered dais ornamented with hothouse plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be

seated with old Mr. Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings and queens in the

plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity

as if it had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection to gratify them in that way: his

The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the tenants and make polite speeches to the

wives: he was always polite; but the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was one of

the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser tonight,

inquiring particularly about her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as he did, and

avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with great self command, but when he had passed on,

she whispered to her husband, "I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old Harry doesna wag

his tail so for nothin'." Mr. Poyser had no time to answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm

come to request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser, you must let me take you to my

The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as Arthur led her to the top of the

room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and

good dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering himself that Miss Lydia had never

had a partner in HER life who could lift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours given

to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led

out Mrs. Britton. Mr. Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery, as he had agreed

with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less

distinguished couples had taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig, and Mary Burge

by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious countrydance, best of all dances, began.

Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick shoes would have been better than

any drums. That merry stamping, that gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the

handwhere can we see them now? That simple dancing of wellcovered matrons, laying aside for an hour

the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young

maidens by their sidethat holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little compliments to their wives,

as if their courting days were come againthose lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their

partners, having nothing to sayit would be a pleasant variety to see all that sometimes, instead of low

dresses and large skirts, and scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance: it was that he was always in close

contact with Luke Britton, that slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into his eye in

the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might

freeze the wrong person. So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.

How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at her today: now he must take her

hand. Would he press it? Would he look at her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling.

Now he was therehe had taken her hand yes, he was pressing it. Hetty turned pale as she looked up at

him for an instant and met his eyes, before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like

the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance and smile and joke all the same.

Hetty would look so, when he told her what he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear ithe

should be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean so much as he thought: it was only the

sign of a struggle between the desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the desire to

others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended her feelings. There are faces which nature charges

with a meaning and pathos not belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but speaking

the joys and sorrows of foregone generationseyes that tell of deep love which doubtless has been and is

somewhere, but not paired with these eyesperhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as a

national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that use it. That look of Hetty's oppressed

Arthur with a dread which yet had something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him too

well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt he would have given up three years of his

youth for the happiness of abandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty.

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser, who was panting with fatigue, and

secretly resolving that neither judge nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest in

the diningroom, where supper was laid out for the guests to come and take it as they chose.

"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir," said the good innocent woman; "for she's

so thoughtless, she'd be like enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to promise too

"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge. "Now, sit down in this comfortable chair, and

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be paid to the married women before

he asked any of the young ones; and the countrydances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the

At last the time had come for the fourth dancelonged for by the strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a

delicatehanded youth of eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love; and Adam

had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transient greetinghad never danced with her but once

before. His eyes had followed her eagerly tonight in spite of himself, and had taken in deeper draughts of

love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly; she did not seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than

usual; there was almost a sweet sadness about her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly; "I'd make her life a

happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a heart to love her, could do it."

And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from work, and drawing Hetty to his side,

and feeling her cheek softly pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and the tread of

feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of the wind, for what he knew.

But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and claim her hand. She was at the far end of

the hall near the staircase, whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her arms before

running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs. Poyser had taken the two boys away into the

diningroom to give them some cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly was to

"Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the children are so heavy when they're asleep."

Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing, was not at all a pleasant variety to her.

But this second transfer had the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child of her age

in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was in the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and

had not yet withdrawn her own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist at Adam's

arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads round Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from

her frock, and the next moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket scattered

"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam; "never mind the beads."

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had

fallen on the raised wooden dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked it up, he saw

the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not

"It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to take it because both her hands were

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who had been pale and was now red.

"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened about it. I'll hold it till you're ready to take

it," he added, quietly closing his hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it again.

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she had taken Totty, Adam placed the

locket in Hetty's hand. She took it with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexed and

angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determined now that she would show no more signs of agitation.

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. Had Hetty a lover he didn't know of?

For none of her relations, he was sure, would give her a locket like that; and none of her admirers, with whom

he was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the giver of that locket must be. Adam was

lost in the utter impossibility of finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel with a terrible

pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to him; that while he had been rocking himself in the

hope that she would come to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the dance with Hetty

was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of

nothing to say to her; and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They were both glad when the

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no one would notice if he slipped away. As

soon as he got out of doors, he began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowing

why, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so full of honour and promise to him, was

poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when he was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of

reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery out of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she

was, might have bought the thing herself. It looked too expensive for thatit looked like the things on white

satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam had very imperfect notions of the value of such

things, and he thought it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as much as that

in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might have been childish enough to spend it in that

way; she was such a young thing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why had she been so

frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards pretended not to care? Oh, that was because

she was ashamed of his seeing that she had such a smart thingshe was conscious that it was wrong for her

to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam disapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what

he liked and disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards that he was very much

displeased with her, that he was inclined to be harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on

more quietly, chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had behaved in a way which

might chill Hetty's feeling towards him. For this last view of the matter must be the true one. How could

Hetty have an accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her uncle's house for more

than a day; she could have no acquaintances that did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle

and aunt. It would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover. The little ring of dark hair he

felt sure was her own; he could form no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very

distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or mother's, who had died when she was a child, and she would

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious web of probabilitiesthe

surest screen a wise man can place between himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a

dream that he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to forgive him for being so

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the dance and saying to her in low hurried

tones, "I shall be in the wood the day after tomorrow at seven; come as early as you can." And Hetty's

foolish joys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a mere nothing, now all came

fluttering back, unconscious of the real peril. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished that

dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man

never lies with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself

But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind was filled with dreary forebodings as to

the retardation of tomorrow morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had done

her duty and danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poyser must go out and see if the cart was come

back to fetch them, for it was halfpast ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part that it

would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser was resolute on the point, "manners or no

"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as she came to curtsy and take leave; "I

thought we should not part with any of our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think

"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up by candlelightthey've got no cheese

on their minds. We're late enough as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want to be

milked so early tomorrow mornin'. So, if you'll please t' excuse us, we'll take our leave."

"Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd sooner ha' brewin' day and washin' day together

than one o' these pleasurin' days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin'

what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' marketday for fear people

shouldna think you civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if it isn't a yallow face wi'

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that he had had a great day, "a bit o'

pleasuring's good for thee sometimes. An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll back thee against all the

wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a great honour for the young squire to ask thee firstI

reckon it was because I sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty tooshe never had such a

partner beforea fine young gentleman in reg'mentals. It'll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old

IT was beyond the middle of Augustnearly three weeks after the birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat

had begun in our north midland county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retarded by the

heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damage throughout the country. From this last trouble

the Broxton and Hayslope farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brookwatered valleys, had not

suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such exceptional farmers as to love the general good better

than their own, you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapid rise in the price of bread,

so long as there was hope of gathering in their own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and

The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine looked brighter in all eyes for the gloom

that went before. Grand masses of cloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind the

Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a moment, and then shone out warm

again like a recovered joy; the leaves, still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around the

farmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the orchards; and the stray horses on the

green sides of the lanes and on the common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind

seemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A merry day for the children, who ran

and shouted to see if they could top the wind with their voices; and the grownup people too were in good

spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind had fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough

And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it be true that Nature at certain

moments seems charged with a presentiment of one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems

unmindful unconscious of another? For there is no hour that has not its births of gladness and despair, no

morning brightness that does not bring new sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love.

There are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that Nature's mood is often in harsh

contrast with the great crisis of our lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as such children

do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much ofto be content with little nurture and caressing, and

It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work, for he was continuing to act as

foreman for Jonathan Burge, until some satisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan

was slow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for his hopes were buoyant again

about Hetty. Every time she had seen him since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all

the more kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgiven his silence and coldness during

the dance. He had never mentioned the locket to her again; too happy that she smiled at himstill happier

because he observed in her a more subdued air, something that he interpreted as the growth of womanly

tenderness and seriousness. "Ah!" he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll be thoughtful

enough after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at the work. She'll make a wife as Mother'll

have no occasion to grumble at, after all." To be sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the birthday;

for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to the Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of

upper servants from the Chase and had gone home with themalmost as if she were inclined to encourage

Mr. Craig. "She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house keeper's room," Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For

my part, I was never overfond o' gentlefolks's servantsthey're mostly like the fine ladies' fat dogs, nayther

good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show." And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to

buy some things; though, to his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at a distance getting over

a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But, when he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to

go in again when he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther into the fields after coming

from Treddleston because she didn't want to go in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt

always made such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in with me!" she said, as he was

going to shake hands with her at the gate, and he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was

contented with only a slight remark on Hetty's being later than was expected; while Hetty, who had looked

out of spirits when he met her, smiled and talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.

That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure for going to the Farm tomorrow.

Today, he knew, was her day for going to the Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he would get as much

One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs at the Chase Farm, which had been

hitherto occupied by Satchell, as bailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going to let to

a smart man in topboots, who had been seen to ride over it one day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant

could account for the squire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturdayevening party at Mr. Casson's agreed

over their pipes that no man in his senses would take the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland

laid to it. However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with all dispatch, and Adam, acting

for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order with his usual energy. But today, having been occupied

elsewhere, he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the afternoon, and he then discovered

that some old roofing, which he had calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to

be done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and Adam immediately saw in his mind a

plan for building it up again, so as to make the most convenient of cowsheds and calfpens, with a hovel for

implements; and all without any great expense for materials. So, when the workmen were gone, he sat down,

took out his pocketbook, and busied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of the

expenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set him on persuading the squire to consent.

To "make a good job" of anything, however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block,

with his book resting on a planingtable, whistling low every now and then and turning his head on one side

with a just perceptible smile of gratificationof pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he loved

also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the only people who are free from that weakness are those who have no

work to call their own. It was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; and on giving a

last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been working here today, had left his basket of tools behind

him. "Why, th' lad's forgot his tools," thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shop to morrow. There

never was such a chap for woolgathering; he'd leave his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it's

The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase, at about ten minutes' walking distance

from the Abbey. Adam had come thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nag on his

way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come to look at the captain's new horse, on

which he was to ride away the day after tomorrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servants

were to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire luck as he rode out; so that by the time

Adam had got into the Chase, and was striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the sun was

on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays among the great trunks of the old oaks, and

touching every bare patch of ground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt upon the grass.

The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze to stir the delicatestemmed leaves. Any one

who had been sitting in the house all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite

enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought himself that he might do so by

striking across the Chase and going through the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on

across the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with Gyp at his heels, not lingering to

watch the magnificent changes of the lighthardly once thinking of ityet feeling its presence in a certain

calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy workingday thoughts. How could he help feeling it? The

Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said about Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his

going away, and the changes that might take place before he came back; then they travelled back

affectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt on Arthur's good qualities, which

Adam had a pride in, as we all have in the virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, with

a great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of its happiness on what it can believe and feel

about others! And he had no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the past; he must

find the beings to whom he could cling with loving admiration among those who came within speech of him.

These pleasant thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his keen rough face:

perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to

After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path through the Grove. What grand beeches!

Adam delighted in a fine tree of all things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam's

perceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. He kept them in his memory, as a painter

does, with all the flecks and knots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and had often

calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood looking at it. No wonder that,

notwithstanding his desire to get on, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech which he had

seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince himself that it was not two trees wedded

together, but only one. For the rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examining the

beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where his youth was passed, before the road turned,

and he saw it no more. The beech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of boughs

that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two

He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The two figures were standing opposite to

each other, with clasped hands about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been

running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave a sharp bark. They separated with a

startone hurried through the gate out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with a sort

of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale, clutching tighter the stick with which he held

the basket of tools over his shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in which amazement

Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make unpleasant feelings more bearable by

drinking a little more wine than usual at dinner today, and was still enough under its flattering influence to

think more lightly of this unwishedfor rencontre with Adam than he would otherwise have done. After all,

Adam was the best person who could have happened to see him and Hetty togetherhe was a sensible

fellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur felt confident that he could laugh the thing off

and explain it away. And so he sauntered forward with elaborate carelessnesshis flushed face, his evening

dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands halfthrust into his waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the

strange evening light which the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now shedding down

Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood it all nowthe locket and

everything else that had been doubtful to him: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters that

changed the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like

a tiger; and in the conflicting emotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he would not

give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing. He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but the

"Well, Adam," said Arthur, "you've been looking at the fine old beeches, eh? They're not to be come near by

the hatchet, though; this is a sacred grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my

denthe Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late. So I took care of her to the gate,

and asked for a kiss for my pains. But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly damp. Goodnight,

Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself to be thoroughly aware of the

expression in Adam's face. He did not look directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and

then lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no morehe had thrown quite dust

"Stop a bit, sir," said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without turning round. "I've got a word to say to

Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected by a change of tone than by unexpected

words, and Arthur had the susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was still more surprised

when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his back to him, as if summoning him to return. What

did he mean? He was going to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper rising. A

patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in the confusion of his irritation and alarm there

entered the feeling that a man to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position to

criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels himself in the wrong always is, by the man

whose good opinion he cares for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation as anger in his

"I mean, sir"answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without turning round"I mean, sir, that you

don't deceive me by your light words. This is not the first time you've met Hetty Sorrel in this grove, and this

Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from knowledge, and how far from mere

inference. And this uncertainty, which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened his

"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man we've all believed you to be, you've been

acting the part of a selfish lightminded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it's to lead to when a

gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman like Hetty, and gives her presents as she's

frightened for other folks to see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfish lightminded scoundrel

though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'd rather ha' lost my right hand."

"Let me tell you, Adam," said Arthur, bridling his growing anger and trying to recur to his careless tone,

"you're not only devilishly impertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such a fool as

you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty and pays her a little attention, he must mean

something particular. Every man likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to be flirted with.

The wider the distance between them, the less harm there is, for then she's not likely to deceive herself."

"I don't know what you mean by flirting," said Adam, "but if you mean behaving to a woman as if you loved

her, and yet not loving her all the while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man, and what isn't honest does

come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and you're not a fool, and you know better than what you're saying. You know it

couldn't be made public as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done without her losing her character and

bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. What if you meant nothing by your kissing and your

presents? Other folks won't believe as you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not deceiving

herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the thought of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and

Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceived that Adam had no positive knowledge

of the past, and that there was no irrevocable damage done by this evening's unfortunate rencontre. Adam

could still be deceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into a position in which successful lying was

"Well, Adam," he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're perhaps right. Perhaps I've gone a little too

far in taking notice of the pretty little thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You're such a grave, steady

fellow, you don't understand the temptation to such trifling. I'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or

annoyance on her and the good Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a little too

seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan't make any more mistakes of the kind. But

let us say goodnight"Arthur here turned round to walk on"and talk no more about the matter. The

"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no longer, throwing down the basket of

tools and striding forward till he was right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personal injury,

which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up and mastered him. What man of us, in the

first moments of a sharp agony, could ever feel that the fellow man who has been the medium of inflicting it

did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebellion against pain, we are children again, and demand an active

will to wreak our vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had been robbed of Hetty

robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had trustedand he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce

eyes glaring at him, with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he had hitherto been

constraining himself to express no more than a just indignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that

"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me, when she might ha' loved meit'll not

soon be forgot as you've robbed me o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and a

nobleminded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've been kissing her, and meaning nothing, have

you? And I never kissed her i' my lifebut I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. And you

make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage other folks, so as you get your bit o' trifling, as

means nothing. I throw back your favours, for you're not the man I took you for. I'll never count you my

friend any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, and fight me where I standit's all th' amends you can

Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began to throw off his coat and his cap, too blind

with passion to notice the change that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur's lips were

now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating violently. The discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock

which made him for the moment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's suffering

as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error. The words of hatred and contemptthe first he had

ever heard in his lifeseemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars on him. All

screening selfexcuse, which rarely falls quite away while others respect us, forsook him for an instant, and

he stood face to face with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was only twentyone,

and three months agonay, much laterhe had thought proudly that no man should ever be able to

reproach him justly. His first impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been to utter words of

propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his coat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was

standing pale and motionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.

"What!" he said, "won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't strike you while you stand so."

"No," said Adam, bitterly; "you don't want to fight meyou think I'm a common man, as you can injure

"I never meant to injure you," said Arthur, with returning anger. "I didn't know you loved her."

"But you've made her love you," said Adam. "You're a doublefaced manI'll never believe a word you say

"No," said Adam, with a convulsed voice, "I swear I won't go away without fighting you. Do you want

provoking any more? I tell you you're a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you."

The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his right hand was clenched, and dealt a blow

like lightning, which sent Adam staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam's now, and

the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, fought with the instinctive fierceness of panthers

in the deepening twilight darkened by the trees. The delicatehanded gentleman was a match for the

workman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him to protract the struggle for some long

moments. But between unarmed men the battle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur

must sink under a wellplanted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken by an iron bar. The blow soon came,

and Arthur fell, his head lying concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darkly clad

The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all the force of nerve and muscleand

what was the good of it? What had he done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his

own vengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the pastthere it was, just as it had been, and he

But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the time seemed long to Adam. Good God!

had the blow been too much for him? Adam shuddered at the thought of his own strength, as with the

oncoming of this dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted his head from among the fern. There was no

sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. The horror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and

forced upon him its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's face, and that he was

helpless before it. He made not a single movement, but knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of

IT was only a few minutes measured by the clockthough Adam always thought it had been a long

whilebefore he perceived a gleam of consciousness in Arthur's face and a slight shiver through his frame.

The intense joy that flooded his soul brought back some of the old affection with it.

Arthur turned his eyes on Adam with a vague stare which gave way to a slightly startled motion as if from the

Arthur put his hand up to his waistcoat buttons, and when Adam had unbuttoned it, he took a longer breath.

Adam laid the head down gently on the fern again, and emptying the tools out of the flagbasket, hurried

through the trees to the edge of the Grove bordering on the Chase, where a brook ran below the bank.

When he returned with his basket leaking, but still halffull, Arthur looked at him with a more thoroughly

"Can you drink a drop out o' your hand, sir?" said Adam, kneeling down again to lift up Arthur's head.

The water seemed to do him some good, for he presently raised himself a little higher, resting on Adam's arm.

"I feel terribly shaky and dizzy," Arthur said, as he stood leaning on Adam's arm; "that blow of yours must

"Lean on me, sir; I'll get you along," said Adam. "Or, will you sit down a bit longer, on my coat here, and I'll

"No," said Arthur. "I'll go to the HermitageI think I've got some brandy there. There's a short road to it a

They walked slowly, with frequent pauses, but without speaking again. In both of them, the concentration in

the present which had attended the first moments of Arthur's revival had now given way to a vivid

recollection of the previous scene. It was nearly dark in the narrow path among the trees, but within the circle

of firtrees round the Hermitage there was room for the growing moonlight to enter in at the windows. Their

steps were noiseless on the thick carpet of firneedles, and the outward stillness seemed to heighten their

inward consciousness, as Arthur took the key out of his pocket and placed it in Adam's hand, for him to open

the door. Adam had not known before that Arthur had furnished the old Hermitage and made it a retreat for

himself, and it was a surprise to him when he opened the door to see a snug room with all the signs of

Arthur loosed Adam's arm and threw himself on the ottoman. "You'll see my huntingbottle somewhere," he

Adam was not long in finding the case. "There's very little brandy in it, sir," he said, turning it downwards

"Well, give me that," said Arthur, with the peevishness of physical depression. When he had taken some sips,

Adam said, "Hadn't I better run to th' house, sir, and get some more brandy? I can be there and back pretty

soon. It'll be a stiff walk home for you, if you don't have something to revive you."

"Yesgo. But don't say I'm ill. Ask for my man Pym, and tell him to get it from Mills, and not to say I'm at

Adam was relieved to have an active taskboth of them were relieved to be apart from each other for a short

time. But Adam's swift pace could not still the eager pain of thinkingof living again with concentrated

suffering through the last wretched hour, and looking out from it over all the new sad future.

Arthur lay still for some minutes after Adam was gone, but presently he rose feebly from the ottoman and

peered about slowly in the broken moonlight, seeking something. It was a short bit of wax candle that stood

amongst a confusion of writing and drawing materials. There was more searching for the means of lighting

the candle, and when that was done, he went cautiously round the room, as if wishing to assure himself of the

presence or absence of something. At last he had found a slight thing, which he put first in his pocket, and

then, on a second thought, took out again and thrust deep down into a wastepaper basket. It was a woman's

little, pink, silk neckerchief. He set the candle on the table, and threw himself down on the ottoman again,

"I'm glad to see you've got a light, sir," said Adam. "I've been thinking I'd better have asked for a lanthorn."

"No, no; the candle will last long enoughI shall soon be up to walking home now."

Adam sat down, and they remained opposite to each other in uneasy silence, while Arthur slowly drank

brandyandwater, with visibly renovating effect. He began to lie in a more voluntary position, and looked

as if he were less overpowered by bodily sensations. Adam was keenly alive to these indications, and as his

anxiety about Arthur's condition began to be allayed, he felt more of that impatience which every one knows

who has had his just indignation suspended by the physical state of the culprit. Yet there was one thing on his

mind to be done before he could recur to remonstrance: it was to confess what had been unjust in his own

words. Perhaps he longed all the more to make this confession, that his indignation might be free again; and

as he saw the signs of returning ease in Arthur, the words again and again came to his lips and went back,

checked by the thought that it would be better to leave everything till tomorrow. As long as they were silent

they did not look at each other, and a foreboding came across Adam that if they began to speak as though

they remembered the pastif they looked at each other with full recognitionthey must take fire again. So

they sat in silence till the bit of wax candle flickered low in the socket, the silence all the while becoming

more irksome to Adam. Arthur had just poured out some more brandyandwater, and he threw one arm

behind his head and drew up one leg in an attitude of recovered ease, which was an irresistible temptation to

"You begin to feel more yourself again, sir," he said, as the candle went out and they were halfhidden from

"Yes: I don't feel good for muchvery lazy, and not inclined to move; but I'll go home when I've taken this

There was a slight pause before Adam said, "My temper got the better of me, and I said things as wasn't true.

I'd no right to speak as if you'd known you was doing me an injury: you'd no grounds for knowing it; I've

"And perhaps I judged you too harshI'm apt to be harshand you may have acted out o' thoughtlessness

more than I should ha' believed was possible for a man with a heart and a conscience. We're not all put

together alike, and we may misjudge one another. God knows, it's all the joy I could have now, to think the

Arthur wanted to go home without saying any morehe was too painfully embarrassed in mind, as well as

too weak in body, to wish for any further explanation tonight. And yet it was a relief to him that Adam

reopened the subject in a way the least difficult for him to answer. Arthur was in the wretched position of an

open, generous man who has committed an error which makes deception seem a necessity. The native

impulse to give truth in return for truth, to meet trust with frank confession, must be suppressed, and duty was

becoming a question of tactics. His deed was reacting upon himwas already governing him tyrannously

and forcing him into a course that jarred with his habitual feelings. The only aim that seemed admissible to

him now was to deceive Adam to the utmost: to make Adam think better of him than he deserved. And when

he heard the words of honest retractationwhen he heard the sad appeal with which Adam endedhe was

obliged to rejoice in the remains of ignorant confidence it implied. He did not answer immediately, for he had

"Say no more about our anger, Adam," he said, at last, very languidly, for the labour of speech was

unwelcome to him; "I forgive your momentary injusticeit was quite natural, with the exaggerated notions

you had in your mind. We shall be none the worse friends in future, I hope, because we've fought. You had

the best of it, and that was as it should be, for I believe I've been most in the wrong of the two. Come, let us

"I don't like to say 'No' to that, sir," he said, "but I can't shake hands till it's clear what we mean by't. I was

wrong when I spoke as if you'd done me an injury knowingly, but I wasn't wrong in what I said before, about

your behaviour t' Hetty, and I can't shake hands with you as if I held you my friend the same as ever till

Arthur swallowed his pride and resentment as he drew back his hand. He was silent for some moments, and

then said, as indifferently as he could, "I don't know what you mean by clearing up, Adam. I've told you

already that you think too seriously of a little flirtation. But if you are right in supposing there is any danger

in itI'm going away on Saturday, and there will be an end of it. As for the pain it has given you, I'm

Adam said nothing, but rose from his chair and stood with his face towards one of the windows, as if looking

at the blackness of the moonlit firtrees; but he was in reality conscious of nothing but the conflict within

him. It was of no use nowhis resolution not to speak till tomorrow. He must speak there and then. But it

was several minutes before he turned round and stepped nearer to Arthur, standing and looking down on him

"It'll be better for me to speak plain," he said, with evident effort, "though it's hard work. You see, sir, this

isn't a trifle to me, whatever it may be to you. I'm none o' them men as can go making love first to one

woman and then t' another, and don't think it much odds which of 'em I take. What I feel for Hetty's a

different sort o' love, such as I believe nobody can know much about but them as feel it and God as has given

it to 'em. She's more nor everything else to me, all but my conscience and my good name. And if it's true

what you've been saying all alongand if it's only been trifling and flirting as you call it, as 'll be put an end

to by your going awaywhy, then, I'd wait, and hope her heart 'ud turn to me after all. I'm loath to think

"You would be wronging Hetty more than me not to believe it," said Arthur, almost violently, starting up

from the ottoman and moving away. But he threw himself into a chair again directly, saying, more feebly,

"You seem to forget that, in suspecting me, you are casting imputations upon her."

"Nay, sir," Adam said, in a calmer voice, as if he were half relievedfor he was too straightforward to

make a distinction between a direct falsehood and an indirect one"Nay, sir, things don't lie level between

Hetty and you. You're acting with your eyes open, whatever you may do; but how do you know what's been

in her mind? She's all but a childas any man with a conscience in him ought to feel bound to take care on.

And whatever you may think, I know you've disturbed her mind. I know she's been fixing her heart on you,

for there's a many things clear to me now as I didn't understand before. But you seem to make light o' what

"Good God, Adam, let me alone!" Arthur burst out impetuously; "I feel it enough without your worrying me."

"Well, then, if you feel it," Adam rejoined, eagerly; "if you feel as you may ha' put false notions into her

mind, and made her believe as you loved her, when all the while you meant nothing, I've this demand to

make of youI'm not speaking for myself, but for her. I ask you t' undeceive her before you go away.

Y'aren't going away for ever, and if you leave her behind with a notion in her head o' your feeling about her

the same as she feels about you, she'll be hankering after you, and the mischief may get worse. It may be a

smart to her now, but it'll save her pain i' th' end. I ask you to write a letteryou may trust to my seeing as

she gets it. Tell her the truth, and take blame to yourself for behaving as you'd no right to do to a young

woman as isn't your equal. I speak plain, sir, but I can't speak any other way. There's nobody can take care o'

"I can do what I think needful in the matter," said Arthur, more and more irritated by mingled distress and

perplexity, "without giving promises to you. I shall take what measures I think proper."

"No," said Adam, in an abrupt decided tone, "that won't do. I must know what ground I'm treading on. I must

be safe as you've put an end to what ought never to ha' been begun. I don't forget what's owing to you as a

There was no answer for some moments. Then Arthur said, "I'll see you tomorrow. I can bear no more now;

"You won't see her again!" Adam exclaimed, with a flash of recurring anger and suspicion, moving towards

the door and placing his back against it. "Either tell me she can never be my wife tell me you've been

Adam, uttering this alternative, stood like a terrible fate before Arthur, who had moved forward a step or two,

and now stopped, faint, shaken, sick in mind and body. It seemed long to both of themthat inward struggle

Adam moved away from the door and opened it, but when Arthur reached the step, he stopped again and

Arthur made no answer, and presently walked on, Adam following. But, after a few steps, he stood still again,

and said, coldly, "I believe I must trouble you. It's getting late now, and there may be an alarm set up about

Adam gave his arm, and they walked on without uttering a word, till they came where the basket and the

"I must pick up the tools, sir," Adam said. "They're my brother's. I doubt they'll be rusted. If you'll please to

Arthur stood still without speaking, and no other word passed between them till they were at the side

entrance, where he hoped to get in without being seen by any one. He said then, "Thank you; I needn't trouble

"You may send me word that you're here at five o'clock," said Arthur; "not before."

"Goodnight, sir," said Adam. But he heard no reply; Arthur had turned into the house.

ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleep comes to the perplexedif the

perplexed are only weary enough. But at seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was

"And see that my mare is saddled at halfpast eight, and tell my grandfather when he's down that I'm better

He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our yesterdays are too oppressive: if a

man can only get up, though it be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some resistance to

the pastsensations which assert themselves against tyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as

taking averages of feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting seasons regret,

selfreproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter on country gentlemen than in late spring and summer.

Arthur felt that he should be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting on him with the

usual deference, was a reassurance to him after the scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to

opinion, the loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his selfcontentment which suffused his imagination with

the sense that he had sunk in all eyesas a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous

woman afraid even to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense of danger.

Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as easy to him as a bad habit: they were

the common issue of his weaknesses and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn't like to

witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the giver of pleasure. When he was a lad

of seven, he one day kicked down an old gardener's pitcher of broth, from no motive but a kicking impulse,

not reflecting that it was the old man's dinner; but on learning that sad fact, he took his favourite pencilcase

and a silverhafted knife out of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the same Arthur

ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits. If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could

only show itself against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the time was come for

some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment, Arthur had felt pure distress and selfreproach at

discovering that Adam's happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there had been a possibility of

making Adam tenfold amendsif deeds of gift, or any other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment

and regard for him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them without hesitation, but would

have felt bound all the more closely to Adam, and would never have been weary of making retribution. But

Adam could receive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and affection could not be

recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure

could avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing inthe irrevocableness of his own

wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last

conversation in the Hermitageabove all, the sense of having been knocked down, to which a man does not

very well reconcile himself, even under the most heroic circumstancespressed on him with a galling pain

which was stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himself that he had done no

harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can

seldom forge a sword for herself out of our consciencesout of the suffering we feel in the suffering we may

have caused: there is rarely metal enough there to make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the

manners of good society and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person gives rough names to our

actions, she is apt to take part against us. And so it was with Arthur: Adam's judgment of him, Adam's grating

Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam's discovery. Struggles and resolves had transformed

themselves into compunction and anxiety. He was distressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed for his own, that

he must leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breaking resolutions, looked beyond his

passion and seen that it must speedily end in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not

to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled with uneasiness. He had found out the dream in

which she was livingthat she was to be a lady in silks and satinsand when he had first talked to her

about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go with him and be married. It was his painful

knowledge of this which had given the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had said no word

with the purpose of deceiving herher vision was all spun by her own childish fancybut he was obliged

to confess to himself that it was spun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on this last

evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had been obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful

words, lest he should throw her into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the sorrow of the dear

thing in the present, and thought with a darker anxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the

future. That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he could evade by hopeful

selfpersuasion. The whole thing had been secret; the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one,

except Adam, knew anything of what had passedno one else was likely to know; for Arthur had impressed

on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word or look, that there had been the least intimacy between

them; and Adam, who knew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betray it. It was an

unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use in making it worse than it was by imaginary

exaggerations and forebodings of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was the worst

consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad consequence that was not demonstrably

inevitable. Butbut Hetty might have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps hereafter

he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to her for all the tears she would shed about him. She

would owe the advantage of his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had incurred now. So good

Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two months ago, had that freshness of

feeling, that delicate honour which shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate any

more positive offence as possible for it?who thought that his own selfrespect was a higher tribunal than

any external opinion? The same, I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us, as

much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or will be the peculiar combination of

outward with inward facts, which constitutes a man's critical actions, it will be better not to think ourselves

wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in our deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a

deceiver and then reconcile him to the change, for this reasonthat the second wrong presents itself to him

in the guise of the only practicable right. The action which before commission has been seen with that

blended common sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the soul, is looked at

afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity, through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are

seen to be made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a fait accompli, and so does an

individual characteruntil the placid adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.

No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own sentiment of right, and the effect was

the stronger in Arthur because of that very need of selfrespect which, while his conscience was still at ease,

was one of his best safeguards. Selfaccusation was too painful to himhe could not face it. He must

persuade himself that he had not been very much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity he

was under of deceiving Adamit was a course so opposed to the honesty of his own nature. But then, it was

Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in consequence: miserable about Hetty;

miserable about this letter that he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross

barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her. And across all this reflection would

dart every now and then a sudden impulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carry

In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable prison to him; they seemed to hem in and

press down upon him all the crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which would

fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up his mind in, and he must get clear and calm.

Once on Meg's back, in the fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the situation.

The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the gravel, and trembled with pleasure

when her master stroked her nose, and patted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing tone than usual.

He loved her the better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But Meg was quite as well acquainted with

her master's mental state as many others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlemen

Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the foot of a hill where there were no hedges

or trees to hem in the road. Then he threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepared to make up his mind.

Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur went awaythere was no possibility

of their contriving another without exciting suspicionand she was like a frightened child, unable to think of

anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put her face up to have the tears kissed away.

He could do nothing but comfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a dreadfully abrupt

way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam saidthat it would save her from a lengthened

delusion, which might be worse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfying Adam,

who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have seen her again! But that was impossible;

there was such a thorny hedge of hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet, if he

COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him to suffer more from the sight of her distress

and the remembrance of it. Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives to selfcontrol.

A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imaginationthe dread lest she should do something

violent in her grief; and close upon that dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them

off with the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the future in that dark way? It was

just as likely to be the reverse. Arthur told himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. He

had never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved; he had been led on by circumstances.

There was a sort of implicit confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom, Providence

At all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could do was to take what seemed the best

course at the present moment. And he persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open between

Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a while; and in that case there would

have been no great harm done, since it was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam

was deceiveddeceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as a deep wrong if it had been practised

on himself. That was a reflection that marred the consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in mingled

shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in such a dilemma? He was bound in honour to

say no word that could injure Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told or acted a lie

on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was to have brought himself into such a dilemma;

and yet, if ever a man had excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses but by

Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised a solution of the difficulty. The tears

came into Arthur's eyes as he thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him to write it;

he was not doing anything easy to himself; and this last thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He

could never deliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left himself at ease. Even a

movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up Hetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a

When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set off home again in a canter. The

letter should be written the first thing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business: he

should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine were coming to dinner, and by twelve

o'clock the next day he should have left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this constant

occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad

proposition that would undo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every slight sign from

"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night," said sour old John, the groom, at dinnertime in

the servants' hall. "He's been ridin' fit to split the mare i' two this forenoon."

Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been relieved from all anxiety about the

effects of his blow by learning that he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was punctually there again,

and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down with a letter in his hand and gave it to

Adam, saying that the captain was too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say. The letter

was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again before opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure

"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it to you to decide whether you will be

doing best to deliver it to Hetty or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not taking a

"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meet with better feelings some months

"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me," thought Adam. "It's no use meeting to say more hard words, and

it's no use meeting to shake hands and say we're friends again. We're not friends, an' it's better not to pretend

it. I know forgiveness is a man's duty, but, to my thinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all

thoughts o' taking revenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old feelings back again, for that's not

possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can't feel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know

whether I feel the same towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a false line, and had

But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed Adam's thoughts. Arthur had procured

some relief to himself by throwing the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to

hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his wayto ascertain as well as he could what was Hetty's

THE next Sunday Adam joined the Poysers on their way out of church, hoping for an invitation to go home

with them. He had the letter in his pocket, and was anxious to have an opportunity of talking to Hetty alone.

He could not see her face at church, for she had changed her seat, and when he came up to her to shake

hands, her manner was doubtful and constrained. He expected this, for it was the first time she had met him

"Come, you'll go on with us, Adam," Mr. Poyser said when they reached the turning; and as soon as they

were in the fields Adam ventured to offer his arm to Hetty. The children soon gave them an opportunity of

"Will you contrive for me to walk out in the garden a bit with you this evening, if it keeps fine, Hetty? I've

Hetty said, "Very well." She was really as anxious as Adam was that she should have some private talk with

him. She wondered what he thought of her and Arthur. He must have seen them kissing, she knew, but she

had no conception of the scene that had taken place between Arthur and Adam. Her first feeling had been that

Adam would be very angry with her, and perhaps would tell her aunt and uncle, but it never entered her mind

that he would dare to say anything to Captain Donnithorne. It was a relief to her that he behaved so kindly to

her today, and wanted to speak to her alone, for she had trembled when she found he was going home with

them lest he should mean "to tell." But, now he wanted to talk to her by herself, she should learn what he

thought and what he meant to do. She felt a certain confidence that she could persuade him not to do anything

she did not want him to do; she could perhaps even make him believe that she didn't care for Arthur; and as

long as Adam thought there was any hope of her having him, he would do just what she liked, she knew.

Besides, she MUST go on seeming to encourage Adam, lest her uncle and aunt should be angry and suspect

Hetty's little brain was busy with this combination as she hung on Adam's arm and said "yes" or "no" to some

slight observations of his about the many hawthornberries there would be for the birds this next winter, and

the lowhanging clouds that would hardly hold up till morning. And when they rejoined her aunt and uncle,

she could pursue her thoughts without interruption, for Mr. Poyser held that though a young man might like

to have the woman he was courting on his arm, he would nevertheless be glad of a little reasonable talk about

business the while; and, for his own part, he was curious to heal the most recent news about the Chase Farm.

So, through the rest of the walk, he claimed Adam's conversation for himself, and Hetty laid her small plots

and imagined her little scenes of cunning blandishment, as she walked along by the hedgerows on honest

Adam's arm, quite as well as if she had been an elegantly clad coquette alone in her boudoir. For if a country

beauty in clumsy shoes be only shallowhearted enough, it is astonishing how closely her mental processes

may resemble those of a lady in society and crinoline, who applies her refined intellect to the problem of

committing indiscretions without compromising herself. Perhaps the resemblance was not much the less

because Hetty felt very unhappy all the while. The parting with Arthur was a double pain to hermingling

with the tumult of passion and vanity there was a dim undefined fear that the future might shape itself in

some way quite unlike her dream. She clung to the comforting hopeful words Arthur had uttered in their last

meeting "I shall come again at Christmas, and then we will see what can be done." She clung to the belief

that he was so fond of her, he would never be happy without her; and she still hugged her secret that a

great gentleman loved herwith gratified pride, as a superiority over all the girls she knew. But the

uncertainty of the future, the possibilities to which she could give no shape, began to press upon her like the

invisible weight of air; she was alone on her little island of dreams, and all around her was the dark unknown

water where Arthur was gone. She could gather no elation of spirits now by looking forward, but only by

looking backward to build confidence on past words and caresses. But occasionally, since Thursday evening,

her dim anxieties had been almost lost behind the more definite fear that Adam might betray what he knew to

her uncle and aunt, and his sudden proposition to talk with her alone had set her thoughts to work in a new

way. She was eager not to lose this evening's opportunity; and after tea, when the boys were going into the

garden and Totty begged to go with them, Hetty said, with an alacrity that surprised Mrs. Poyser, "I'll go with

It did not seem at all surprising that Adam said he would go too, and soon he and Hetty were left alone

together on the walk by the filberttrees, while the boys were busy elsewhere gathering the large unripe nuts

to play at "cobnut" with, and Totty was watching them with a puppylike air of contemplation. It was but a

short timehardly two monthssince Adam had had his mind filled with delicious hopes as he stood by

Hetty's side un this garden. The remembrance of that scene had often been with him since Thursday evening:

the sunlight through the appletree boughs, the red bunches, Hetty's sweet blush. It came importunately now,

on this sad evening, with the lowhanging clouds, but he tried to suppress it, lest some emotion should impel

"After what I saw on Thursday night, Hetty," he began, "you won't think me making too free in what I'm

going to say. If you was being courted by any man as 'ud make you his wife, and I'd known you was fond of

him and meant to have him, I should have no right to speak a word to you about it; but when I see you're

being made love to by a gentleman as can never marry you, and doesna think o' marrying you, I feel bound t'

interfere for you. I can't speak about it to them as are i' the place o' your parents, for that might bring worse

Adam's words relieved one of Hetty's fears, but they also carried a meaning which sickened her with a

strengthened foreboding. She was pale and trembling, and yet she would have angrily contradicted Adam, if

"You're so young, you know, Hetty," he went on, almost tenderly, "and y' haven't seen much o' what goes on

in the world. It's right for me to do what I can to save you from getting into trouble for want o' your knowing

where you're being led to. If anybody besides me knew what I know about your meeting a gentleman and

having fine presents from him, they'd speak light on you, and you'd lose your character. And besides that,

you'll have to suffer in your feelings, wi' giving your love to a man as can never marry you, so as he might

Adam paused and looked at Hetty, who was plucking the leaves from the filberttrees and tearing them up in

her hand. Her little plans and preconcerted speeches had all forsaken her, like an ill learnt lesson, under the

terrible agitation produced by Adam's words. There was a cruel force in their calm certainty which threatened

to grapple and crush her flimsy hopes and fancies. She wanted to resist themshe wanted to throw them off

with angry contradictionbut the determination to conceal what she felt still governed her. It was nothing

more than a blind prompting now, for she was unable to calculate the effect of her words.

"You've no right to say as I love him," she said, faintly, but impetuously, plucking another rough leaf and

tearing it up. She was very beautiful in her paleness and agitation, with her dark childish eyes dilated and her

breath shorter than usual. Adam's heart yearned over her as he looked at her. Ah, if he could but comfort her,

and soothe her, and save her from this pain; if he had but some sort of strength that would enable him to

rescue her poor troubled mind, as he would have rescued her body in the face of all danger!

"I doubt it must be so, Hetty," he said, tenderly; "for I canna believe you'd let any man kiss you by

yourselves, and give you a gold box with his hair, and go awalking i' the Grove to meet him, if you didna

love him. I'm not blaming you, for I know it 'ud begin by little and little, till at last you'd not be able to throw

it off. It's him I blame for stealing your love i' that way, when he knew he could never make you the right

amends. He's been trifling with you, and making a plaything of you, and caring nothing about you as a man

"Yes, he does care for me; I know better nor you," Hetty burst out. Everything was forgotten but the pain and

"Nay, Hetty," said Adam, "if he'd cared for you rightly, he'd never ha' behaved so. He told me himself he

meant nothing by his kissing and presents, and he wanted to make me believe as you thought light of 'em too.

But I know better nor that. I can't help thinking as you've been trusting to his loving you well enough to

marry you, for all he's a gentleman. And that's why I must speak to you about it, Hetty, for fear you should be

"How do you know? How durst you say so?" said Hetty, pausing in her walk and trembling. The terrible

decision of Adam's tone shook her with fear. She had no presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur

would have his reasons for not telling the truth to Adam. Her words and look were enough to determine

"Perhaps you can't believe me, Hetty, because you think too well of himbecause you think he loves you

better than he does. But I've got a letter i' my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give you. I've not read the

letter, but he says he's told you the truth in it. But before I give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don't let it

take too much hold on you. It wouldna ha' been good for you if he'd wanted to do such a mad thing as marry

Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of a letter which Adam had not read. There

Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while he said, in a tone of tender entreaty, "Don't you

bear me ill will, Hetty, because I'm the means o' bringing you this pain. God knows I'd ha' borne a good deal

worse for the sake o' sparing it you. And thinkthere's nobody but me knows about this, and I'll take care of

you as if I was your brother. You're the same as ever to me, for I don't believe you've done any wrong

Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it till he had done speaking. She took no notice

of what he said she had not listened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket, without

"You're in the right not to read it just yet," said Adam. "Read it when you're by yourself. But stay out a little

bit longer, and let us call the children: you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice of it."

Hetty heard the warning. It recalled to her the necessity of rallying her native powers of concealment, which

had half given way under the shock of Adam's words. And she had the letter in her pocket: she was sure there

was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam. She ran to find Totty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour,

leading Totty, who was making a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe apple that

"Hegh, Totty," said Adam, "come and ride on my shoulderever so highyou'll touch the tops o' the trees."

What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense of being seized strongly and swung

upward? I don't believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on

Jove's shoulder at the end. Totty smiled down complacently from her secure height, and pleasant was the

sight to the mother's eyes, as she stood at the house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden.

"Bless your sweet face, my pet," she said, the mother's strong love filling her keen eyes with mildness, as

Totty leaned forward and put out her arms. She had no eyes for Hetty at that moment, and only said, without

looking at her, "You go and draw some ale, Hetty; the gells are both at the cheese."

After the ale had been drawn and her uncle's pipe lighted, there was Totty to be taken to bed, and brought

down again in her night gown because she would cry instead of going to sleep. Then there was supper to be

got ready, and Hetty must be continually in the way to give help. Adam stayed till he knew Mrs. Poyser

expected him to go, engaging her and her husband in talk as constantly as he could, for the sake of leaving

Hetty more at ease. He lingered, because he wanted to see her safely through that evening, and he was

delighted to find how much selfcommand she showed. He knew she had not had time to read the letter, but

he did not know she was buoyed up by a secret hope that the letter would contradict everything he had said. It

was hard work for him to leave herhard to think that he should not know for days how she was bearing her

trouble. But he must go at last, and all he could do was to press her hand gently as he said "Goodbye," and

hope she would take that as a sign that if his love could ever be a refuge for her, it was there the same as ever.

How busy his thoughts were, as he walked home, in devising pitying excuses for her folly, in referring all her

weakness to the sweet lovingness of her nature, in blaming Arthur, with less and less inclination to admit that

his conduct might be extenuated too! His exasperation at Hetty's sufferingand also at the sense that she

was possibly thrust for ever out of his own reachdeafened him to any plea for the miscalled friend who had

wrought this misery. Adam was a clearsighted, fairminded mana fine fellow, indeed, morally as well as

physically. But if Aristides the Just was ever in love and jealous, he was at that moment not perfectly

magnanimous. And I cannot pretend that Adam, in these painful days, felt nothing but righteous indignation

and loving pity. He was bitterly jealous, and in proportion as his love made him indulgent in his judgment of

"Her head was allays likely to be turned," he thought, "when a gentleman, with his fine manners, and fine

clothes, and his white hands, and that way o' talking gentlefolks have, came about her, making up to her in a

bold way, as a man couldn't do that was only her equal; and it's much if she'll ever like a common man now."

He could not help drawing his own hands out of his pocket and looking at themat the hard palms and the

broken fingernails. "I'm a roughish fellow, altogether; I don't know, now I come to think on't, what there is

much for a woman to like about me; and yet I might ha' got another wife easy enough, if I hadn't set my heart

on her. But it's little matter what other women think about me, if she can't love me. She might ha' loved me,

perhaps, as likely as any other manthere's nobody hereabouts as I'm afraid of, if he hadn't come between

us; but now I shall belike be hateful to her because I'm so different to him. And yet there's no tellingshe

may turn round the other way, when she finds he's made light of her all the while. She may come to feel the

vally of a man as 'ud be thankful to be bound to her all his life. But I must put up with it whichever way it

isI've only to be thankful it's been no worse. I am not th' only man that's got to do without much happiness

i' this life. There's many a good bit o' work done with a bad heart. It's God's will, and that's enough for us: we

shouldn't know better how things ought to be than He does, I reckon, if we was to spend our lives i' puzzling.

But it 'ud ha' gone near to spoil my work for me, if I'd seen her brought to sorrow and shame, and through the

man as I've always been proud to think on. Since I've been spared that, I've no right to grumble. When a

As Adam was getting over a stile at this point in his reflections, he perceived a man walking along the field

before him. He knew it was Seth, returning from an evening preaching, and made haste to overtake him.

"I thought thee'dst be at home before me," he said, as Seth turned round to wait for him, "for I'm later than

"Well, I'm later too, for I got into talk, after meeting, with John Barnes, who has lately professed himself in a

state of perfection, and I'd a question to ask him about his experience. It's one o' them subjects that lead you

They walked along together in silence two or three minutes. Adam was not inclined to enter into the

subtleties of religious experience, but he was inclined to interchange a word or two of brotherly affection and

confidence with Seth. That was a rare impulse in him, much as the brothers loved each other. They hardly

ever spoke of personal matters, or uttered more than an allusion to their family troubles. Adam was by nature

reserved in all matters of feeling, and Seth felt a certain timidity towards his more practical brother.

"Seth, lad," Adam said, putting his arm on his brother's shoulder, "hast heard anything from Dinah Morris

"Yes," said Seth. "She told me I might write her word after a while, how we went on, and how mother bore

up under her trouble. So I wrote to her a fortnight ago, and told her about thee having a new employment, and

how Mother was more contented; and last Wednesday, when I called at the post at Treddles'on, I found a

letter from her. I think thee'dst perhaps like to read it, but I didna say anything about it because thee'st seemed

so full of other things. It's quite easy t' readshe writes wonderful for a woman."

Seth had drawn the letter from his pocket and held it out to Adam, who said, as he took it, "Aye, lad, I've got

a tough load to carry just nowthee mustna take it ill if I'm a bit silenter and crustier nor usual. Trouble

doesna make me care the less for thee. I know we shall stick together to the last."

"I take nought ill o' thee, Adam. I know well enough what it means if thee't a bit short wi' me now and then."

"There's Mother opening the door to look out for us," said Adam, as they mounted the slope. "She's been

Lisbeth went in again quickly and lighted a candle, for she had heard the welcome rustling of footsteps on the

"Eh, my lads! Th' hours war ne'er so long sin' I war born as they'n been this blessed Sunday night. What can

"Thee shouldstna sit i' the dark, Mother," said Adam; "that makes the time seem longer."

"Eh, what am I to do wi' burnin' candle of a Sunday, when there's on'y me an' it's sin to do a bit o' knittin'?

The daylight's long enough for me to stare i' the booke as I canna read. It 'ud be a fine way o' shortenin' the

time, to make it waste the good candle. But which on you's for ha'in' supper? Ye mun ayther be clemmed or

"I'm hungry, Mother," said Seth, seating himself at the little table, which had been spread ever since it was

"I've had my supper," said Adam. "Here, Gyp," he added, taking some cold potato from the table and rubbing

"Thee needstna be gi'in' th' dog," said Lisbeth; "I'n fed him well a'ready. I'm not like to forget him, I reckon,

"Come, then, Gyp," said Adam, "we'll go to bed. Goodnight, Mother; I'm very tired."

"What ails him, dost know?" Lisbeth said to Seth, when Adam was gone upstairs. "He's like as if he was

struck for death this day or twohe's so cast down. I found him i' the shop this forenoon, arter thee wast

"He's a deal o' work upon him just now, Mother," said Seth, "and I think he's a bit troubled in his mind. Don't

you take notice of it, because it hurts him when you do. Be as kind to him as you can, Mother, and don't say

"Eh, what dost talk o' my vexin' him? An' what am I like to be but kind? I'll ma' him a kettlecake for

DEAR BROTHER SETHYour letter lay three days beyond my knowing of it at the post, for I had not

money enough by me to pay the carriage, this being a time of great need and sickness here, with the rains that

have fallen, as if the windows of heaven were opened again; and to lay by money, from day to day, in such a

time, when there are so many in present need of all things, would be a want of trust like the laying up of the

manna. I speak of this, because I would not have you think me slow to answer, or that I had small joy in your

rejoicing at the worldly good that has befallen your brother Adam. The honour and love you bear him is

nothing but meet, for God has given him great gifts, and he uses them as the patriarch Joseph did, who, when

he was exalted to a place of power and trust, yet yearned with tenderness towards his parent and his younger

"My heart is knit to your aged mother since it was granted me to be near her in the day of trouble. Speak to

her of me, and tell her I often bear her in my thoughts at evening time, when I am sitting in the dim light as I

did with her, and we held one another's hands, and I spoke the words of comfort that were given to me. Ah,

that is a blessed time, isn't it, Seth, when the outward light is fading, and the body is a little wearied with its

work and its labour. Then the inward light shines the brighter, and we have a deeper sense of resting on the

Divine strength. I sit on my chair in the dark room and close my eyes, and it is as if I was out of the body and

could feel no want for evermore. For then, the very hardship, and the sorrow, and the blindness, and the sin I

have beheld and been ready to weep overyea, all the anguish of the children of men, which sometimes

wraps me round like sudden darknessI can bear with a willing pain, as if I was sharing the Redeemer's

cross. For I feel it, I feel itinfinite love is suffering tooyea, in the fulness of knowledge it suffers, it

yearns, it mourns; and that is a blind selfseeking which wants to be freed from the sorrow wherewith the

whole creation groaneth and travaileth. Surely it is not true blessedness to be free from sorrow, while there is

sorrow and sin in the world: sorrow is then a part of love, and love does not seek to throw it off. It is not the

spirit only that tells me thisI see it in the whole work and word of the Gospel. Is there not pleading in

heaven? Is not the Man of Sorrows there in that crucified body wherewith he ascended? And is He not one

"These thoughts have been much borne in on me of late, and I have seen with new clearness the meaning of

those words, 'If any man love me, let him take up my cross.' I have heard this enlarged on as if it meant the

troubles and persecutions we bring on ourselves by confessing Jesus. But surely that is a narrow thought. The

true cross of the Redeemer was the sin and sorrow of this world that was what lay heavy on his heartand

that is the cross we shall share with him, that is the cup we must drink of with him, if we would have any part

"In my outward lot, which you ask about, I have all things and abound. I have had constant work in the mill,

though some of the other hands have been turned off for a time, and my body is greatly strengthened, so that I

feel little weariness after long walking and speaking. What you say about staying in your own country with

your mother and brother shows me that you have a true guidance; your lot is appointed there by a clear

showing, and to seek a greater blessing elsewhere would be like laying a false offering on the altar and

expecting the fire from heaven to kindle it. My work and my joy are here among the hills, and I sometimes

think I cling too much to my life among the people here, and should be rebellious if I was called away.

"I was thankful for your tidings about the dear friends at the Hall Farm, for though I sent them a letter, by my

aunt's desire, after I came back from my sojourn among them, I have had no word from them. My aunt has

not the pen of a ready writer, and the work of the house is sufficient for the day, for she is weak in body. My

heart cleaves to her and her children as the nearest of all to me in the fleshyea, and to all in that house. I

am carried away to them continually in my sleep, and often in the midst of work, and even of speech, the

thought of them is borne in on me as if they were in need and trouble, which yet is dark to me. There may be

"We shall see each other again in the body, I trust, though, it may be, not for a long while; for the brethren

and sisters at Leeds are desirous to have me for a short space among them, when I have a door opened me

"Farewell, dear brotherand yet not farewell. For those children of God whom it has been granted to see

each other face to face, and to hold communion together, and to feel the same spirit working in both can

never more be sundered though the hills may lie between. For their souls are enlarged for evermore by that

union, and they bear one another about in their thoughts continually as it were a new strength.Your faithful

"I have not skill to write the words so small as you do and my pen moves slow. And so I am straitened, and

say but little of what is in my mind. Greet your mother for me with a kiss. She asked me to kiss her twice

Adam had refolded the letter, and was sitting meditatively with his head resting on his arm at the head of the

"Yes," said Adam. "I don't know what I should ha' thought of her and her letter if I'd never seen her: I daresay

I should ha' thought a preaching woman hateful. But she's one as makes everything seem right she says and

does, and I seemed to see her and hear her speaking when I read the letter. It's wonderful how I remember her

looks and her voice. She'd make thee rare and happy, Seth; she's just the woman for thee."

"It's no use thinking o' that," said Seth, despondingly. "She spoke so firm, and she's not the woman to say one

"Nay, but her feelings may grow different. A woman may get to love by degreesthe best fire dosna flare up

the soonest. I'd have thee go and see her by and by: I'd make it convenient for thee to be away three or four

"I should like to see her again, whether or no, if she wouldna be displeased with me for going," said Seth.

"She'll be none displeased," said Adam emphatically, getting up and throwing off his coat. "It might be a

great happiness to us all if she'd have thee, for mother took to her so wonderful and seemed so contented to

"Aye," said Seth, rather timidly, "and Dinah's fond o' Hetty too; she thinks a deal about her."

Adam made no reply to that, and no other word but "goodnight" passed between them.

IT was no longer light enough to go to bed without a candle, even in Mrs. Poyser's early household, and

Hetty carried one with her as she went up at last to her bedroom soon after Adam was gone, and bolted the

Now she would read her letter. It mustit must have comfort in it. How was Adam to know the truth? It was

She set down the candle and took out the letter. It had a faint scent of roses, which made her feel as if Arthur

were close to her. She put it to her lips, and a rush of remembered sensations for a moment or two swept

away all fear. But her heart began to flutter strangely, and her hands to tremble as she broke the seal. She read

slowly; it was not easy for her to read a gentleman's handwriting, though Arthur had taken pains to write

"DEAREST HETTYI have spoken truly when I have said that I loved you, and I shall never forget our

love. I shall be your true friend as long as life lasts, and I hope to prove this to you in many ways. If I say

anything to pain you in this letter, do not believe it is for want of love and tenderness towards you, for there is

nothing I would not do for you, if I knew it to be really for your happiness. I cannot bear to think of my little

Hetty shedding tears when I am not there to kiss them away; and if I followed only my own inclinations, I

should be with her at this moment instead of writing. It is very hard for me to part from herharder still for

me to write words which may seem unkind, though they spring from the truest kindness.

"Dear, dear Hetty, sweet as our love has been to me, sweet as it would be to me for you to love me always, I

feel that it would have been better for us both if we had never had that happiness, and that it is my duty to ask

you to love me and care for me as little as you can. The fault has all been mine, for though I have been unable

to resist the longing to be near you, I have felt all the while that your affection for me might cause you grief. I

ought to have resisted my feelings. I should have done so, if I had been a better fellow than I am; but now,

since the past cannot be altered, I am bound to save you from any evil that I have power to prevent. And I feel

it would be a great evil for you if your affections continued so fixed on me that you could think of no other

man who might be able to make you happier by his love than I ever can, and if you continued to look towards

something in the future which cannot possibly happen. For, dear Hetty, if I were to do what you one day

spoke of, and make you my wife, I should do what you yourself would come to feel was for your misery

instead of your welfare. I know you can never be happy except by marrying a man in your own station; and if

I were to marry you now, I should only be adding to any wrong I have done, besides offending against my

duty in the other relations of life. You know nothing, dear Hetty, of the world in which I must always live,

and you would soon begin to dislike me, because there would be so little in which we should be alike.

"And since I cannot marry you, we must partwe must try not to feel like lovers any more. I am miserable

while I say this, but nothing else can be. Be angry with me, my sweet one, I deserve it; but do not believe that

I shall not always care for you always be grateful to youalways remember my Hetty; and if any trouble

should come that we do not now foresee, trust in me to do everything that lies in my power.

"I have told you where you are to direct a letter to, if you want to write, but I put it down below lest you

should have forgotten. Do not write unless there is something I can really do for you; for, dear Hetty, we must

try to think of each other as little as we can. Forgive me, and try to forget everything about me, except that I

Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it there was the reflection of a blanched face

in the old dim glass a white marble face with rounded childish forms, but with something sadder than a

child's pain in it. Hetty did not see the faceshe saw nothingshe only felt that she was cold and sick and

trembling. The letter shook and rustled in her hand. She laid it down. It was a horrible sensationthis cold

and trembling. It swept away the very ideas that produced it, and Hetty got up to reach a warm cloak from her

clothespress, wrapped it round her, and sat as if she were thinking of nothing but getting warm. Presently

she took up the letter with a firmer hand, and began to read it through again. The tears came this timegreat

rushing tears that blinded her and blotched the paper. She felt nothing but that Arthur was cruelcruel to

write so, cruel not to marry her. Reasons why he could not marry her had no existence for her mind; how

could she believe in any misery that could come to her from the fulfilment of all she had been longing for and

dreaming of? She had not the ideas that could make up the notion of that misery.

As she threw down the letter again, she caught sight of her face in the glass; it was reddened now, and wet

with tears; it was almost like a companion that she might complain tothat would pity her. She leaned

forward on her elbows, and looked into those dark overflooding eyes and at the quivering mouth, and saw

how the tears came thicker and thicker, and how the mouth became convulsed with sobs.

The shattering of all her little dreamworld, the crushing blow on her newborn passion, afflicted her

pleasurecraving nature with an overpowering pain that annihilated all impulse to resistance, and suspended

her anger. She sat sobbing till the candle went out, and then, wearied, aching, stupefied with crying, threw

There was a feeble dawn in the room when Hetty awoke, a little after four o'clock, with a sense of dull

misery, the cause of which broke upon her gradually as she began to discern the objects round her in the dim

light. And then came the frightening thought that she had to conceal her misery as well as to bear it, in this

dreary daylight that was coming. She could lie no longer. She got up and went towards the table: there lay the

letter. She opened her treasuredrawer: there lay the earrings and the locketthe signs of all her short

happinessthe signs of the lifelong dreariness that was to follow it. Looking at the little trinkets which she

had once eyed and fingered so fondly as the earnest of her future paradise of finery, she lived back in the

moments when they had been given to her with such tender caresses, such strangely pretty words, such

glowing looks, which filled her with a bewildering delicious surprisethey were so much sweeter than she

had thought anything could be. And the Arthur who had spoken to her and looked at her in this way, who was

present with her nowwhose arm she felt round her, his cheek against hers, his very breath upon herwas

the cruel, cruel Arthur who had written that letter, that letter which she snatched and crushed and then opened

again, that she might read it once more. The halfbenumbed mental condition which was the effect of the last

night's violent crying made it necessary to her to look again and see if her wretched thoughts were actually

trueif the letter was really so cruel. She had to hold it close to the window, else she could not have read it

by the faint light. Yes! It was worseit was more cruel. She crushed it up again in anger. She hated the

writer of that letterhated him for the very reason that she hung upon him with all her loveall the girlish

She had no tears this morning. She had wept them all away last night, and now she felt that dryeyed

morning misery, which is worse than the first shock because it has the future in it as well as the present.

Every morning to come, as far as her imagination could stretch, she would have to get up and feel that the day

would have no joy for her. For there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of

our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have

despaired and to have recovered hope. As Hetty began languidly to take off the clothes she had worn all the

night, that she might wash herself and brush her hair, she had a sickening sense that her life would go on in

this way. She should always be doing things she had no pleasure in, getting up to the old tasks of work,

seeing people she cared nothing about, going to church, and to Treddleston, and to tea with Mrs. Best, and

carrying no happy thought with her. For her short poisonous delights had spoiled for ever all the little joys

that had once made the sweetness of her lifethe new frock ready for Treddleston Fair, the party at Mr.

Britton's at Broxton wake, the beaux that she would say "No" to for a long while, and the prospect of the

wedding that was to come at last when she would have a silk gown and a great many clothes all at once.

These things were all flat and dreary to her now; everything would be a weariness, and she would carry about

She paused in the midst of her languid undressing and leaned against the dark old clothespress. Her neck

and arms were bare, her hair hung down in delicate ringsand they were just as beautiful as they were that

night two months ago, when she walked up and down this bedchamber glowing with vanity and hope. She

was not thinking of her neck and arms now; even her own beauty was indifferent to her. Her eyes wandered

sadly over the dull old chamber, and then looked out vacantly towards the growing dawn. Did a remembrance

of Dinah come across her mind? Of her foreboding words, which had made her angry? Of Dinah's

affectionate entreaty to think of her as a friend in trouble? No, the impression had been too slight to recur.

Any affection or comfort Dinah could have given her would have been as indifferent to Hetty this morning as

everything else was except her bruised passion. She was only thinking she could never stay here and go on

with the old lifeshe could better bear something quite new than sinking back into the old everyday round.

She would like to run away that very morning, and never see any of the old faces again. But Hetty's was not a

nature to face difficultiesto dare to loose her hold on the familiar and rush blindly on some unknown

condition. Hers was a luxurious and vain naturenot a passionate oneand if she were ever to take any

violent measure, she must be urged to it by the desperation of terror. There was not much room for her

thoughts to travel in the narrow circle of her imagination, and she soon fixed on the one thing she would do to

get away from her old life: she would ask her uncle to let her go to be a lady's maid. Miss Lydia's maid would

When she had thought of this, she fastened up her hair and began to wash: it seemed more possible to her to

go downstairs and try to behave as usual. She would ask her uncle this very day. On Hetty's blooming health

it would take a great deal of such mental suffering as hers to leave any deep impress; and when she was

dressed as neatly as usual in her workingdress, with her hair tucked up under her little cap, an indifferent

observer would have been more struck with the young roundness of her cheek and neck and the darkness of

her eyes and eyelashes than with any signs of sadness about her. But when she took up the crushed letter and

put it in her drawer, that she might lock it out of sight, hard smarting tears, having no relief in them as the

great drops had that fell last night, forced their way into her eyes. She wiped them away quickly: she must not

cry in the daytime. Nobody should find out how miserable she was, nobody should know she was

disappointed about anything; and the thought that the eyes of her aunt and uncle would be upon her gave her

the selfcommand which often accompanies a great dread. For Hetty looked out from her secret misery

towards the possibility of their ever knowing what had happened, as the sick and weary prisoner might think

of the possible pillory. They would think her conduct shameful, and shame was torture. That was poor little

In the evening, when Mr. Poyser was smoking his pipe, and his goodnature was therefore at its superlative

moment, Hetty seized the opportunity of her aunt's absence to say, "Uncle, I wish you'd let me go for a lady's

Mr. Poyser took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Hetty in mild surprise for some moments. She was

"Why, what's put that into your head, my wench?" he said at last, after he had given one conservative puff.

"Nay, nay; you fancy so because you donna know it, my wench. It wouldn't be half so good for your health,

nor for your luck i' life. I'd like you to stay wi' us till you've got a good husband: you're my own niece, and I

wouldn't have you go to service, though it was a gentleman's house, as long as I've got a home for you."

"Has your aunt been a bit sharp wi' you?" said Mr. Poyser, not noticing Hetty's further argument. "You

mustna mind that, my wenchshe does it for your good. She wishes you well; an' there isn't many aunts as

"It was all very well for you to learn the work a bitan' I gev my consent to that fast enough, sin' Mrs.

Pomfret was willing to teach you. For if anything was t' happen, it's well to know how to turn your hand to

different sorts o' things. But I niver meant you to go to service, my wench; my family's ate their own bread

and cheese as fur back as anybody knows, hanna they, Father? You wouldna like your grandchild to take

"Naay," said old Martin, with an elongation of the word, meant to make it bitter as well as negative, while

he leaned forward and looked down on the floor. "But the wench takes arter her mother. I'd hard work t'

hould HER in, an' she married i' spite o' mea feller wi' on'y two head o' stock when there should ha' been

It was seldom the old man made so long a speech, but his son's question had fallen like a bit of dry fuel on the

embers of a long unextinguished resentment, which had always made the grandfather more indifferent to

Hetty than to his son's children. Her mother's fortune had been spent by that goodfornought Sorrel, and

"Poor thing, poor thing!" said Martin the younger, who was sorry to have provoked this retrospective

harshness. "She'd but bad luck. But Hetty's got as good a chance o' getting a solid, sober husband as any gell

After throwing out this pregnant hint, Mr. Poyser recurred to his pipe and his silence, looking at Hetty to see

if she did not give some sign of having renounced her illadvised wish. But instead of that, Hetty, in spite of

herself, began to cry, half out of ill temper at the denial, half out of the day's repressed sadness.

"Hegh, hegh!" said Mr. Poyser, meaning to check her playfully, "don't let's have any crying. Crying's for

them as ha' got no home, not for them as want to get rid o' one. What dost think?" he continued to his wife,

who now came back into the houseplace, knitting with fierce rapidity, as if that movement were a necessary

"Think? Why, I think we shall have the fowl stole before we are much older, wi' that gell forgetting to lock

"Why, she's been wanting to go for a lady's maid," said Mr. Poyser. "I tell her we can do better for her nor

"I thought she'd got some maggot in her head, she's gone about wi' her mouth buttoned up so all day. It's all

wi' going so among them servants at the Chase, as we war fools for letting her. She thinks it 'ud be a finer life

than being wi' them as are akin to her and ha' brought her up sin' she war no bigger nor Marty. She thinks

there's nothing belongs to being a lady's maid but wearing finer clothes nor she was born to, I'll be bound. It's

what rag she can get to stick on her as she's thinking on from morning till night, as I often ask her if she

wouldn't like to be the mawkin i' the field, for then she'd be made o' rags inside and out. I'll never gi' my

consent to her going for a lady's maid, while she's got good friends to take care on her till she's married to

somebody better nor one o' them valets, as is neither a common man nor a gentleman, an' must live on the fat

o' the land, an's like enough to stick his hands under his coattails and expect his wife to work for him."

"Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we must have a better husband for her nor that, and there's better at hand.

Come, my wench, give over crying and get to bed. I'll do better for you nor letting you go for a lady's maid.

When Hetty was gone upstairs he said, "I canna make it out as she should want to go away, for I thought

"Eh, there's no knowing what she's got a liking to, for things take no more hold on her than if she was a dried

pea. I believe that gell, Mollyas is aggravatin' enough, for the matter o' thatbut I believe she'd care more

about leaving us and the children, for all she's been here but a year come Michaelmas, nor Hetty would. But

she's got this notion o' being a lady's maid wi' going among them servantswe might ha' known what it 'ud

lead to when we let her go to learn the fine work. But I'll put a stop to it pretty quick."

"Thee'dst be sorry to part wi' her, if it wasn't for her good," said Mr. Poyser. "She's useful to thee i' the work."

"Sorry? Yes, I'm fonder on her nor she deservesa little hard hearted hussy, wanting to leave us i' that way.

I can't ha' had her about me these seven year, I reckon, and done for her, and taught her everything wi'out

caring about her. An' here I'm having linen spun, an' thinking all the while it'll make sheeting and

tableclothing for her when she's married, an' she'll live i' the parish wi' us, and never go out of our

sightslike a fool as I am for thinking aught about her, as is no better nor a cherry wi' a hard stone inside it."

"Nay, nay, thee mustna make much of a trifle," said Mr. Poyser, soothingly. "She's fond on us, I'll be bound;

but she's young, an' gets things in her head as she can't rightly give account on. Them young fillies 'ull run

Her uncle's answers, however, had had another effect on Hetty besides that of disappointing her and making

her cry. She knew quite well whom he had in his mind in his allusions to marriage, and to a sober, solid

husband; and when she was in her bedroom again, the possibility of her marrying Adam presented itself to

her in a new light. In a mind where no strong sympathies are at work, where there is no supreme sense of

right to which the agitated nature can cling and steady itself to quiet endurance, one of the first results of

sorrow is a desperate vague clutching after any deed that will change the actual condition. Poor Hetty's vision

of consequences, at no time more than a narrow fantastic calculation of her own probable pleasures and pains,

was now quite shut out by reckless irritation under present suffering, and she was ready for one of those

convulsive, motiveless actions by which wretched men and women leap from a temporary sorrow into a

Why should she not marry Adam? She did not care what she did, so that it made some change in her life. She

felt confident that he would still want to marry her, and any further thought about Adam's happiness in the

"Strange!" perhaps you will say, "this rush of impulse towards a course that might have seemed the most

repugnant to her present state of mind, and in only the second night of her sadness!"

Yes, the actions of a little trivial soul like Hetty's, struggling amidst the serious sad destinies of a human

being, are strange. So are the motions of a little vessel without ballast tossed about on a stormy sea. How

pretty it looked with its particoloured sail in the sunlight, moored in the quiet bay!

But that will not save the vesselthe pretty thing that might have been a lasting joy.

THE next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the Donnithorne Arms concerning an

incident which had occurred that very dayno less than a second appearance of the smart man in topboots

said by some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to be the future steward, but by Mr.

Casson himself, the personal witness to the stranger's visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing better

than a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had thought of denying Mr. Casson's testimony

to the fact that he had seen the stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating circumstances.

"I see him myself," he said; "I see him coming along by the Crab tree Meadow on a baldfaced hoss. I'd just

been t' hev a pintit was half after ten i' the forenoon, when I hev my pint as reg'lar as the clockand I

says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon, 'You'll get a bit o' barley today, Knowles,' I says, 'if you look

about you'; and then I went round by the rickyard, and towart the Treddles'on road, and just as I come up by

the big ashtree, I see the man i' topboots coming along on a baldfaced hossI wish I may never stir if I

didn't. And I stood still till he come up, and I says, 'Good morning, sir,' I says, for I wanted to hear the turn of

his tongue, as I might know whether he was a thiscountry man; so I says, 'Good morning, sir: it 'll 'old hup

for the barley this morning, I think. There'll be a bit got hin, if we've good luck.' And he says, 'Eh, ye may be

raight, there's noo tallin',' he says, and I knowed by that"here Mr. Casson gave a wink"as he didn't come

from a hundred mile off. I daresay he'd think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one

"The right language!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. "You're about as near the right language as a pig's

"Well, I don't know," answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. "I should think a man as has lived among

the gentry from a by, is likely to know what's the right language pretty nigh as well as a schoolmaster."

"Aye, aye, man," said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, "you talk the right language for you. When

Mike Holdsworth's goat says baaa, it's all rightit 'ud be unnatural for it to make any other noise."

The rest of the party being Loamsnire men, Mr. Casson had the laugh strongly against him, and wisely fell

back on the previous question, which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed in the

churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh interest conferred on all news when there is a fresh

person to hear it; and that fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, "never went boozin' with

that set at Casson's, a sittin' soakin' in drink, and looking as wise as a lot o' codfish wi' red faces."

It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husband on their way from church

concerning this problematic stranger that Mrs. Poyser's thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or

two afterwards, as she was standing at the house door with her knitting, in that eager leisure which came to

her when the afternoon cleaning was done, she saw the old squire enter the yard on his black pony, followed

by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards as a case of prevision, which really had something more in

it than her own remarkable penetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she said to herself, "I

shouldna wonder if he's come about that man as is agoing to take the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do

Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire's visits to his tenantry were rare; and

though Mrs. Poyser had during the last twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more

than met the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him the next time he appeared within the gates

"Goodday, Mrs. Poyser," said the old squire, peering at her with his shortsighted eyesa mode of looking

at her which, as Mrs. Poyser observed, "allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and he was going

However, she said, "Your servant, sir," and curtsied with an air of perfect deference as she advanced towards

him: she was not the woman to misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism, without

"Yes, sir; he's only i' the rickyard. I'll send for him in a minute, if you'll please to get down and step in."

"Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little matter; but you are quite as much concerned in

"Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in," said Mrs. Poyser, as they entered the house, and the old

gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty's curtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with

gooseberry jam, stood hiding her face against the clock and peeping round furtively.

"What a fine old kitchen this is!" said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round admiringly. He always spoke in the

same deliberate, well chiselled, polite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous. "And you keep it

so exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know, beyond any on the estate."

"Well, sir, since you're fond of 'em, I should be glad if you'd let a bit o' repairs be done to 'em, for the

boarding's i' that state as we're like to be eaten up wi' rats and mice; and the cellar, you may stan' up to your

knees i' water in't, if you like to go down; but perhaps you'd rather believe my words. Won't you please to sit

"Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and I hear on all hands about your fine cheese and

butter," said the squire, looking politely unconscious that there could be any question on which he and Mrs.

Poyser might happen to disagree. "I think I see the door open, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a

covetous eye on your cream and butter. I don't expect that Mrs. Satchell's cream and butter will bear

"I can't say, sir, I'm sure. It's seldom I see other folks's butter, though there's some on it as one's no need to

"Ah, now this I like," said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the damp temple of cleanliness, but keeping

near the door. "I'm sure I should like my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came from this dairy.

Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my slight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid

of damp: I'll sit down in your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst of business, I

see, as usual. I've been looking at your wife's beautiful dairythe best manager in the parish, is she not?"

Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirtsleeves and open waistcoat, with a face a shade redder than usual, from

the exertion of "pitching." As he stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool old gentleman,

"Will you please to take this chair, sir?" he said, lifting his father's armchair forward a little: "you'll find it

"No, thank you, I never sit in easychairs," said the old gentleman, seating himself on a small chair near the

door. "Do you know, Mrs. Poysersit down, pray, both of youI've been far from contented, for some

time, with Mrs. Satchell's dairy management. I think she has not a good method, as you have."

"Indeed, sir, I can't speak to that," said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice, rolling and unrolling her knitting and

looking icily out of the window, as she continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if he

liked, she thought; she wasn't going to sit down, as if she'd give in to any such smoothtongued palaver. Mr.

Poyser, who looked and felt the reverse of icy, did sit down in his threecornered chair.

"And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I'm

tired of having a farm on my own handsnothing is made the best of in such cases, as you know. A

satisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you and I, Poyser, and your excellent wife here, can enter into a

"Oh," said Mr. Poyser, with a goodnatured blankness of imagination as to the nature of the arrangement.

"If I'm called upon to speak, sir," said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at her husband with pity at his softness,

"you know better than me; but I don't see what the Chase Farm is t' us we've cumber enough wi' our own

farm. Not but what I'm glad to hear o' anybody respectable coming into the parish; there's some as ha' been

"You're likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure yousuch a one as you will feel glad to

have accommodated by the little plan I'm going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it as much to

"Indeed, sir, if it's anything t' our advantage, it'll be the first offer o' the sort I've heared on. It's them as take

advantage that get advantage i' this world, I think. Folks have to wait long enough afore it's brought to 'em."

"The fact is, Poyser," said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser's theory of worldly prosperity, "there is too much

dairy land, and too little plough land, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle's purposeindeed, he will only take

the farm on condition of some change in it: his wife, it appears, is not a clever dairywoman, like yours.

Now, the plan I'm thinking of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the Hollow Pastures, you

might increase your dairy, which must be so profitable under your wife's management; and I should request

you, Mrs. Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and butter at the market prices. On the other hand,

Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower and Upper Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be

Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head on one side, and his mouth screwed

upapparently absorbed in making the tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy the

ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through the whole business, and to foresee perfectly

what would be his wife's view of the subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it was on a

point of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered

more to his wife than to him. So, after a few moments' silence, he looked up at her and said mildly, "What

Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity during his silence, but now she turned

away her head with a toss, looked icily at the opposite roof of the cowshed, and spearing her knitting

"Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o' your cornland afore your lease is up, which

it won't be for a year come next Michaelmas, but I'll not consent to take more dairy work into my hands,

either for love or money; and there's nayther love nor money here, as I can see, on'y other folks's love o'

theirselves, and the money as is to go into other folks's pockets. I know there's them as is born t' own the land,

and them as is born to sweat on't"here Mrs. Poyser paused to gasp a little "and I know it's christened

folks's duty to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood 'ull bear it; but I'll not make a martyr o' myself,

and wear myself to skin and bone, and worret myself as if I was a churn wi' butter acoming in't, for no

"No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not," said the squire, still confident in his own powers of persuasion,

"you must not overwork yourself; but don't you think your work will rather be lessened than increased in this

way? There is so much milk required at the Abbey that you will have little increase of cheese and butter

making from the addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most profitable way of disposing

"Aye, that's true," said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a question of farming profits, and

"I daresay," said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head halfway towards her husband and looking at the

vacant armchair"I daresay it's true for men as sit i' th' chimneycorner and make believe as everything's

cut wi' ins an' outs to fit int' everything else. If you could make a pudding wi' thinking o' the batter, it 'ud be

easy getting dinner. How do I know whether the milk 'ull be wanted constant? What's to make me sure as the

house won't be put o' board wage afore we're many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o' nights

wi' twenty gallons o' milk on my mindand Dingall 'ull take no more butter, let alone paying for it; and we

must fat pigs till we're obliged to beg the butcher on our knees to buy 'em, and lose half of 'em wi' the

measles. And there's the fetching and carrying, as 'ud be welly half a day's work for a man an' hossthat's to

be took out o' the profits, I reckon? But there's folks 'ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to carry away

"That difficultyabout the fetching and carryingyou will not have, Mrs. Poyser," said the squire, who

thought that this entrance into particulars indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs. Poyser's part.

"Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I've never been used t' having gentlefolks's servants coming about my back

places, amaking love to both the gells at once and keeping 'em with their hands on their hips listening to all

manner o' gossip when they should be down on their knees ascouring. If we're to go to ruin, it shanna be wi'

"Well, Poyser," said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly

withdrawn from the proceedings and left the room, "you can turn the Hollows into feedingland. I can easily

make another arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall not forget your readiness to accommodate

your landlord as well as a neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for three years,

when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who is a man of some capital, would be glad to

take both the farms, as they could be worked so well together. But I don't want to part with an old tenant like

To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough to complete Mrs. Poyser's

exasperation, even without the final threat. Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the

old place where he had been bred and bornfor he believed the old squire had small spite enough for

anything was beginning a mild remonstrance explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to

buy and sell more stock, with, "Well, sir, I think as it's rether hard..." when Mrs. Poyser burst in with the

desperate determination to have her say out this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the only

"Then, sir, if I may speakas, for all I'm a woman, and there's folks as thinks a woman's fool enough to stan'

by an' look on while the men sign her soul away, I've a right to speak, for I make one quarter o' the rent, and

save another quarterI say, if Mr. Thurle's so ready to take farms under you, it's a pity but what he should

take this, and see if he likes to live in a house wi' all the plagues o' Egypt in'twi' the cellar full o' water, and

frogs and toads hoppin' up the steps by dozensand the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every

bit o' cheese, and runnin' over our heads as we lie i' bed till we expect 'em to eat us up aliveas it's a mercy

they hanna eat the children long ago. I should like to see if there's another tenant besides Poyser as 'ud put up

wi' never having a bit o' repairs done till a place tumbles downand not then, on'y wi' begging and praying

and having to pay halfand being strung up wi' the rent as it's much if he gets enough out o' the land to pay,

for all he's put his own money into the ground beforehand. See if you'll get a stranger to lead such a life here

as that: a maggot must be born i' the rotten cheese to like it, I reckon. You may run away from my words,

sir," continued Mrs. Poyser, following the old squire beyond the doorfor after the first moments of stunned

surprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile, had walked out towards his pony. But

it was impossible for him to get away immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard, and

"You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin' underhand ways o' doing us a mischief, for

you've got Old Harry to your friend, though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we're not dumb

creatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha' got the lash i' their hands, for want o' knowing how

t' undo the tackle. An' if I'm th' only one as speaks my mind, there's plenty o' the same way o' thinking i' this

parish and the next to 't, for your name's no better than a brimstone match in everybody's noseif it isna

twothree old folks as you think o' saving your soul by giving 'em a bit o' flannel and a drop o' porridge. An'

you may be right i' thinking it'll take but little to save your soul, for it'll be the smallest savin' y' iver made, wi'

There are occasions on which two servantgirls and a waggoner may be a formidable audience, and as the

squire rode away on his black pony, even the gift of shortsightedness did not prevent him from being aware

that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he suspected that sour old John was

grinning behind himwhich was also the fact. Meanwhile the bulldog, the blackandtan terrier, Alick's

sheepdog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony's heels carried out the idea of Mrs.

Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she turned round, gave the two hilarious

damsels a look which drove them into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again with

"Thee'st done it now," said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy, but not without some triumphant

"Yes, I know I've done it," said Mrs. Poyser; "but I've had my say out, and I shall be th' easier for't all my life.

There's no pleasure i' living if you're to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like

a leaky barrel. I shan't repent saying what I think, if I live to be as old as th' old squire; and there's little

likelihoodfor it seems as if them as aren't wanted here are th' only folks as aren't wanted i' th' other world."

"But thee wutna like moving from th' old place, this Michaelmas twelvemonth," said Mr. Poyser, "and going

into a strange parish, where thee know'st nobody. It'll be hard upon us both, and upo' Father too."

"Eh, it's no use worreting; there's plenty o' things may happen between this and Michaelmas twelvemonth.

The captain may be master afore them, for what we know," said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually

hopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her own merit and not by other people's

"I'M none for worreting," said Mr. Poyser, rising from his three cornered chair and walking slowly towards

the door; "but I should be loath to leave th' old place, and the parish where I was bred and born, and Father

afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I doubt, and niver thrive again."

THE barley was all carried at last, and the harvest suppers went by without waiting for the dismal black crop

of beans. The apples and nuts were gathered and stored; the scent of whey departed from the farmhouses,

and the scent of brewing came in its stead. The woods behind the Chase, and all the hedgerow trees, took on a

solemn splendour under the dark lowhanging skies. Michaelmas was come, with its fragrant basketfuls of

purple damsons, and its paler purple daisies, and its lads and lasses leaving or seeking service and winding

along between the yellow hedges, with their bundles under their arms. But though Michaelmas was come,

Mr. Thurle, that desirable tenant, did not come to the Chase Farm, and the old squire, afler all, had been

obliged to put in a new bailiff. It was known throughout the two parishes that the squire's plan had been

frustrated because the Poysers had refused to be "put upon," and Mrs. Poyser's outbreak was discussed in all

the farmhouses with a zest which was only heightened by frequent repetition. The news that "Bony" was

come back from Egypt was comparatively insipid, and the repulse of the French in Italy was nothing to Mrs.

Poyser's repulse of the old squire. Mr. Irwine had heard a version of it in every parishioner's house, with the

one exception of the Chase. But since he had always, with marvellous skill, avoided any quarrel with Mr.

Donnithorne, he could not allow himself the pleasure of laughing at the old gentleman's discomfiture with

any one besides his mother, who declared that if she were rich she should like to allow Mrs. Poyser a pension

for life, and wanted to invite her to the parsonage that she might hear an account of the scene from Mrs.

"No, no, Mother," said Mr. Irwine; "it was a little bit of irregular justice on Mrs. Poyser's part, but a

magistrate like me must not countenance irregular justice. There must be no report spread that I have taken

notice of the quarrel, else I shall lose the little good influence I have over the old man."

"Well, I like that woman even better than her creamcheeses," said Mrs. Irwine. "She has the spirit of three

"Sharp! Yes, her tongue is like a newset razor. She's quite original in her talk too; one of those untaught wits

that help to stock a country with proverbs. I told you that capital thing I heard her say about Craigthat he

was like a cock, who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow. Now that's an AEsop's fable in a sentence."

"But it will be a bad business if the old gentleman turns them out of the farm next Michaelmas, eh?" said

"Oh, that must not be; and Poyser is such a good tenant that Donnithorne is likely to think twice, and digest

his spleen rather than turn them out. But if he should give them notice at Lady Day, Arthur and I must move

heaven and earth to mollify him. Such old parishioners as they are must not go."

"Ah, there's no knowing what may happen before Lady day," said Mrs. Irwine. "It struck me on Arthur's

birthday that the old man was a little shaken: he's eightythree, you know. It's really an unconscionable age.

"When they've got oldbachelor sons who would be forlorn without them," said Mr. Irwine, laughing, and

Mrs. Poyser, too, met her husband's occasional forebodings of a notice to quit with "There's no knowing what

may happen before Lady day"one of those undeniable general propositions which are usually intended to

convey a particular meaning very far from undeniable. But it is really too hard upon human nature that it

should be held a criminal offence to imagine the death even of the king when he is turned eightythree. It is

not to be believed that any but the dullest Britons can be good subjects under that hard condition.

Apart from this foreboding, things went on much as usual in the Poyser household. Mrs. Poyser thought she

noticed a surprising improvement in Hetty. To be sure, the girl got "closer tempered, and sometimes she

seemed as if there'd be no drawing a word from her with cartropes," but she thought much less about her

dress, and went after the work quite eagerly, without any telling. And it was wonderful how she never wanted

to go out nowindeed, could hardly be persuaded to go; and she bore her aunt's putting a stop to her weekly

lesson in finework at the Chase without the least grumbling or pouting. It must be, after all, that she had set

her heart on Adam at last, and her sudden freak of wanting to be a lady's maid must have been caused by

some little pique or misunderstanding between them, which had passed by. For whenever Adam came to the

Hall Farm, Hetty seemed to be in better spirits and to talk more than at other times, though she was almost

Adam himself watched her at first with trembling anxiety, which gave way to surprise and delicious hope.

Five days after delivering Arthur's letter, he had ventured to go to the Hall Farm againnot without dread

lest the sight of him might be painful to her. She was not in the houseplace when he entered, and he sat

talking to Mr. and Mrs. Poyser for a few minutes with a heavy fear on his heart that they might presently tell

him Hetty was ill. But by and by there came a light step that he knew, and when Mrs. Poyser said, "Come,

Hetty, where have you been?" Adam was obliged to turn round, though he was afraid to see the changed look

there must be in her face. He almost started when he saw her smiling as if she were pleased to see

himlooking the same as ever at a first glance, only that she had her cap on, which he had never seen her in

before when he came of an evening. Still, when he looked at her again and again as she moved about or sat at

her work, there was a change: the cheeks were as pink as ever, and she smiled as much as she had ever done

of late, but there was something different in her eyes, in the expression of her face, in all her movements,

Adam thoughtsomething harder, older, less childlike. "Poor thing!" he said to himself, "that's allays

likely. It's because she's had her first heartache. But she's got a spirit to bear up under it. Thank God for that."

As the weeks went by, and he saw her always looking pleased to see himturning up her lovely face

towards him as if she meant him to understand that she was glad for him to comeand going about her work

in the same equable way, making no sign of sorrow, he began to believe that her feeling towards Arthur must

have been much slighter than he had imagined in his first indignation and alarm, and that she had been able to

think of her girlish fancy that Arthur was in love with her and would marry her as a folly of which she was

timely cured. And it perhaps was, as he had sometimes in his more cheerful moments hoped it would beher

heart was really turning with all the more warmth towards the man she knew to have a serious love for her.

Possibly you think that Adam was not at all sagacious in his interpretations, and that it was altogether

extremely unbecoming in a sensible man to behave as he didfalling in love with a girl who really had

nothing more than her beauty to recommend her, attributing imaginary virtues to her, and even

condescending to cleave to her after she had fallen in love with another man, waiting for her kind looks as a

patient trembling dog waits for his master's eye to be turned upon him. But in so complex a thing as human

nature, we must consider, it is hard to find rules without exceptions. Of course, I know that, as a rule, sensible

men fall in love with the most sensible women of their acquaintance, see through all the pretty deceits of

coquettish beauty, never imagine themselves loved when they are not loved, cease loving on all proper

occasions, and marry the woman most fitted for them in every respectindeed, so as to compel the

approbation of all the maiden ladies in their neighbourhood. But even to this rule an exception will occur now

and then in the lapse of centuries, and my friend Adam was one. For my own part, however, I respect him

none the lessnay, I think the deep love he had for that sweet, rounded, blossomlike, darkeyed Hetty, of

whose inward self he was really very ignorant, came out of the very strength of his nature and not out of any

inconsistent weakness. Is it any weakness, pray, to be wrought on by exquisite music? To feel its wondrous

harmonies searching the subtlest windings of your soul, the delicate fibres of life where no memory can

penetrate, and binding together your whole being past and present in one unspeakable vibration, melting you

in one moment with all the tenderness, all the love that has been scattered through the toilsome years,

concentrating in one emotion of heroic courage or resignation all the hardlearnt lessons of self renouncing

sympathy, blending your present joy with past sorrow and your present sorrow with all your past joy? If not,

then neither is it a weakness to be so wrought upon by the exquisite curves of a woman's cheek and neck and

arms, by the liquid depths of her beseeching eyes, or the sweet childish pout of her lips. For the beauty of a

lovely woman is like music: what can one say more? Beauty has an expression beyond and far above the one

woman's soul that it clothes, as the words of genius have a wider meaning than the thought that prompted

them. It is more than a woman's love that moves us in a woman's eyesit seems to be a faroff mighty love

that has come near to us, and made speech for itself there; the rounded neck, the dimpled arm, move us by

something more than their prettinessby their close kinship with all we have known of tenderness and

peace. The noblest nature sees the most of this impersonal expression in beauty (it is needless to say that

there are gentlemen with whiskers dyed and undyed who see none of it whatever), and for this reason, the

noblest nature is often the most blinded to the character of the one woman's soul that the beauty clothes.

Whence, I fear, the tragedy of human life is likely to continue for a long time to come, in spite of mental

philosophers who are ready with the best receipts for avoiding all mistakes of the kind.

Our good Adam had no fine words into which he could put his feeling for Hetty: he could not disguise

mystery in this way with the appearance of knowledge; he called his love frankly a mystery, as you have

heard him. He only knew that the sight and memory of her moved him deeply, touching the spring of all love

and tenderness, all faith and courage within him. How could he imagine narrowness, selfishness, hardness in

her? He created the mind he believed in out of his own, which was large, unselfish, tender.

The hopes he felt about Hetty softened a little his feeling towards Arthur. Surely his attentions to Hetty must

have been of a slight kind; they were altogether wrong, and such as no man in Arthur's position ought to have

allowed himself, but they must have had an air of playfulness about them, which had probably blinded him to

their danger and had prevented them from laying any strong hold on Hetty's heart. As the new promise of

happiness rose for Adam, his indignation and jealousy began to die out. Hetty was not made unhappy; he

almost believed that she liked him best; and the thought sometimes crossed his mind that the friendship

which had once seemed dead for ever might revive in the days to come, and he would not have to say

"goodbye" to the grand old woods, but would like them better because they were Arthur's. For this new

promise of happiness following so quickly on the shock of pain had an intoxicating effect on the sober Adam,

who had all his life been used to much hardship and moderate hope. Was he really going to have an easy lot

after all? It seemed so, for at the beginning of November, Jonathan Burge, finding it impossible to replace

Adam, had at last made up his mind to offer him a share in the business, without further condition than that

he should continue to give his energies to it and renounce all thought of having a separate business of his

own. Soninlaw or no soninlaw, Adam had made himself too necessary to be parted with, and his

headwork was so much more important to Burge than his skill in handicraft that his having the management

of the woods made little difference in the value of his services; and as to the bargains about the squire's

timber, it would be easy to call in a third person. Adam saw here an opening into a broadening path of

prosperous work such as he had thought of with ambitious longing ever since he was a lad: he might come to

build a bridge, or a town hall, or a factory, for he had always said to himself that Jonathan Burge's building

buisness was like an acorn, which might be the mother of a great tree. So he gave his hand to Burge on that

bargain, and went home with his mind full of happy visions, in which (my refined reader will perhaps be

shocked when I say it) the image of Hetty hovered, and smiled over plans for seasoning timber at a trifling

expense, calculations as to the cheapening of bricks per thousand by watercarriage, and a favourite scheme

for the strengthening of roofs and walls with a peculiar form of iron girder. What then? Adam's enthusiasm

lay in these things; and our love is inwrought in our enthusiasm as electricity is inwrought in the air, exalting

Adam would be able to take a separate house now, and provide for his mother in the old one; his prospects

would justify his marrying very soon, and if Dinah consented to have Seth, their mother would perhaps be

more contented to live apart from Adam. But he told himself that he would not be hastyhe would not try

Hetty's feeling for him until it had had time to grow strong and firm. However, tomorrow, after church, he

would go to the Hall Farm and tell them the news. Mr. Poyser, he knew, would like it better than a

fivepound note, and he should see if Hetty's eyes brightened at it. The months would be short with all he had

to fill his mind, and this foolish eagerness which had come over him of late must not hurry him into any

premature words. Yet when he got home and told his mother the good news, and ate his supper, while she sat

by almost crying for joy and wanting him to eat twice as much as usual because of this goodluck, he could

not help preparing her gently for the coming change by talking of the old house being too small for them all

IT was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of November. There was no sunshine, but the

clouds were high, and the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which fluttered down from the hedgerow

elms must have fallen from pure decay. Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, for she had taken a

cold too serious to be neglected; only two winters ago she had been laid up for weeks with a cold; and since

his wife did not go to church, Mr. Poyser considered that on the whole it would be as well for him to stay

away too and "keep her company." He could perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that

determined this conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds that our firmest convictions are

often dependent on subtle impressions for which words are quite too coarse a medium. However it was, no

one from the Poyser family went to church that afternoon except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was bold

enough to join them after church, and say that he would walk home with them, though all the way through the

village he appeared to be chiefly occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them about the squirrels in Binton

Coppice, and promising to take them there some day. But when they came to the fields he said to the boys,

"Now, then, which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' homegate first shall be the first to go with me to

Binton Coppice on the donkey. But Tommy must have the start up to the next stile, because he's the

Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As soon as the boys had both set off, he

looked down at Hetty and said, "Won't you hang on my arm, Hetty?" in a pleading tone, as if he had already

asked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at him smilingly and put her round arm through his in a

moment. It was nothing to her, putting her arm through Adam's, but she knew he cared a great deal about

having her arm through his, and she wished him to care. Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at the

halfbare hedgerows and the ploughed field with the same sense of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam

scarcely felt that he was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was pressing her arm a littlea very

little. Words rushed to his lips that he dared not utterthat he had made up his mind not to utter yet and

so he was silent for the length of that field. The calm patience with which he had once waited for Hetty's

love, content only with her presence and the thought of the future, had forsaken him since that terrible shock

nearly three months ago. The agitations of jealousy had given a new restlessness to his passionhad made

fear and uncertainty too hard almost to bear. But though he might not speak to Hetty of his love, he would tell

her about his new prospects and see if she would be pleased. So when he was enough master of himself to

talk, he said, "I'm going to tell your uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and I think he'll be glad to

"Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I'm going to take it."

There was a change in Hetty's face, certainly not produced by any agreeable impression from this news. In

fact she felt a momentary annoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her uncle that Adam

might have Mary Burge and a share in the business any day, if he liked, that she associated the two objects

now, and the thought immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her up because of what had

happened lately, and had turned towards Mary Burge. With that thought, and before she had time to

remember any reasons why it could not be true, came a new sense of forsakenness and disappointment. The

one thingthe one person her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away from her, and

peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She was looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the

tears, and before he had finished saying, "Hetty, dear Hetty, what are you crying for?" his eager rapid thought

had flown through all the causes conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the true one. Hetty

thought he was going to marry Mary Burgeshe didn't like him to marryperhaps she didn't like him to

marry any one but herself? All caution was swept awayall reason for it was gone, and Adam could feel

"I could afford to be married now, HettyI could make a wife comfortable; but I shall never want to be

Hetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had done to Arthur that first evening in the wood,

when she had thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was a feebler relief, a feebler triumph she felt

now, but the great dark eyes and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more beautiful, for there

was a more luxuriant womanliness about Hetty of late. Adam could hardly believe in the happiness of that

moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressed her arm close against his heart as he leaned down

"Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love and take care of as long as I live?"

Hetty did not speak, but Adam's face was very close to hers, and she put up her round cheek against his, like

a kitten. She wanted to be caressedshe wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her again.

Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through the rest of the walk. He only said, "I may

The red firelight on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful faces that evening, when Hetty was gone

upstairs and Adam took the opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather that he saw his

"I hope you have no objections against me for her husband," said Adam; "I'm a poor man as yet, but she shall

"Objections?" said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned forward and brought out his long "Nay, nay."

"What objections can we ha' to you, lad? Never mind your being poorish as yet; there's money in your

headpiece as there's money i' the sown field, but it must ha' time. You'n got enough to begin on, and we can

do a deal tow'rt the bit o' furniture you'll want. Thee'st got feathers and linen to spareplenty, eh?"

This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was wrapped up in a warm shawl and was too

hoarse to speak with her usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, but she was presently unable to

"It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen," she said, hoarsely, "when I never sell a fowl but what's

"Come, my wench," said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, "come and kiss us, and let us wish you luck."

"There!" he said, patting her on the back, "go and kiss your aunt and your grandfather. I'm as wishful t' have

you settled well as if you was my own daughter; and so's your aunt, I'll be bound, for she's done by you this

seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her own. Come, come, now," he went on, becoming jocose, as soon as

Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, "Adam wants a kiss too, I'll warrant, and he's a right to one now."

Adam got up, blushing like a small maidengreat strong fellow as he wasand, putting his arm round

It was a pretty scene in the red firelight; for there were no candleswhy should there be, when the fire was

so bright and was reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted to work on a Sunday

evening. Even Hetty felt something like contentment in the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to her,

Adam's caress, stirred no passion in her, were no longer enough to satisfy her vanity, but they were the best

There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about the possibility of his finding a house that

would do for him to settle in. No house was empty except the one next to Will Maskery's in the village, and

that was too small for Adam now. Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would be for Seth and his mother to

move and leave Adam in the old home, which might be enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of space

"Well, well," said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everything tonight. We must take time to consider. You

canna think o' getting married afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but there must be a bit o' time to make

"Aye, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper; "Christian folks can't be married like cuckoos, I

"I'm a bit daunted, though," said Mr. Poyser, "when I think as we may have notice to quit, and belike be

"Eh," said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands up and down, while his arms rested on the

elbows of his chair, "it's a poor tale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a strange parish. An' you'll

"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father," said Martin the younger. "Happen the captain 'ull come home

and make our peace wi' th' old squire. I build upo' that, for I know the captain 'll see folks righted if he can."

IT was a busy time for Adamthe time between the beginning of November and the beginning of February,

and he could see little of Hetty, except on Sundays. But a happy time, nevertheless, for it was taking him

nearer and nearer to March, when they were to be married, and all the little preparations for their new

housekeeping marked the progress towards the longedfor day. Two new rooms had been "run up" to the old

house, for his mother and Seth were to live with them after all. Lisbeth had cried so piteously at the thought

of leaving Adam that he had gone to Hetty and asked her if, for the love of him, she would put up with his

mother's ways and consent to live with her. To his great delight, Hetty said, "Yes; I'd as soon she lived with

us as not." Hetty's mind was oppressed at that moment with a worse difficulty than poor Lisbeth's ways; she

could not care about them. So Adam was consoled for the disappointment he had felt when Seth had come

back from his visit to Snowfield and said "it was no useDinah's heart wasna turned towards marrying." For

when he told his mother that Hetty was willing they should all live together and there was no more need of

them to think of parting, she said, in a more contented tone than he had heard her speak in since it had been

settled that he was to be married, "Eh, my lad, I'll be as still as th' ould tabby, an' ne'er want to do aught but

th' offal work, as she wonna like t' do. An' then we needna part the platters an' things, as ha' stood on the shelf

There was only one cloud that now and then came across Adam's sunshine: Hetty seemed unhappy

sometimes. But to all his anxious, tender questions, she replied with an assurance that she was quite

contented and wished nothing different; and the next time he saw her she was more lively than usual. It might

be that she was a little overdone with work and anxiety now, for soon after Christmas Mrs. Poyser had taken

another cold, which had brought on inflammation, and this illness had confined her to her room all through

January. Hetty had to manage everything downstairs, and halfsupply Molly's place too, while that good

damsel waited on her mistress, and she seemed to throw herself so entirely into her new functions, working

with a grave steadiness which was new in her, that Mr. Poyser often told Adam she was wanting to show him

what a good housekeeper he would have; but he "doubted the lass was o'erdoing itshe must have a bit o'

This desirable event of Mrs. Poyser's coming downstairs happened in the early part of February, when some

mild weather thawed the last patch of snow on the Binton Hills. On one of these days, soon after her aunt

came down, Hetty went to Treddleston to buy some of the wedding things which were wanting, and which

Mrs. Poyser had scolded her for neglecting, observing that she supposed "it was because they were not for th'

It was about ten o'clock when Hetty set off, and the slight hoar frost that had whitened the hedges in the

early morning had disappeared as the sun mounted the cloudless sky. Bright February days have a stronger

charm of hope about them than any other days in the year. One likes to pause in the mild rays of the sun, and

look over the gates at the patient ploughhorses turning at the end of the furrow, and think that the beautiful

year is all before one. The birds seem to feel just the same: their notes are as clear as the clear air. There are

no leaves on the trees and hedgerows, but how green all the grassy fields are! And the dark purplish brown of

the ploughed earth and of the bare branches is beautiful too. What a glad world this looks like, as one drives

or rides along the valleys and over the hills! I have often thought so when, in foreign countries, where the

fields and woods have looked to me like our English Loamshirethe rich land tilled with just as much care,

the woods rolling down the gentle slopes to the green meadowsI have come on sormething by the roadside

which has reminded me that I am not in Loamshire: an image of a great agonythe agony of the Cross. It

has stood perhaps by the clustering appleblossoms, or in the broad sunshine by the cornfield, or at a turning

by the wood where a clear brook was gurgling below; and surely, if there came a traveller to this world who

knew nothing of the story of man's life upon it, this image of agony would seem to him strangely out of place

in the midst of this joyous nature. He would not know that hidden behind the appleblossoms, or among the

golden corn, or under the shrouding boughs of the wood, there might be a human heart beating heavily with

anguishperhaps a young blooming girl, not knowing where to turn for refuge from swiftadvancing shame,

understanding no more of this life of ours than a foolish lost lamb wandering farther and farther in the

Such things are sometimes hidden among the sunny fields and behind the blossoming orchards; and the sound

of the gurgling brook, if you came close to one spot behind a small bush, would be mingled for your ear with

a despairing human sob. No wonder man's religion has much sorrow in it: no wonder he needs a suffering

Hetty, in her red cloak and warm bonnet, with her basket in her hand, is turning towards a gate by the side of

the Treddleston road, but not that she may have a more lingering enjoyment of the sunshine and think with

hope of the long unfolding year. She hardly knows that the sun is shining; and for weeks, now, when she has

hoped at all, it has been for something at which she herself trembles and shudders. She only wants to be out

of the highroad, that she may walk slowly and not care how her face looks, as she dwells on wretched

thoughts; and through this gate she can get into a fieldpath behind the wide thick hedgerows. Her great dark

eyes wander blankly over the fields like the eyes of one who is desolate, homeless, unloved, not the promised

bride of a brave tender man. But there are no tears in them: her tears were all wept away in the weary night,

before she went to sleep. At the next stile the pathway branches off: there are two roads before herone

along by the hedgerow, which will by and by lead her into the road again, the other across the fields, which

will take her much farther out of the way into the Scantlands, low shrouded pastures where she will see

nobody. She chooses this and begins to walk a little faster, as if she had suddenly thought of an object

towards which it was worth while to hasten. Soon she is in the Scantlands, where the grassy land slopes

gradually downwards, and she leaves the level ground to follow the slope. Farther on there is a clump of trees

on the low ground, and she is making her way towards it. No, it is not a clump of trees, but a dark shrouded

pool, so full with the wintry rains that the under boughs of the elderbushes lie low beneath the water. She

sits down on the grassy bank, against the stooping stem of the great oak that hangs over the dark pool. She

has thought of this pool often in the nights of the month that has just gone by, and now at last she is come to

see it. She clasps her hands round her knees, and leans forward, and looks earnestly at it, as if trying to guess

No, she has not courage to jump into that cold watery bed, and if she had, they might find herthey might

find out why she had drowned herself. There is but one thing left to her: she must go away, go where they

After the first oncoming of her great dread, some weeks after her betrothal to Adam, she had waited and

waited, in the blind vague hope that something would happen to set her free from her terror; but she could

wait no longer. All the force of her nature had been concentrated on the one effort of concealment, and she

had shrunk with irresistible dread from every course that could tend towards a betrayal of her miserable

secret. Whenever the thought of writing to Arthur had occurred to her, she had rejected it. He could do

nothing for her that would shelter her from discovery and scorn among the relatives and neighbours who once

more made all her world, now her airy dream had vanished. Her imagination no longer saw happiness with

Arthur, for he could do nothing that would satisfy or soothe her pride. No, something else would

happensomething must happento set her free from this dread. In young, childish, ignorant souls there is

constantly this blind trust in some unshapen chance: it is as hard to a boy or girl to believe that a great

But now necessity was pressing hard upon hernow the time of her marriage was close at handshe could

no longer rest in this blind trust. She must run away; she must hide herself where no familiar eyes could

detect her; and then the terror of wandering out into the world, of which she knew nothing, made the

possibility of going to Arthur a thought which brought some comfort with it. She felt so helpless now, so

unable to fashion the future for herself, that the prospect of throwing herself on him had a relief in it which

was stronger than her pride. As she sat by the pool and shuddered at the dark cold water, the hope that he

would receive her tenderlythat he would care for her and think for herwas like a sense of lulling

warmth, that made her for the moment indifferent to everything else; and she began now to think of nothing

She had had a letter from Dinah lately, full of kind words about the coming marriage, which she had heard of

from Seth; and when Hetty had read this letter aloud to her uncle, he had said, "I wish Dinah 'ud come again

now, for she'd be a comfort to your aunt when you're gone. What do you think, my wench, o' going to see her

as soon as you can be spared and persuading her to come back wi' you? You might happen persuade her wi'

telling her as her aunt wants her, for all she writes o' not being able to come." Hetty had not liked the thought

of going to Snowfield, and felt no longing to see Dinah, so she only said, "It's so far off, Uncle." But now she

thought this proposed visit would serve as a pretext for going away. She would tell her aunt when she got

home again that she should like the change of going to Snowfield for a week or ten days. And then, when she

got to Stoniton, where nobody knew her, she would ask for the coach that would take her on the way to

As soon as Hetty had determined on this scheme, she rose from the grassy bank of the pool, took up her

basket, and went on her way to Treddleston, for she must buy the wedding things she had come out for,

though she would never want them. She must be careful not to raise any suspicion that she was going to run

Mrs. Poyser was quite agreeably surprised that Hetty wished to go and see Dinah and try to bring her back to

stay over the wedding. The sooner she went the better, since the weather was pleasant now; and Adam, when

he came in the evening, said, if Hetty could set off tomorrow, he would make time to go with her to

"I wish I could go with you and take care of you, Hetty," he said, the next morning, leaning in at the coach

He was looking at her fondly, and his strong hand beld hers in its grasp. Hetty felt a sense of protection in his

presenceshe was used to it now: if she could have had the past undone and known no other love than her

"God bless her for loving me," said Adam, as he went on his way to work again, with Gyp at his heels.

But Hetty's tears were not for Adamnot for the anguish that would come upon him when he found she was

gone from him for ever. They were for the misery of her own lot, which took her away from this brave tender

man who offered up his whole life to her, and threw her, a poor helpless suppliant, on the man who would

At three o'clock that day, when Hetty was on the coach that was to take her, they said, to Leicesterpart of

the long, long way to Windsorshe felt dimly that she might be travelling all this weary journey towards the

Yet Arthur was at Windsor; he would surely not be angry with her. If he did not mind about her as he used to

A LONG, lonely journey, with sadness in the heart; away from the familiar to the strange: that is a hard and

dreary thing even to the rich, the strong, the instructed; a hard thing, even when we are called by duty, not

What was it then to Hetty? With her poor narrow thoughts, no longer melting into vague hopes, but pressed

upon by the chill of definite fear, repeating again and again the same small round of memoriesshaping

again and again the same childish, doubtful images of what was to comeseeing nothing in this wide world

but the little history of her own pleasures and pains; with so little money in her pocket, and the way so long

and difficult. Unless she could afford always to go in the coachesand she felt sure she could not, for the

journey to Stoniton was more expensive than she had expectedit was plain that she must trust to carriers'

carts or slow waggons; and what a time it would be before she could get to the end of her journey! The burly

old coachman from Oakbourne, seeing such a pretty young woman among the outside passengers, had invited

her to come and sit beside him; and feeling that it became him as a man and a coachman to open the dialogue

with a joke, he applied himself as soon as they were off the stones to the elaboration of one suitable in all

respects. After many cuts with his whip and glances at Hetty out of the corner of his eye, he lifted his lips

above the edge of his wrapper and said, "He's pretty nigh six foot, I'll be bound, isna he, now?"

"Why, the sweetheart as you've left behind, or else him as you're goin' arterwhich is it?"

Hetty felt her face flushing and then turning pale. She thought this coachman must know something about

her. He must know Adam, and might tell him where she was gone, for it is difficult to country people to

believe that those who make a figure in their own parish are not known everywhere else, and it was equally

difficult to Hetty to understand that chance words could happen to apply closely to her circumstances. She

"Hegh, hegh!" said the coachman, seeing that his joke was not so gratifying as he had expected, "you munna

take it too ser'ous; if he's behaved ill, get another. Such a pretty lass as you can get a sweetheart any day."

Hetty's fear was allayed by and by, when she found that the coachman made no further allusion to her

personal concerns; but it still had the effect of preventing her from asking him what were the places on the

road to Windsor. She told him she was only going a little way out of Stoniton, and when she got down at the

inn where the coach stopped, she hastened away with her basket to another part of the town. When she had

formed her plan of going to Windsor, she had not foreseen any difficulties except that of getting away, and

after she had overcome this by proposing the visit to Dinah, her thoughts flew to the meeting with Arthur and

the question how he would behave to hernot resting on any probable incidents of the journey. She was too

entirely ignorant of traveling to imagine any of its details, and with all her store of moneyher three

guineasin her pocket, she thought herself amply provided. It was not until she found how much it cost her

to get to Stoniton that she began to be alarmed about the journey, and then, for the first time, she felt her

ignorance as to the places that must be passed on her way. Oppressed with this new alarm, she walked along

the grim Stoniton streets, and at last turned into a shabby little inn, where she hoped to get a cheap lodging

for the night. Here she asked the landlord if he could tell her what places she must go to, to get to Windsor.

"Well, I can't rightly say. Windsor must be pretty nigh London, for it's where the king lives," was the answer.

"Anyhow, you'd best go t' Ashby nextthat's south'ard. But there's as many places from here to London as

there's houses in Stoniton, by what I can make out. I've never been no traveller myself. But how comes a lone

"I'm going to my brotherhe's a soldier at Windsor," said Hetty, frightened at the landlord's questioning

look. "I can't afford to go by the coach; do you think there's a cart goes toward Ashby in the morning?"

"Yes, there may be carts if anybody knowed where they started from; but you might run over the town before

you found out. You'd best set off and walk, and trust to summat overtaking you."

Every word sank like lead on Hetty's spirits; she saw the journey stretch bit by bit before her now. Even to get

to Ashby seemed a hard thing: it might take the day, for what she knew, and that was nothing to the rest of

the journey. But it must be doneshe must get to Arthur. Oh, how she yearned to be again with somebody

who would care for her! She who had never got up in the morning without the certainty of seeing familiar

faces, people on whom she had an acknowledged claim; whose farthest journey had been to Rosseter on the

pillion with her uncle; whose thoughts had always been taking holiday in dreams of pleasure, because all the

business of her life was managed for herthis kittenlike Hetty, who till a few months ago had never felt any

other grief than that of envying Mary Burge a new ribbon, or being girded at by her aunt for neglecting Totty,

must now make her toilsome way in loneliness, her peaceful home left behind for ever, and nothing but a

tremulous hope of distant refuge before her. Now for the first time, as she lay down tonight in the strange

hard bed, she felt that her home had been a happy one, that her uncle had been very good to her, that her quiet

lot at Hayslope among the things and people she knew, with her little pride in her one best gown and bonnet,

and nothing to hide from any one, was what she would like to wake up to as a reality, and find that all the

feverish life she had known besides was a short nightmare. She thought of all she had left behind with

yearning regret for her own sake. Her own misery filled her heartthere was no room in it for other people's

sorrow. And yet, before the cruel letter, Arthur had been so tender and loving. The memory of that had still a

charm for her, though it was no more than a soothing draught that just made pain bearable. For Hetty could

conceive no other existence for herself in future than a hidden one, and a hidden life, even with love, would

have had no delights for her; still less a life mingled with shame. She knew no romances, and had only a

feeble share in the feelings which are the source of romance, so that wellread ladies may find it difflcult to

understand her state of mind. She was too igrorant of everything beyond the simple notions and habits in

which she had been brought up to have any more definite idea of her probable future than that Arthur would

take care of her somehow, and shelter her from anger and scorn. He would not marry her and make her a

lady; and apart from that she could think of nothing he could give towards which she looked with longing and

The next morning she rose early, and taking only some milk and bread for her breakfast, set out to walk on

the road towards Ashby, under a leadencoloured sky, with a narrowing streak of yellow, like a departing

hope, on the edge of the horizon. Now in her faintness of heart at the length and difficulty of her journey, she

was most of all afraid of spending her money, and becoming so destitute that she would have to ask people's

charity; for Hettv had the pride not only of a proud nature but of a proud classthe class that pays the most

poorrates, and most shudders at the idea of profiting by a poorrate. It had not yet occurred to her that she

might get money for her locket and earrings which she carried with her, and she applied all her small

arithmetic and knowledge of prices to calculating how many meals and how many rides were contained in her

two guineas, and the odd shillings, which had a melancholy look, as if they were the pale ashes of the other

For the first few miles out of Stoniton, she walked on bravely, always fixing on some tree or gate or

projecting bush at the most distant visible point in the road as a goal, and feeling a faint joy when she had

reached it. But when she came to the fourth milestone, the first she had happened to notice among the long

grass by the roadside, and read that she was still only four miles beyond Stoniton, her courage sank. She had

come only this little way, and yet felt tired, and almost hungry again in the keen morning air; for though

Hetty was accustomed to much movement and exertion indoors, she was not used to long walks which

produced quite a different sort of fatigue from that of household activity. As she was looking at the milestone

she felt some drops falling on her faceit was beginning to rain. Here was a new trouble which had not

entered into her sad thoughts before, and quite weighed down by this sudden addition to her burden, she sat

down on the step of a stile and began to sob hysterically. The beginning of hardship is like the first taste of

bitter foodit seems for a moment unbearable; yet, if there is nothing else to satisfy our hunger, we take

another bite and find it possible to go on. When Hetty recovered from her burst of weeping, she rallied her

fainting courage: it was raining, and she must try to get on to a village where she might find rest and shelter.

Presently, as she walked on wearily, she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels behind her; a covered waggon

was coming, creeping slowly along with a slouching driver cracking his whip beside the horses. She waited

for it, thinking that if the waggoner were not a very sourlooking man, she would ask him to take her up. As

the waggon approached her, the driver had fallen behind, but there was something in the front of the big

vehicle which encouraged her. At any previous moment in her life she would not have noticed it, but now, the

new susceptibility that suffering had awakened in her caused this object to impress her strongly. It was only a

small whiteand livercoloured spaniel which sat on the front ledge of the waggon, with large timid eyes,

and an incessant trembling in the body, such as you may have seen in some of these small creatures. Hetty

cared little for animals, as you know, but at this moment she felt as if the helpless timid creature had some

fellowship with her, and without being quite aware of the reason, she was less doubtful about speaking to the

driver, who now came forwarda large ruddy man, with a sack over his shoulders, by way of scarf or

"Could you take me up in your waggon, if you're going towards Ashby?" said Hetty. "I'll pay you for it."

"Aw," said the big fellow, with that slowly dawning smile which belongs to heavy faces, "I can take y' up

fawst enough wi'out bein' paid for't if you dooant mind lyin' a bit closish atop o' the woolpacks. Where do

"Well, I'm going no furder nor Leicesterand fur enough toobut I'll take you, if you dooant mind being a

bit long on the road. Th' hosses wooant feel YOUR weight no more nor they feel the little doog there, as I

puck up on the road a fortni't agoo. He war lost, I b'lieve, an's been all of a tremble iver sin'. Come, gi' us

To lie on the woolpacks, with a cranny left between the curtains of the awning to let in the air, was luxury to

Hetty now, and she halfslept away the hours till the driver came to ask her if she wanted to get down and

have "some victual"; he himself was going to eat his dinner at this "public." Late at night they reached

Leicester, and so this second day of Hetty's journey was past. She had spent no money except what she had

paid for her food, but she felt that this slow journeying would be intolerable for her another day, and in the

morning she found her way to a coach office to ask about the road to Windsor, and see if it would cost her

too much to go part of the distance by coach again. Yes! The distance was too greatthe coaches were too

dearshe must give them up; but the elderly clerk at the office, touched by her pretty anxious face, wrote

down for her the names of the chief places she must pass through. This was the only comfort she got in

Leicester, for the men stared at her as she went along the street, and for the first time in her life Hetty wished

no one would look at her. She set out walking again; but this day she was fortunate, for she was soon

overtaken by a carrier's cart which carried her to Hinckley, and by the help of a return chaise, with a drunken

postilionwho frightened her by driving like Jehu the son of Nimshi, and shouting hilarious remarks at her,

twisting himself backwards on his saddleshe was before night in the heart of woody Warwickshire: but

still almost a hundred miles from Windsor, they told her. Oh what a large world it was, and what hard work

for her to find her way in it! She went by mistake to StratfordonAvon, finding Stratford set down in her list

of places, and then she was told she had come a long way out of the right road. It was not till the fifth day that

she got to Stony Stratford. That seems but a slight journey as you look at the map, or remember your own

pleasant travels to and from the meadowy banks of the Avon. But how wearily long it was to Hetty! It

seemed to her as if this country of flat fields, and hedgerows, and dotted houses, and villages, and

markettownsall so much alike to her indifferent eyesmust have no end, and she must go on wandering

among them for ever, waiting tired at tollgates for some cart to come, and then finding the cart went only a

little waya very little wayto the miller's a mile off perhaps; and she hated going into the public houses,

where she must go to get food and ask questions, because there were always men lounging there, who stared

at her and joked her rudely. Her body was very weary too with these days of new fatigue and anxiety; they

had made her look more pale and worn than all the time of hidden dread she had gone through at home.

When at last she reached Stony Stratford, her impatience and weariness had become too strong for her

economical caution; she determined to take the coach for the rest of the way, though it should cost her all her

remaining money. She would need nothing at Windsor but to find Arthur. When she had paid the fare for the

last coach, she had only a shilling; and as she got down at the sign of the Green Man in Windsor at twelve

o'clock in the middle of the seventh day, hungry and faint, the coachman came up, and begged her to

"remember him." She put her hand in her pocket and took out the shilling, but the tears came with the sense

of exhaustion and the thought that she was giving away her last means of getting food, which she really

required before she could go in search of Arthur. As she held out the shilling, she lifted up her dark

tearfilled eyes to the coachman's face and said, "Can you give me back sixpence?"

The landlord of the Green Man had stood near enough to witness this scene, and he was a man whose

abundant feeding served to keep his good nature, as well as his person, in high condition. And that lovely

"Come, young woman, come in," he said, "and have adrop o' something; you're pretty well knocked up, I can

He took her into the bar and said to his wife, "Here, missis, take this young woman into the parlour; she's a

little overcome"for Hetty's tears were falling fast. They were merely hysterical tears: she thought she had

no reason for weeping now, and was vexed that she was too weak and tired to help it. She was at Windsor at

She looked with eager, hungry eyes at the bread and meat and beer that the landlady brought her, and for

some minutes she forgot everything else in the delicious sensations of satisfying hunger and recovering from

exhaustion. The landlady sat opposite to her as she ate, and looked at her earnestly. No wonder: Hetty had

thrown off her bonnet, and her curls had fallen down. Her face was all the more touching in its youth and

beauty because of its weary look, and the good woman's eyes presently wandered to her figure, which in her

hurried dressing on her journey she had taken no pains to conceal; moreover, the stranger's eye detects what

"Why, you're not very fit for travelling," she said, glancing while she spoke at Hetty's ringless hand. "Have

"Yes," said Hetty, roused by this question to exert more self command, and feeling the better for the food

she had taken. "I've come a good long way, and it's very tiring. But I'm better now. Could you tell me which

way to go to this place?" Here Hetty took from her pocket a bit of paper: it was the end of Arthur's letter on

While she was speaking, the landlord had come in and had begun to look at her as earnestly as his wife had

done. He took up the piece of paper which Hetty handed across the table, and read the address.

"Why, what do you want at this house?" he said. It is in the nature of innkeepers and all men who have no

pressing business of their own to ask as many questions as possible before giving any information.

"But there's no gentleman there," returned the landlord. "It's shut upbeen shut up this fortnight. What

"It's Captain Donnithorne," said Hetty tremulously, her heart beginning to beat painfully at this

"Captain Donnithorne? Stop a bit," said the landlard, slowly. "Was he in the Loamshire Militia? A tall young

officer with a fairish skin and reddish whiskersand had a servant by the name o' Pym?"

"A fine sight o' miles away from here. The Loamshire Militia's gone to Ireland; it's been gone this fortnight."

"Look there! She's fainting," said the landlady, hastening to support Hetty, who had lost her miserable

consciousness and looked like a beautiful corpse. They carried her to the sofa and loosened her dress.

"Here's a bad business, I suspect," said the landlord, as he brought in some water.

"Ah, it's plain enough what sort of business it is," said the wife. "She's not a common flaunting dratchell, I

can see that. She looks like a respectable country girl, and she comes from a good way off, to judge by her

tongue. She talks something like that ostler we had that come from the north. He was as honest a fellow as we

"I never saw a prettier young woman in my life," said the husband. "She's like a pictur in a shopwinder. It

"It 'ud have been a good deal better for her if she'd been uglier and had more conduct," said the landlady, who

on any charitable construction must have been supposed to have more "conduct" than beauty. "But she's

HETTY was too ill through the rest of that day for any questions to be addressed to hertoo ill even to think

with any distinctness of the evils that were to come. She only felt that all her hope was crushed, and that

instead of having found a refuge she had only reached the borders of a new wilderness where no goal lay

before her. The sensations of bodily sickness, in a comfortable bed, and with the tendance of the

goodnatured landlady, made a sort of respite for her; such a respite as there is in the faint weariness which

obliges a man to throw himself on the sand instead of toiling onward under the scorching sun.

But when sleep and rest had brought back the strength necessary for the keenness of mental sufferingwhen

she lay the next morning looking at the growing light which was like a cruel task master returning to urge

from her a fresh round of hated hopeless labourshe began to think what course she must take, to remember

that all her money was gone, to look at the prospect of further wandering among strangers with the new

clearness shed on it by the experience of her journey to Windsor. But which way could she turn? It was

impossible for her to enter into any service, even if she could obtain it. There was nothing but immediate

beggary before her. She thought of a young woman who had been found against the church wall at Hayslope

one Sunday, nearly dead with cold and hungera tiny infant in her arms. The woman was rescued and taken

to the parish. "The parish!" You can perhaps hardly understand the effect of that word on a mind like Hetty's,

brought up among people who were somewhat hard in their feelings even towards poverty, who lived among

the fields, and had little pity for want and rags as a cruel inevitable fate such as they sometimes seem in cities,

but held them a mark of idleness and viceand it was idleness and vice that brought burdens on the parish.

To Hetty the "parish" was next to the prison in obloquy, and to ask anything of strangersto beglay in the

same faroff hideous region of intolerable shame that Hetty had all her life thought it impossible she could

ever come near. But now the remembrance of that wretched woman whom she had seen herself, on her way

from church, being carried into Joshua Rann's, came back upon her with the new terrible sense that there was

very little now to divide HER from the same lot. And the dread of bodily hardship mingled with the dread of

How she yearned to be back in her safe home again, cherished and cared for as she had always been! Her

aunt's scolding about trifles would have been music to her ears now; she longed for it; she used to hear it in a

time when she had only trifles to hide. Could she be the same Hetty that used to make up the butter in the

dairy with the Guelder roses peeping in at the windowshe, a runaway whom her friends would not open

their doors to again, lying in this strange bed, with the knowledge that she had no money to pay for what she

received, and must offer those strangers some of the clothes in her basket? It was then she thought of her

locket and earrings, and seeing her pocket lie near, she reached it and spread the contents on the bed before

her. There were the locket and earrings in the little velvetlined boxes, and with them there was a beautiful

silver thimble which Adam had bought her, the words "Remember me" making the ornament of the border; a

steel purse, with her one shilling in it;and a small redleather case, fastening with a strap. Those beautiful

little earrings, with their delicate pearls and garnet, that she had tried in her ears with such longing in the

bright sunshine on the 30th of July! She had no longing to put them in her ears now: her head with its dark

rings of hair lay back languidly on the pillow, and the sadness that rested about her brow and eyes was

something too hard for regretful memory. Yet she put her hands up to her ears: it was because there were

some thin gold rings in them, which were also worth a little money. Yes, she could surely get some money

for her ornaments: those Arthur had given her must have cost a great deal of money. The landlord and

landlady had been good to her; perhaps they would help her to get the money for these things.

But this money would not keep her long. What should she do when it was gone? Where should she go? The

horrible thought of want and beggary drove her once to think she would go back to her uncle and aunt and

ask them to forgive her and have pity on her. But she shrank from that idea again, as she might have shrunk

from scorching metal. She could never endure that shame before her uncle and aunt, before Mary Burge, and

the servants at the Chase, and the people at Broxton, and everybody who knew her. They should never know

what had happened to her. What could she do? She would go away from Windsortravel again as she had

done the last week, and get among the flat green fields with the high hedges round them, where nobody could

see her or know her; and there, perhaps, when there was nothing else she could do, she should get courage to

drown herself in some pond like that in the Scantlands. Yes, she would get away from Windsor as soon as

possible: she didn't like these people at the inn to know about her, to know that she had come to look for

Captain Donnithorne. She must think of some reason to tell them why she had asked for him.

With this thought she began to put the things back into her pocket, meaning to get up and dress before the

landlady came to her. She had her hand on the redleather case, when it occurred to her that there might be

something in this case which she had forgottensomething worth selling; for without knowing what she

should do with her life, she craved the means of living as long as possible; and when we desire eagerly to find

something, we are apt to search for it in hopeless places. No, there was nothing but common needles and pins,

and dried tulippetals between the paper leaves where she had written down her little moneyaccounts. But

on one of these leaves there was a name, which, often as she had seen it before, now flashed on Hetty's mind

like a newly discovered message. The name wasDinah Morris, Snowfield. There was a text above it,

written, as well as the name, by Dinah's own hand with a little pencil, one evening that they were sitting

together and Hetty happened to have the red case lying open before her. Hetty did not read the text now: she

was only arrested by the name. Now, for the first time, she remembered without indifference the affectionate

kindness Dinah had shown her, and those words of Dinah in the bedchamberthat Hetty must think of her

as a friend in trouble. Suppose she were to go to Dinah, and ask her to help her? Dinah did not think about

things as other people did. She was a mystery to Hetty, but Hetty knew she was always kind. She couldn't

imagine Dinah's face turning away from her in dark reproof or scorn, Dinah's voice willingly speaking ill of

her, or rejoicing in her misery as a punishment. Dinah did not seem to belong to that world of Hetty's, whose

glance she dreaded like scorching fire. But even to her Hetty shrank from beseeching and confession. She

could not prevail on herself to say, "I will go to Dinah": she only thought of that as a possible alternative, if

The good landlady was amazed when she saw Hetty come downstairs soon after herself, neatly dressed, and

looking resolutely self possessed. Hetty told her she was quite well this morning. She had only been very

tired and overcome with her journey, for she had come a long way to ask about her brother, who had run

away, and they thought he was gone for a soldier, and Captain Donnithorne might know, for he had been very

kind to her brother once. It was a lame story, and the landlady looked doubtfully at Hetty as she told it; but

there was a resolute air of self reliance about her this morning, so different from the helpless prostration of

yesterday, that the landlady hardly knew how to make a remark that might seem like prying into other

people's affairs. She only invited her to sit down to breakfast with them, and in the course of it Hetty brought

out her earrings and locket, and asked the landlord if he could help her to get money for them. Her journey,

she said, had cost her much more than she expected, and now she had no money to get back to her friends,

It was not the first time the landlady had seen the ornaments, for she had examined the contents of Hetty's

pocket yesterday, and she and her husband had discussed the fact of a country girl having these beautiful

things, with a stronger conviction than ever that Hetty had been miserably deluded by the fine young officer.

"Well," said the landlord, when Hetty had spread the precious trifles before him, "we might take 'em to the

jeweller's shop, for there's one not far off; but Lord bless you, they wouldn't give you a quarter o' what the

things are worth. And you wouldn't like to part with 'em?" he added, looking at her inquiringly.

"And they might think the things were stolen, as you wanted to sell 'em," he went on, "for it isn't usual for a

The blood rushed to Hetty's face with anger. "I belong to respectable folks," she said; "I'm not a thief."

"No, that you aren't, I'll be bound," said the landlady; "and you'd no call to say that," looking indignantly at

"I didn't mean as I thought so," said the husband, apologetically, "but I said it was what the jeweller might

"Well," said the wife, "suppose you were to advance some money on the things yourself, and then if she liked

to redeem 'em when she got home, she could. But if we heard nothing from her after two months, we might

I will not say that in this accommodating proposition the landlady had no regard whatever to the possible

reward of her good nature in the ultimate possession of the locket and earrings: indeed, the effect they

would have in that case on the mind of the grocer's wife had presented itself with remarkable vividness to her

rapid imagination. The landlord took up the ornaments and pushed out his lips in a meditative manner. He

wished Hetty well, doubtless; but pray, how many of your wellwishers would decline to make a little gain

out of you? Your landlady is sincerely affected at parting with you, respects you highly, and will really

rejoice if any one else is generous to you; but at the same time she hands you a bill by which she gains as

"How much money do you want to get home with, young woman?" said the wellwisher, at length.

"Three guineas," answered Hetty, fixing on the sum she set out with, for want of any other standard, and

"Well, I've ho objections to advance you three guineas," said the landlord; "and if you like to send it me back

and get the jewellery again, you can, you know. The Green Man isn't going to run away."

"Oh yes, I'll be very glad if you'll give me that," said Hetty, relieved at the thought that she would not have to

"But if you want the things again, you'll write before long," said the landlady, "because when two months are

The husband and wife were equally content with this arrangement. The husband thought, if the ornaments

were not redeemed, he could make a good thing of it by taking them to London and selling them. The wife

thought she would coax the good man into letting her keep them. And they were accommodating Hetty, poor

thinga pretty, respectablelooking young woman, apparently in a sad case. They declined to take anything

for her food and bed: she was quite welcome. And at eleven o'clock Hetty said "Goodbye" to them with the

same quiet, resolute air she had worn all the morning, mounting the coach that was to take her twenty miles

There is a strength of selfpossession which is the sign that the last hope has departed. Despair no more leans

on others than perfect contentment, and in despair pride ceases to be counteracted by the sense of

Hetty felt that no one could deliver her from the evils that would make life hateful to her; and no one, she said

to herself, should ever know her misery and humiliation. No; she would not confess even to Dinah. She

would wander out of sight, and drown herself where her body would never be found, and no one should know

When she got off this coach, she began to walk again, and take cheap rides in carts, and get cheap meals,

going on and on without distinct purpose, yet strangely, by some fascination, taking the way she had come,

though she was determined not to go back to her own country. Perhaps it was because she had fixed her mind

on the grassy Warwickshire fields, with the bushy treestudded hedgerows that made a hidingplace even in

this leafless season. She went more slowly than she came, often getting over the stiles and sitting for hours

under the hedgerows, looking before her with blank, beautiful eyes; fancying herself at the edge of a hidden

pool, low down, like that in the Scantlands; wondering if it were very painful to be drowned, and if there

would be anything worse after death than what she dreaded in life. Religious doctrines had taken no hold on

Hetty's mind. She was one of those numerous people who have had godfathers and godmothers, learned their

catechism, been confirmed, and gone to church every Sunday, and yet, for any practical result of strength in

life, or trust in death, have never appropriated a single Christian idea or Christian feeling. You would

misunderstand her thoughts during these wretched days, if you imagined that they were influenced either by

She chose to go to StratfordonAvon again, where she had gone before by mistake, for she remembered

some grassy fields on her former way towards itfields among which she thought she might find just the

sort of pool she had in her mind. Yet she took care of her money still; she carried her basket; death seemed

still a long way off, and life was so strong in her. She craved food and restshe hastened towards them at

the very moment she was picturing to herself the bank from which she would leap towards death. It was

already five days since she had left Windsor, for she had wandered about, always avoiding speech or

questioning looks, and recovering her air of proud selfdependence whenever she was under observation,

choosing her decent lodging at night, and dressing herself neatly in the morning, and setting off on her way

steadily, or remaining under shelter if it rained, as if she had a happy life to cherish.

And yet, even in her most selfconscious moments, the face was sadly different from that which had smiled

at itself in the old specked glass, or smiled at others when they glanced at it admiringly. A hard and even

fierce look had come in the eyes, though their lashes were as long as ever, and they had all their dark

brightness. And the cheek was never dimpled with smiles now. It was the same rounded, pouting, childish

prettiness, but with all love and belief in love departed from itthe sadder for its beauty, like that wondrous

At last she was among the fields she had been dreaming of, on a long narrow pathway leading towards a

wood. If there should be a pool in that wood! It would be better hidden than one in the fields. No, it was not a

wood, only a wild brake, where there had once been gravelpits, leaving mounds and hollows studded with

brushwood and small trees. She roamed up and down, thinking there was perhaps a pool in every hollow

before she came to it, till her limbs were weary, and she sat down to rest. The afternoon was far advanced,

and the leaden sky was darkening, as if the sun were setting behind it. After a little while Hetty started up

again, feeling that darkness would soon come on; and she must put off finding the pool till tomorrow, and

make her way to some shelter for the night. She had quite lost her way in the fields, and might as well go in

one direction as another, for aught she knew. She walked through field after field, and no village, no house

was in sight; but there, at the corner of this pasture, there was a break in the hedges; the land seemed to dip

down a little, and two trees leaned towards each other across the opening. Hetty's heart gave a great heat as

she thought there must be a pool there. She walked towards it heavily over the tufted grass, with pale lips and

a sense of trembling. It was as if the thing were come in spite of herself, instead of being the object of her

There it was, black under the darkening sky: no motion, no sound near. She set down her basket, and then

sank down herself on the grass, trembling. The pool had its wintry depth now: by the time it got shallow, as

she remembered the pools did at Hayslope, in the summer, no one could find out that it was her body. But

then there was her basketshe must hide that too. She must throw it into the watermake it heavy with

stones first, and then throw it in. She got up to look about for stones, and soon brought five or six, which she

laid down beside her basket, and then sat down again. There was no need to hurrythere was all the night to

drown herself in. She sat leaning her elbow on the basket. She was weary, hungry. There were some buns in

her basketthree, which she had supplied herself with at the place where she ate her dinner. She took them

out now and ate them eagerly, and then sat still again, looking at the pool. The soothed sensation that came

over her from the satisfaction of her hunger, and this fixed dreamy attitude, brought on drowsiness, and

When she awoke it was deep night, and she felt chill. She was frightened at this darknessfrightened at the

long night before her. If she could but throw herself into the water! No, not yet. She began to walk about that

she might get warm again, as if she would have more resolution then. Oh how long the time was in that

darkness! The bright hearth and the warmth and the voices of home, the secure uprising and lying down, the

familiar fields, the familiar people, the Sundays and holidays with their simple joys of dress and feastingall

the sweets of her young life rushed before her now, and she seemed to be stretching her arms towards them

across a great gulf. She set her teeth when she thought of Arthur. She cursed him, without knowing what her

cursing would do. She wished he too might know desolation, and cold, and a life of shame that he dared not

The horror of this cold, and darkness, and solitudeout of all human reachbecame greater every long

minute. It was almost as if she were dead already, and knew that she was dead, and longed to get back to life

again. But no: she was alive still; she had not taken the dreadful leap. She felt a strange contradictory

wretchedness and exultation: wretchedness, that she did not dare to face death; exultation, that she was still in

lifethat she might yet know light and warmth again. She walked backwards and forwards to warm herself,

beginning to discern something of the objects around her, as her eyes became accustomed to the night the

darker line of the hedge, the rapid motion of some living creatureperhaps a fieldmouserushing across

the grass. She no longer felt as if the darkness hedged her in. She thought she could walk back across the

field, and get over the stile; and then, in the very next field, she thought she remembered there was a hovel of

furze near a sheepfold. If she could get into that hovel, she would be warmer. She could pass the night there,

for that was what Alick did at Hayslope in lambingtime. The thought of this hovel brought the energy of a

new hope. She took up her basket and walked across the field, but it was some time before she got in the right

direction for the stile. The exercise and the occupation of finding the stile were a stimulus to her, however,

and lightened the horror of the darkness and solitude. There were sheep in the next field, and she startled a

group as she set down her basket and got over the stile; and the sound of their movement comforted her, for it

assured her that her impression was rightthis was the field where she had seen the hovel, for it was the

field where the sheep were. Right on along the path, and she would get to it. She reached the opposite gate,

and felt her way along its rails and the rails of the sheepfold, till her hand encountered the pricking of the

gorsy wall. Delicious sensation! She had found the shelter. She groped her way, touching the prickly gorse, to

the door, and pushed it open. It was an illsmelling close place, but warm, and there was straw on the ground.

Hetty sank down on the straw with a sense of escape. Tears cameshe had never shed tears before since she

left Windsortears and sobs of hysterical joy that she had still hold of life, that she was still on the familiar

earth, with the sheep near her. The very consciousness of her own limbs was a delight to her: she turned up

her sleeves, and kissed her arms with the passionate love of life. Soon warmth and weariness lulled her in the

midst of her sobs, and she fell continually into dozing, fancying herself at the brink of the pool

againfancying that she had jumped into the water, and then awaking with a start, and wondering where she

was. But at last deep dreamless sleep came; her head, guarded by her bonnet, found a pillow against the gorsy

wall, and the poor soul, driven to and fro between two equal terrors, found the one relief that was possible to

Alas! That relief seems to end the moment it has begun. It seemed to Hetty as if those dozen dreams had only

passed into another dreamthat she was in the hovel, and her aunt was standing over her with a candle in

her hand. She trembled under her aunt's glance, and opened her eyes. There was no candle, but there was

light in the hovelthe light of early morning through the open door. And there was a face looking down on

Hetty trembled still worse under this real fear and shame than she had done in her momentary dream under

her aunt's glance. She felt that she was like a beggar alreadyfound sleeping in that place. But in spite of her

trembling, she was so eager to account to the man for her presence here, that she found words at once.

"I lost my way," she said. "I'm travellingnorth'ard, and I got away from the road into the fields, and was

She got up as she was speaking, and put her hands to her bonnet to adjust it, and then laid hold of her basket.

The man looked at her with a slow bovine gaze, without giving her any answer, for some seconds. Then he

turned away and walked towards the door of the hovel, but it was not till he got there that he stood still, and,

turning his shoulder halfround towards her, said, "Aw, I can show you the way to Norton, if you like. But

what do you do gettin' out o' the highroad?" he added, with a tone of gruff reproof. "Y'ull be gettin' into

"Yes," said Hetty, "I won't do it again. I'll keep in the road, if you'll be so good as show me how to get to it."

"Why dooant you keep where there's a fingerpoasses an' folks to ax the way on?" the man said, still more

Hetty was frightened at this gruff old man, and still more at this last suggestion that she looked like a wild

woman. As she followed him out of the hovel she thought she would give him a sixpence for telling her the

way, and then he would not suppose she was wild. As he stopped to point out the road to her, she put her

hand in her pocket to get the sixpence ready, and when he was turning away, without saying goodmorning,

she held it out to him and said, "Thank you; will you please to take something for your trouble?"

He looked slowly at the sixpence, and then said, "I want none o' your money. You'd better take care on't, else

you'll get it stool from yer, if you go trapesin' about the fields like a mad woman a thatway."

The man left her without further speech, and Hetty held on her way. Another day had risen, and she must

wander on. It was no use to think of drowning herselfshe could not do it, at least while she had money left

to buy food and strength to journey on. But the incident on her waking this morning heightened her dread of

that time when her money would be all gone; she would have to sell her basket and clothes then, and she

would really look like a beggar or a wild woman, as the man had said. The passionate joy in life she had felt

in the night, after escaping from the brink of the black cold death in the pool, was gone now. Life now, by the

morning light, with the impression of that man's hard wondering look at her, was as full of dread as deathit

was worse; it was a dread to which she felt chained, from which she shrank and shrank as she did from the

She took out her money from her purse, and looked at it. She had still twoandtwenty shillings; it would

serve her for many days more, or it would help her to get on faster to Stonyshire, within reach of Dinah. The

thought of Dinah urged itself more strongly now, since the experience of the night had driven her shuddering

imagination away from the pool. If it had been only going to Dinahif nobody besides Dinah would ever

knowHetty could have made up her mind to go to her. The soft voice, the pitying eyes, would have drawn

her. But afterwards the other people must know, and she could no more rush on that shame than she could

She must wander on and on, and wait for a lower depth of despair to give her courage. Perhaps death would

come to her, for she was getting less and less able to bear the day's weariness. And yet such is the strange

action of our souls, drawing us by a lurking desire towards the very ends we dreadHetty, when she set out

again from Norton, asked the straightest road northwards towards Stonyshire, and kept it all that day.

Poor wandering Hetty, with the rounded childish face and the hard, unloving, despairing soul looking out of

itwith the narrow heart and narrow thoughts, no room in them for any sorrows but her own, and tasting

that sorrow with the more intense bitterness! My heart bleeds for her as I see her toiling along on her weary

feet, or seated in a cart, with her eyes fixed vacantly on the road before her, never thinking or caring whither

What will be the end, the end of her objectless wandering, apart from all love, caring for human beings only

through her pride, clinging to life only as the hunted wounded brute clings to it?

THE first ten days after Hetty's departure passed as quietly as any other days with the family at the Hall

Farm, and with Adam at his daily work. They had expected Hetty to stay away a week or ten days at least,

perhaps a little longer if Dinah came back with her, because there might then be somethung to detain them at

Snowfield. But when a fortnight had passed they began to feel a little surprise that Hetty did not return; she

must surely have found it pleasanter to be with Dinah than any one could have supposed. Adam, for his part,

was getting very impatient to see her, and he resolved that, if she did not appear the next day (Saturday), he

would set out on Sunday morning to fetch her. There was no coach on a Sunday, but by setting out before it

was light, and perhaps getting a lift in a cart by the way, he would arrive pretty early at Snowfield, and bring

back Hetty the next dayDinah too, if she were coming. It was quite time Hetty came home, and he would

His project was quite approved at the Farm when he went there on Saturday evening. Mrs. Poyser desired

him emphatically not to come back without Hetty, for she had been quite too long away, considering the

things she had to get ready by the middle of March, and a week was surely enough for any one to go out for

their health. As for Dinah, Mrs. Poyser had small hope of their bringing her, unless they could make her

believe the folks at Hayslope were twice as miserable as the folks at Snowfield. "Though," said Mrs. Poyser,

by way of conclusion, "you might tell her she's got but one aunt left, and SHE'S wasted pretty nigh to a

shadder; and we shall p'rhaps all be gone twenty mile farther off her next Michaelmas, and shall die o' broken

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who certainly had the air of a man perfectly heartwhole, "it isna so bad as that.

Thee't looking rarely now, and getting flesh every day. But I'd be glad for Dinah t' come, for she'd help thee

So at daybreak, on Sunday, Adam set off. Seth went with him the first mile or two, for the thought of

Snowfield and the possibility that Dinah might come again made him restless, and the walk with Adam in the

cold morning air, both in their best clothes, helped to give him a sense of Sunday calm. It was the last

morning in February, with a low grey sky, and a slight hoar frost on the green border of the road and on the

black hedges. They heard the gurgling of the full brooklet hurrying down the hill, and the faint twittering of

the early birds. For they walked in silence, though with a pleased sense of companionship.

"Goodbye, lad," said Adam, laying his hand on Seth's shoulder and looking at him affectionately as they

were about to part. "I wish thee wast going all the way wi' me, and as happy as I am."

"I'm content, Addy, I'm content," said Seth cheerfully. "I'll be an old bachelor, belike, and make a fuss wi' thy

The'y turned away from each other, and Seth walked leisurely homeward, mentally repeating one of his

Dark and cheerless is the morn Unaccompanied by thee: Joyless is the day's return Till thy mercy's beams I

Visit, then, this soul of mine, Pierce the gloom of sin and grief Fill me, Radiancy Divine, Scatter all my

Adam walked much faster, and any one coming along the Oakbourne road at sunrise that morning must have

had a pleasant sight in this tall broadchested man, striding along with a carriage as upright and firm as any

soldier's, glancing with keen glad eyes at the darkblue hills as they began to show themselves on his way.

Seldom in Adam's life had his face been so free from any cloud of anxiety as it was this morning; and this

freedom from care, as is usual with constructive practical minds like his, made him all the more observant of

the objects round him and all the more ready to gather suggestions from them towards his own favourite

plans and ingenious contrivances. His happy lovethe knowledge that his steps were carrying him nearer

and nearer to Hetty, who was so soon to be hiswas to his thoughts what the sweet morning air was to his

sensations: it gave him a consciousness of wellbeing that made activity delightful. Every now and then there

was a rush of more intense feeling towards her, which chased away other images than Hetty; and along with

that would come a wondering thankfulness that all this happiness was given to himthat this life of ours had

such sweetness in it. For Adam had a devout mind, though he was perhaps rather impatient of devout words,

and his tenderness lay very close to his reverence, so that the one could hardly be stirred without the other.

But after feeling had welled up and poured itself out in this way, busy thought would come back with the

greater vigour; and this morning it was intent on schemes by which the roads might be improved that were so

imperfect all through the country, and on picturing all the benefits that might come from the exertions of a

single country gentleman, if he would set himself to getting the roads made good in his own district.

It seemed a very short walk, the ten miles to Oakbourne, that pretty town within sight of the blue hills, where

he breakfasted. After this, the country grew barer and barer: no more rolling woods, no more

widebranching trees near frequent homesteads, no more bushy hedgerows, but greystone walls intersecting

the meagre pastures, and dismal widescattered greystone houses on broken lands where mines had been and

were no longer. "A hungry land," said Adam to himself. "I'd rather go south'ard, where they say it's as flat as

a table, than come to live here; though if Dinah likes to live in a country where she can be the most comfort

to folks, she's i' the right to live o' this side; for she must look as if she'd come straight from heaven, like th'

angels in the desert, to strengthen them as ha' got nothing t' eat." And when at last he came in sight of

Snowfield, he thought it looked like a town that was "fellow to the country," though the stream through the

valley where the great mill stood gave a pleasant greenness to the lower fields. The town lay, grim, stony, and

unsheltered, up the side of a steep hill, and Adam did not go forward to it at present, for Seth had told him

where to find Dinah. It was at a thatched cottage outside the town, a little way from the millan old cottage,

standing sideways towards the road, with a little bit of potatoground before it. Here Dinah lodged with an

elderly couple; and if she and Hetty happened to be out, Adam could learn where they were gone, or when

they would be at home again. Dinah might be out on some preaching errand, and perhaps she would have left

Hetty at home. Adam could not help hoping this, and as he recognized the cottage by the roadside before him,

there shone out in his face that involuntary smile which belongs to the expectation of a near joy.

He hurried his step along the narrow causeway, and rapped at the door. It was opened by a very clean old

"Eh?...no," said the old woman, looking up at this tall stranger with a wonder that made her slower of speech

than usual. "Will you please to come in?" she added, retiring from the door, as if recollecting herself. "Why,

"Yes," said Adam, entering. "That was Seth Bede. I'm his brother Adam. He told me to give his respects to

"Aye, the same t' him. He was a gracious young man. An' ye feature him, on'y ye're darker. Sit ye down i' th'

Adam sat down patiently, not liking to hurry the shaking old woman with questions, but looking eagerly

towards the narrow twisting stairs in one corner, for he thought it was possible Hetty might have heard his

"So you're come to see Dinah Morris?" said the old woman, standing opposite to him. "An' you didn' know

"No," said Adam, "but I thought it likely she might be away, seeing as it's Sunday. But the other young

"Gone along wi' her?" she said. "Eh, Dinah's gone to Leeds, a big town ye may ha' heared on, where there's a

many o' the Lord's people. She's been gone sin' Friday was a fortnight: they sent her the money for her

journey. You may see her room here," she went on, opening a door and not noticing the effect of her words

on Adam. He rose and followed her, and darted an eager glance into the little room with its narrow bed, the

portrait of Wesley on the wall, and the few books lying on the large Bible. He had had an irrational hope that

Hetty might be there. He could not speak in the first moment after seeing that the room was empty; an

undefined fear had seized himsomething had happened to Hetty on the journey. Still the old woman was so

"It's a pity ye didna know," she said. "Have ye come from your own country o' purpose to see her?"

"I know nobody by that name," said the old woman, wonderingly. "Is it anybody ye've heared on at

"Did there come no young woman herevery young and prettyFriday was a fortnight, to see Dinah

"Think; are you quite sure? A girl, eighteen years old, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, and a red cloak on,

"Nay; Friday was a fortnightit was the day as Dinah went away there come nobody. There's ne'er been

nobody asking for her till you come, for the folks about know as she's gone. Eh dear, eh dear, is there summat

The old woman had seen the ghastly look of fear in Adam's face. But he was not stunned or confounded: he

"Yes; a young woman started from our country to see Dinah, Friday was a fortnight. I came to fetch her back.

He hastened out of the cottage, and the old woman followed him to the gate, watching him sadly with her

shaking head as he almost ran towards the town. He was going to inquire at the place where the Oakbourne

No! No young woman like Hetty had been seen there. Had any accident happened to the coach a fortnight

ago? No. And there was no coach to take him back to Oakbourne that day. Well, he would walk: he couldn't

stay here, in wretched inaction. But the innkeeper, seeing that Adam was in great anxiety, and entering into

this new incident with the eagerness of a man who passes a great deal of time with his hands in his pockets

looking into an obstinately monotonous street, offered to take him back to Oakbourne in his own "taxed cart"

this very evening. It was not five o'clock; there was plenty of time for Adam to take a meal and yet to get to

Oakbourne before ten o'clock. The innkeeper declared that he really wanted to go to Oakbourne, and might as

well go tonight; he should have all Monday before him then. Adam, after making an ineffectual attempt to

eat, put the food in his pocket, and, drinking a draught of ale, declared himself ready to set off. As they

approached the cottage, it occurred to him that he would do well to learn from the old woman where Dinah

was to be found in Leeds: if there was trouble at the Hall Farmhe only halfadmitted the foreboding that

there would bethe Poysers might like to send for Dinah. But Dinah had not left any address, and the old

woman, whose memory for names was infirm, could not recall the name of the "blessed woman" who was

During that long, long journey in the taxed cart, there was time for all the conjectures of importunate fear and

struggling hope. In the very first shock of discovering that Hetty had not been to Snowfield, the thought of

Arthur had darted through Adam like a sharp pang, but he tried for some time to ward off its return by

busying himself with modes of accounting for the alarming fact, quite apart from that intolerable thought.

Some accident had happened. Hetty had, by some strange chance, got into a wrong vehicle from Oakbourne:

she had been taken ill, and did not want to frighten them by letting them know. But this frail fence of vague

improbabilities was soon hurled down by a rush of distinct agonizing fears. Hetty had been deceiving herself

in thinking that she could love and marry him: she had been loving Arthur all the while; and now, in her

desperation at the nearness of their marriage, she had run away. And she was gone to him. The old

indignation and jealousy rose again, and prompted the suspicion that Arthur had been dealing falselyhad

written to Hettyhad tempted her to come to himbeing unwilling, after all, that she should belong to

another man besides himself. Perhaps the whole thing had been contrived by him, and he had given her

directions how to follow him to Irelandfor Adam knew that Arthur had been gone thither three weeks ago,

having recently learnt it at the Chase. Every sad look of Hetty's, since she had been engaged to Adam,

returned upon him now with all the exaggeration of painful retrospect. He had been foolishly sanguine and

confident. The poor thing hadn't perhaps known her own mind for a long while; had thought that she could

forget Arthur; had been momentarily drawn towards the man who offered her a protecting, faithful love. He

couldn't bear to blame her: she never meant to cause him this dreadful pain. The blame lay with that man who

had selfishly played with her hearthad perhaps even deliberately lured her away.

At Oakbourne, the ostler at the Royal Oak remembered such a young woman as Adam described getting out

of the Treddleston coach more than a fortnight agowasn't likely to forget such a pretty lass as that in a

hurrywas sure she had not gone on by the Buxton coach that went through Snowfield, but had lost sight of

her while he went away with the horses and had never set eyes on her again. Adam then went straight to the

house from which the Stonition coach started: Stoniton was the most obvious place for Hetty to go to first,

whatever might be her destination, for she would hardly venture on any but the chief coachroads. She had

been noticed here too, and was remembered to have sat on the box by the coachman; but the coachman could

not be seen, for another man had been driving on that road in his stead the last three or four days. He could

probably be seen at Stoniton, through inquiry at the inn where the coach put up. So the anxious heartstricken

Adam must of necessity wait and try to rest till morningnay, till eleven o'clock, when the coach started.

At Stoniton another delay occurred, for the old coachman who had driven Hetty would not be in the town

again till night. When he did come he remembered Hetty well, and remembered his own joke addressed to

her, quoting it many times to Adam, and observing with equal frequency that he thought there was something

more than common, because Hetty had not laughed when he joked her. But he declared, as the people had

done at the inn, that he had lost sight of Hetty directly she got down. Part of the next morning was consumed

in inquiries at every house in the town from which a coach started(all in vain, for you know Hetty did not

start from Stonition by coach, but on foot in the grey morning)and then in walking out to the first

tollgates on the different lines of road, in the forlorn hope of finding some recollection of her there. No, she

was not to be traced any farther; and the next hard task for Adam was to go home and carry the wretched

tidings to the Hall Farm. As to what he should do beyond that, he had come to two distinct resolutions amidst

the tumult of thought and feeling which was going on within him while he went to and fro. He would not

mention what he knew of Arthur Donnithorne's behaviour to Hetty till there was a clear necessity for it: it

was still possible Hetty might come back, and the disclosure might be an injury or an offence to her. And as

soon as he had been home and done what was necessary there to prepare for his further absence, he would

start off to Ireland: if he found no trace of Hetty on the road, he would go straight to Arthur Donnithorne and

make himself certain how far he was acquainted with her movements. Several times the thought occurred to

him that he would consult Mr. Irwine, but that would be useless unless he told him all, and so betrayed the

secret about Arthur. It seems strange that Adam, in the incessant occupation of his mind about Hetty, should

never have alighted on the probability that she had gone to Windsor, ignorant that Arthur was no longer there.

Perhaps the reason was that he could not conceive Hetty's throwing herself on Arthur uncalled; he imagined

no cause that could have driven her to such a step, after that letter written in August. There were but two

alternatives in his mind: either Arthur had written to her again and enticed her away, or she had simply fled

from her approaching marriage with himself because she found, after all, she could not love him well enough,

With this last determination on his mind, of going straight to Arthur, the thought that he had spent two days

in inquiries which had proved to be almost useless, was torturing to Adam; and yet, since he would not tell

the Poysers his conviction as to where Hetty was gone, or his intention to follow her thither, he must be able

It was after twelve o'clock on Tuesday night when Adam reached Treddleston; and, unwilling to disturb his

mother and Seth, and also to encounter their questions at that hour, he threw himself without undressing on a

bed at the "Waggon Overthrown," and slept hard from pure weariness. Not more than four hours, however,

for before five o'clock he set out on his way home in the faint morning twilight. He always kept a key of the

workshop door in his pocket, so that he could let himself in; and he wished to enter without awaking his

mother, for he was anxious to avoid telling her the new trouble himself by seeing Seth first, and asking him to

tell her when it should be necessary. He walked gently along the yard, and turned the key gently in the door;

but, as he expected, Gyp, who lay in the workshop, gave a sharp bark. It subsided when he saw Adam,

holding up his finger at him to impose silence, and in his dumb, tailless joy he must content himself with

Adam was too heartsick to take notice of Gyp's fondling. He threw himself on the bench and stared dully at

the wood and the signs of work around him, wondering if he should ever come to feel pleasure in them again,

while Gyp, dimly aware that there was something wrong with his master, laid his rough grey head on Adam's

knee and wrinkled his brows to look up at him. Hitherto, since Sunday afternoon, Adam had been constantly

among strange people and in strange places, having no associations with the details of his daily life, and now

that by the light of this new morning he was come back to his home and surrounded by the familiar objects

that seemed for ever robbed of their charm, the realitythe hard, inevitable reality of his troubles pressed

upon him with a new weight. Right before him was an unfinished chest of drawers, which he had been

Seth had not heard Adam's entrance, but he had been roused by Gyp's bark, and Adam heard him moving

about in the room above, dressing himself. Seth's first thoughts were about his brother: he would come home

today, surely, for the business would be wanting him sadly by tomorrow, but it was pleasant to think he

had had a longer holiday than he had expected. And would Dinah come too? Seth felt that that was the

greatest happiness he could look forward to for himself, though he had no hope left that she would ever love

him well enough to marry him; but he had often said to himself, it was better to be Dinah's friend and brother

than any other woman's husband. If he could but be always near her, instead of living so far off!

He came downstairs and opened the inner door leading from the kitchen into the workshop, intending to let

out Gyp; but he stood still in the doorway, smitten with a sudden shock at the sight of Adam seated listlessly

on the bench, pale, unwashed, with sunken blank eyes, almost like a drunkard in the morning. But Seth felt in

an instant what the marks meantnot drunkenness, but some great calamity. Adam looked up at him without

speaking, and Seth moved forward towards the bench, himself trembling so that speech did not come readily.

"God have mercy on us, Addy," he said, in a low voice, sitting down on the bench beside Adam, "what is it?"

Adam was unable to speak. The strong man, accustomed to suppress the signs of sorrow, had felt his heart

swell like a child's at this first approach of sympathy. He fell on Seth's neck and sobbed.

Seth was prepared for the worst now, for, even in his recollections of their boyhood, Adam had never sobbed

"Is it death, Adam? Is she dead?" he asked, in a low tone, when Adam raised his head and was recovering

"No, lad; but she's gonegone away from us. She's never been to Snowfield. Dinah's been gone to Leeds

ever since last Friday was a fortnight, the very day Hetty set out. I can't find out where she went after she got

Seth was silent from utter astonishment: he knew nothing that could suggest to him a reason for Hetty's going

"She can't ha' loved me. She didn't like our marriage when it came nighthat must be it," said Adam. He had

"No, not yet," said Adam, rising from the bench and pushing the hair from his face, as if he wanted to rouse

himself. "I can't have her told yet; and I must set out on another journey directly, after I've been to the village

and th' Hall Farm. I can't tell thee where I'm going, and thee must say to her I'm gone on business as nobody

is to know anything about. I'll go and wash myself now." Adam moved towards the door of the workshop, but

after a step or two he turned round, and, meeting Seth's eyes with a calm sad glance, he said, "I must take all

the money out o' the tin box, lad; but if anything happens to me, all the rest 'll be thine, to take care o' Mother

Seth was pale and trembling: he felt there was some terrible secret under all this. "Brother," he said,

faintlyhe never called Adam "Brother" except in solemn moments"I don't believe you'll do anything as

"Nay, lad," said Adam, "don't be afraid. I'm for doing nought but what's a man's duty."

The thought that if he betrayed his trouble to his mother, she would only distress him by words, half of

blundering affection, half of irrepressible triumph that Hetty proved as unfit to be his wife as she had always

foreseen, brought back some of his habitual firmness and selfcommand. He had felt ill on his journey

home he told her when she came downhad stayed all night at Tredddleston for that reason; and a bad

headache, that still hung about him this morning, accounted for his paleness and heavy eyes.

He determined to go to the village, in the first place, attend to his business for an hour, and give notice to

Burge of his being obliged to go on a journey, which he must beg him not to mention to any one; for he

wished to avoid going to the Hall Farm near breakfasttime, when the children and servants would be in the

houseplace, and there must be exclamations in their hearing about his having returned without Hetty. He

waited until the clock struck nine before he left the workyard at the village, and set off, through the fields,

towards the Farm. It was an immense relief to him, as he came near the Home Close, to see Mr. Poyser

advancing towards him, for this would spare him the pain of going to the house. Mr. Poyser was walking

briskly this March morning, with a sense of spring business on his mind: he was going to cast the master's

eye on the shoeing of a new carthorse, carrying his spud as a useful companion by the way. His surprise was

great when he caught sight of Adam, but he was not a man given to presentiments of evil.

"Why, Adam, lad, is't you? Have ye been all this time away and not brought the lasses back, after all? Where

"No, I've not brought 'em," said Adam, turning round, to indicate that he wished to walk back with Mr.

"Why," said Martin, looking with sharper attention at Adam, "ye look bad. Is there anything happened?"

"Yes," said Adam, heavily. "A sad thing's happened. I didna find Hetty at Snowfield."

Mr. Poyser's goodnatured face showed signs of troubled astonishment. "Not find her? What's happened to

"That I can't tell, whether anything's happened to her. She never went to Snowfieldshe took the coach to

Stoniton, but I can't learn nothing of her after she got down from the Stoniton coach."

"Why, you donna mean she's run away?" said Martin, standing still, so puzzled and bewildered that the fact

"She must ha' done," said Adam. "She didn't like our marriage when it came to the pointthat must be it.

Martin was silent for a minute or two, looking on the ground and rooting up the grass with his spud, without

knowing what he was doing. His usual slowness was always trebled when the subject of speech was painful.

At last he looked up, right in Adam's face, saying, "Then she didna deserve t' ha' ye, my lad. An' I feel i' fault

myself, for she was my niece, and I was allays hot for her marr'ing ye. There's no amends I can make ye,

Adam could say nothing; and Mr. Poyser, after pursuing his walk for a little while, went on, "I'll be bound

she's gone after trying to get a lady's maid's place, for she'd got that in her head half a year ago, and wanted

me to gi' my consent. But I'd thought better on her"he added, shaking his head slowly and sadly"I'd

thought better on her, nor to look for this, after she'd gi'en y' her word, an' everything been got ready."

Adam had the strongest motives for encouraging this supposition in Mr. Poyser, and he even tried to believe

that it might possibly be true. He had no warrant for the certainty that she was gone to Arthur.

"It was better it should be so," he said, as quietly as he could, "if she felt she couldn't like me for a husband.

Better run away before than repent after. I hope you won't look harshly on her if she comes back, as she may

"I canna look on her as I've done before," said Martin decisively. "She's acted bad by you, and by all of us.

But I'll not turn my back on her: she's but a young un, and it's the first harm I've knowed on her. It'll be a hard

job for me to tell her aunt. Why didna Dinah come back wi' ye? She'd ha' helped to pacify her aunt a bit."

"Dinah wasn't at Snowfield. She's been gone to Leeds this fortnight, and I couldn't learn from th' old woman

"She'd a deal better be staying wi' her own kin," said Mr. Poyser, indignantly, "than going preaching among

"Aye, you'd best be after your business, and I must tell the missis when I go home. It's a hard job."

"But," said Adam, "I beg particular, you'll keep what's happened quiet for a week or two. I've not told my

"Aye, aye; least said, soonest mended. We'n no need to say why the match is broke off, an' we may hear of

There was something in Martin Poyser's throat at that moment which caused him to bring out those scanty

words in rather a broken fashion. Yet Adam knew what they meant all the better, and the two honest men

There was nothing now to hinder Adam from setting off. He had told Seth to go to the Chase and leave a

message for the squire, saying that Adam Bede had been obliged to start off suddenly on a journeyand to

say as much, and no more, to any one else who made inquiries about him. If the Poysers learned that he was

gone away again, Adam knew they would infer that he was gone in search of Hetty.

He had intended to go right on his way from the Hall Farm, but now the impulse which had frequently visited

him beforeto go to Mr. Irwine, and make a confidant of himrecurred with the new force which belongs

to a last opportunity. He was about to start on a long journeya difficult oneby seaand no soul would

know where he was gone. If anything happened to him? Or, if he absolutely needed help in any matter

concerning Hetty? Mr. Irwine was to be trusted; and the feeling which made Adam shrink from telling

anything which was her secret must give way before the need there was that she should have some one else

besides himself who would be prepared to defend her in the worst extremity. Towards Arthur, even though he

might have incurred no new guilt, Adam felt that he was not bound to keep silence when Hetty's interest

"I must do it," said Adam, when these thoughts, which had spread themselves through hours of his sad

journeying, now rushed upon him in an instant, like a wave that had been slowly gathering; "it's the right

ADAM turned his face towards Broxton and walked with his swiftest stride, looking at his watch with the

fear that Mr. Irwine might be gone outhunting, perhaps. The fear and haste together produced a state of

strong excitement before he reached the rectory gate, and outside it he saw the deep marks of a recent hoof on

But the hoofs were turned towards the gate, not away from it, and though there was a horse against the stable

door, it was not Mr. Irwine's: it had evidently had a journey this morning, and must belong to some one who

had come on business. Mr. Irwine was at home, then; but Adam could hardly find breath and calmness to tell

Carroll that he wanted to speak to the rector. The double suffering of certain and uncertain sorrow had begun

to shake the strong man. The butler looked at him wonderingly, as he threw himself on a bench in the passage

and stared absently at the clock on the opposite wall. The master had somebody with him, he said, but he

heard the study door openthe stranger seemed to be coming out, and as Adam was in a hurry, he would let

Adam sat looking at the clock: the minutehand was hurrying along the last five minutes to ten with a loud,

hard, indifferent tick, and Adam watched the movement and listened to the sound as if he had had some

reason for doing so. In our times of bitter suffering there are almost always these pauses, when our

consciousness is benumbed to everything but some trivial perception or sensation. It is as if semiidiocy

came to give us rest from the memory and the dread which refuse to leave us in our sleep.

Carroll, coming back, recalled Adam to the sense of his burden. He was to go into the study immediately. "I

can't think what that strange person's come about," the butler added, from mere incontinence of remark, as he

preceded Adam to the door, "he's gone i' the diningroom. And master looks unaccountableas if he was

frightened." Adam took no notice of the words: he could not care about other people's business. But when he

entered the study and looked in Mr. Irwine's face, he felt in an instant that there was a new expression in it,

strangely different from the warm friendliness it had always worn for him before. A letter lay open on the

table, and Mr. Irwine's hand was on it, but the changed glance he cast on Adam could not be owing entirely to

preoccupation with some disagreeable business, for he was looking eagerly towards the door, as if Adam's

"You want to speak to me, Adam," he said, in that low constrainedly quiet tone which a man uses when he is

determined to suppress agitation. "Sit down here." He pointed to a chair just opposite to him, at no more than

a yard's distance from his own, and Adam sat down with a sense that this cold manner of Mr. Irwine's gave an

additional unexpected difficulty to his disclosure. But when Adam had made up his mind to a measure, he

"I come to you, sir," he said, "as the gentleman I look up to most of anybody. I've something very painful to

tell yousomething as it'll pain you to hear as well as me to tell. But if I speak o' the wrong other people

Mr. Irwine nodded slowly, and Adam went on rather tremulously, "You was t' ha' married me and Hetty

Sorrel, you know, sir, o' the fifteenth o' this month. I thought she loved me, and I was th' happiest man i' the

Mr. Irwine started up from his chair, as if involuntarily, but then, determined to control himself, walked to the

"She's gone away, sir, and we don't know where. She said she was going to Snowfield o' Friday was a

fortnight, and I went last Sunday to fetch her back; but she'd never been there, and she took the coach to

Stoniton, and beyond that I can't trace her. But now I'm going a long journey to look for her, and I can't trust

"It's plain enough she didn't want to marry me, sir," said Adam. "She didn't like it when it came so near. But

that isn't all, I doubt. There's something else I must tell you, sir. There's somebody else concerned besides

A gleam of somethingit was almost like relief or joycame across the eager anxiety of Mr. Irwine's face

at that moment. Adam was looking on the ground, and paused a little: the next words were hard to speak. But

when he went on, he lifted up his head and looked straight at Mr. Irwine. He would do the thing he had

"You know who's the man I've reckoned my greatest friend," he said, "and used to be proud to think as I

should pass my life i' working for him, and had felt so ever since we were lads...."

Mr. Irwine, as if all selfcontrol had forsaken him, grasped Adam's arm, which lay on the table, and,

clutching it tightly like a man in pain, said, with pale lips and a low hurried voice, "No, Adam, nodon't say

Adam, surprised at the violence of Mr. Irwine's feeling, repented of the words that had passed his lips and sat

in distressed silence. The grasp on his arm gradually relaxed, and Mr. Irwine threw himself back in his chair,

"That man played with Hetty's feelings, and behaved to her as he'd no right to do to a girl in her station o'

lifemade her presents and used to go and meet her out awalking. I found it out only two days before he

went awayfound him akissing her as they were parting in the Grove. There'd been nothing said between

me and Hetty then, though I'd loved her for a long while, and she knew it. But I reproached him with his

wrong actions, and words and blows passed between us; and he said solemnly to me, after that, as it had been

all nonsense and no more than a bit o' flirting. But I made him write a letter to tell Hetty he'd meant nothing,

for I saw clear enough, sir, by several things as I hadn't understood at the time, as he'd got hold of her heart,

and I thought she'd belike go on thinking of him and never come to love another man as wanted to marry her.

And I gave her the letter, and she seemed to bear it all after a while better than I'd expected...and she behaved

kinder and kinder to me...I daresay she didn't know her own feelings then, poor thing, and they came back

upon her when it was too late...I don't want to blame her...I can't think as she meant to deceive me. But I was

encouraged to think she loved me, andyou know the rest, sir. But it's on my mind as he's been false to me,

and 'ticed her away, and she's gone to himand I'm going now to see, for I can never go to work again till I

During Adam's narrative, Mr. Irwine had had time to recover his selfmastery in spite of the painful thoughts

that crowded upon him. It was a bitter remembrance to him nowthat morning when Arthur breakfasted

with him and seemed as if he were on the verge of a confession. It was plain enough now what he had wanted

to confess. And if their words had taken another turn...if he himself had been less fastidious about intruding

on another man's secrets...it was cruel to think how thin a film had shut out rescue from all this guilt and

misery. He saw the whole history now by that terrible illumination which the present sheds back upon the

past. But every other feeling as it rushed upon his was thrown into abeyance by pity, deep respectful pity, for

the man who sat before himalready so bruised, going forth with sad blind resignedness to an unreal

sorrow, while a real one was close upon him, too far beyond the range of common trial for him ever to have

feared it. His own agitation was quelled by a certain awe that comes over us in the presence of a great

anguish, for the anguish he must inflict on Adam was already present to him. Again he put his hand on the

"Adam, my dear friend, you have had some hard trials in your life. You can bear sorrow manfully, as well as

act manfully. God requires both tasks at our hands. And there is a heavier sorrow coming upon you than any

you have yet known. But you are not guiltyyou have not the worst of all sorrows. God help him who has!"

The two pale faces looked at each other; in Adam's there was trembling suspense, in Mr. Irwine's hesitating,

"I have had news of Hetty this morning. She is not gone to him. She is in Stonyshireat Stoniton."

Adam started up from his chair, as if he thought he could have leaped to her that moment. But Mr. Irwine laid

hold of his arm again and said, persuasively, "Wait, Adam, wait." So he sat down.

"She is in a very unhappy positionone which will make it worse for you to find her, my poor friend, than to

Adam's lips moved tremulously, but no sound came. They moved again, and he whispered, "Tell me."

It was as if an insulting blow had brought back the spirit of resistance into Adam. The blood rushed to his

"It CAN'T BE!" Adam almost shouted, starting up from his cnair and making a stride towards the door; but

he turned round again, setting his back against the bookcase, and looking fiercely at Mr. Irwine. "It isn't

"Here is a letter from the magistrate before whom she was taken, and the constable who arrested her is in the

diningroom. She will not confess her name or where she comes from; but I fear, I fear, there can be no

doubt it is Hetty. The description of her person corresponds, only that she is said to look very pale and ill. She

had a small redleather pocketbook in her pocket with two names written in itone at the beginning, 'Hetty

Sorrel, Hayslope,' and the other near the end, 'Dinah Morris, Snowfield.' She will not say which is her own

nameshe denies everything, and will answer no questions, and application has been made to me, as a

magistrate, that I may take measures for identifying her, for it was thought probable that the name which

"But what proof have they got against her, if it IS Hetty?" said Adam, still violently, with an effort that

seemed to shake his whole frame. "I'll not believe it. It couldn't ha' been, and none of us know it."

"Terrible proof that she was under the temptation to commit the crime; but we have room to hope that she did

Adam took the letter between his shaking hands and tried to fix his eyes steadily on it. Mr. Irwine meanwhile

went out to give some orders. When he came back, Adam's eyes were still on the first pagehe couldn't

readhe could not put the words together and make out what they meant. He threw it down at last and

"It's HIS doing," he said; "if there's been any crime, it's at his door, not at hers. HE taught her to

deceiveHE deceived me first. Let 'em put HIM on his triallet him stand in court beside her, and I'll tell

'em how he got hold of her heart, and 'ticed her t' evil, and then lied to me. Is HE to go free, while they lay all

The image called up by these last words gave a new direction to poor Adam's maddened feelings. He was

silent, looking at the corner of the room as if he saw something there. Then he burst out again, in a tone of

appealing anguish, "I can't bear it...O God, it's too hard to lay upon meit's too hard to think she's wicked."

Mr. Irwine had sat down again in silence. He was too wise to utter soothing words at present, and indeed, the

sight of Adam before him, with that look of sudden age which sometimes comes over a young face in

moments of terrible emotionthe hard bloodless look of the skin, the deep lines about the quivering mouth,

the furrows in the browthe sight of this strong firm man shattered by the invisible stroke of sorrow, moved

him so deeply that speech was not easy. Adam stood motionless, with his eyes vacantly fixed in this way for

"She can't ha' done it," he said, still without moving his eyes, as if he were only talking to himself: "it was

fear made her hide it...I forgive her for deceiving me...I forgive thee, Hetty...thee wast deceived too...it's gone

He was silent again for a few moments, and then he said, with fierce abruptness, "I'll go to himI'll bring

him backI'll make him go and look at her in her miseryhe shall look at her till he can't forget itit shall

follow him night and dayas long as he lives it shall follow himhe shan't escape wi' lies this time I'll

In the act of going towards the door, Adam paused automatically and looked about for his hat, quite

unconscious where he was or who was present with him. Mr. Irwine had followed him, and now took him by

the arm, saying, in a quiet but decided tone, "No, Adam, no; I'm sure you will wish to stay and see what good

can be done for her, instead of going on a useless errand of vengeance. The punishment will surely fall

without your aid. Besides, he is no longer in Ireland. He must be on his way homeor would be, long before

you arrived, for his grandfather, I know, wrote for him to come at least ten days ago. I want you now to go

with me to Stoniton. I have ordered a horse for you to ride with us, as soon as you can compose yourself."

While Mr. Irwine was speaking, Adam recovered his consciousness of the actual scene. He rubbed his hair

"Remember," Mr. Irwine went on, "there are others to think of, and act for, besides yourself, Adam: there are

Hetty's friends, the good Poysers, on whom this stroke will fall more heavily than I can bear to think. I expect

it from your strength of mind, Adam from your sense of duty to God and manthat you will try to act as

In reality, Mr. Irwine proposed this journey to Stoniton for Adam's own sake. Movement, with some object

before him, was the best means of counteracting the violence of suffering in these first hours.

"You will go with me to Stoniton, Adam?" he said again, after a moment's pause. "We have to see if it is

"Yes, sir," said Adam, "I'll do what you think right. But the folks at th' Hall Farm?"

"I wish them not to know till I return to tell them myself. I shall have ascertained things then which I am

uncertain about now, and I shall return as soon as possible. Come now, the horses are ready."

MR. IRWINE returned from Stoniton in a postchaise that night, and the first words Carroll said to him, as

he entered the house, were, that Squire Donnithorne was deadfound dead in his bed at ten o'clock that

morningand that Mrs. Irwine desired him to say she should be awake when Mr. Irwine came home, and

"Well, Dauphin," Mrs. Irwine said, as her son entered her room, "you're come at last. So the old gentleman's

fidgetiness and low spirits, which made him send for Arthur in that sudden way, really meant something. I

suppose Carroll has told you that Donnithorne was found dead in his bed this morning. You will believe my

prognostications another time, though I daresay I shan't live to prognosticate anything but my own death."

"What have they done about Arthur?" said Mr. Irwine. "Sent a messenger to await him at Liverpool?"

"Yes, Ralph was gone before the news was brought to us. Dear Arthur, I shall live now to see him master at

the Chase, and making good times on the estate, like a generoushearted fellow as he is. He'll be as happy as

Mr. Irwine could not help giving a slight groan: he was worn with anxiety and exertion, and his mother's light

"What are you so dismal about, Dauphin? Is there any bad news? Or are you thinking of the danger for

"No, Mother, I'm not thinking of that; but I'm not prepared to rejoice just now."

"You've been worried by this law business that you've been to Stoniton about. What in the world is it, that

"You will know by and by, mother. It would not be right for me to tell you at present. Goodnight: you'll

Mr. Irwine gave up his intention of sending a letter to meet Arthur, since it would not now hasten his return:

the news of his grandfather's death would bring him as soon as he could possibly come. He could go to bed

now and get some needful rest, before the time came for the morning's heavy duty of carrying his sickening

Adam himself was not come back from Stoniton, for though he shrank from seeing Hetty, he could not bear

"It's no use, sir," he said to the rector, "it's no use for me to go back. I can't go to work again while she's here,

and I couldn't bear the sight o' the things and folks round home. I'll take a bit of a room here, where I can see

Adam had not been shaken in his belief that Hetty was innocent of the crime she was charged with, for Mr.

Irwine, feeling that the belief in her guilt would be a crushing addition to Adam's load, had kept from him the

facts which left no hope in his own mind. There was not any reason for thrusting the whole burden on Adam

at once, and Mr. Irwine, at parting, only said, "If the evidence should tell too strongly against her, Adam, we

may still hope for a pardon. Her youth and other circumstances will be a plea for her."

"Ah, and it's right people should know how she was tempted into the wrong way," said Adam, with bitter

earnestness. "It's right they should know it was a fine gentleman made love to her, and turned her head wi'

notions. You'll remember, sir, you've promised to tell my mother, and Seth, and the people at the farm, who it

was as led her wrong, else they'll think harder of her than she deserves. You'll be doing her a hurt by sparing

him, and I hold him the guiltiest before God, let her ha' done what she may. If you spare him, I'll expose

"I think your demand is just, Adam," said Mr. Irwine, "but when you are calmer, you will judge Arthur more

mercifully. I say nothing now, only that his punishment is in other hands than ours."

Mr. Irwine felt it hard upon him that he should have to tell of Arthur's sad part in the story of sin and

sorrowhe who cared for Arthur with fatherly affection, who had cared for him with fatherly pride. But he

saw clearly that the secret must be known before long, even apart from Adam's determination, since it was

scarcely to be supposed that Hetty would persist to the end in her obstinate silence. He made up his mind to

withhold nothing from the Poysers, but to tell them the worst at once, for there was no time to rob the tidings

of their suddenness. Hetty's trial must come on at the Lent assizes, and they were to be held at Stoniton the

next week. It was scarcely to be hoped that Martin Poyser could escape the pain of being called as a witness,

Before ten o'clock on Thursday morning the home at the Hall Farm was a house of mourning for a misfortune

felt to be worse than death. The sense of family dishonour was too keen even in the kindhearted Martin

Poyser the younger to leave room for any compassion towards Hetty. He and his father were simpleminded

farmers, proud of their untarnished character, proud that they came of a family which had held up its head

and paid its way as far back as its name was in the parish register; and Hetty had brought disgrace on them

alldisgrace that could never be wiped out. That was the allconquering feeling in the mind both of father

and sonthe scorching sense of disgrace, which neutralised all other sensibilityand Mr. Irwine was struck

with surprise to observe that Mrs. Poyser was less severe than her husband. We are often startled by the

severity of mild people on exceptional occasions; the reason is, that mild people are most liable to be under

"I'm willing to pay any money as is wanted towards trying to bring her off," said Martin the younger when

Mr. Irwine was gone, while the old grandfather was crying in the opposite chair, "but I'll not go nigh her, nor

ever see her again, by my own will. She's made our bread bitter to us for all our lives to come, an' we shall

ne'er hold up our heads i' this parish nor i' any other. The parson talks o' folks pitying us: it's poor amends

"Pity?" said the grandfather, sharply. "I ne'er wanted folks's pity i' MY life afore...an' I mun begin to be

looked down on now, an' me turned seventytwo last St. Thomas's, an' all th' underbearers and pallbearers

as I'n picked for my funeral are i' this parish and the next to 't....It's o' no use now...I mun be ta'en to the grave

"Don't fret so, father," said Mrs. Poyser, who had spoken very little, being almost overawed by her husband's

unusual hardness and decision. "You'll have your children wi' you; an' there's the lads and the little un 'ull

"Ah, there's no staying i' this country for us now," said Mr. Poyser, and the hard tears trickled slowly down

his round cheeks. "We thought it 'ud be bad luck if the old squire gave us notice this Lady day, but I must gi'

notice myself now, an' see if there can anybody be got to come an' take to the crops as I'n put i' the ground;

for I wonna stay upo' that man's land a day longer nor I'm forced to't. An' me, as thought him such a good

upright young man, as I should be glad when he come to be our landlord. I'll ne'er lift my hat to him again,

nor sit i' the same church wi' him...a man as has brought shame on respectable folks...an' pretended to be such

a friend t' everybody....Poor Adam there...a fine friend he's been t' Adam, making speeches an' talking so fine,

an' all the while poisoning the lad's life, as it's much if he can stay i' this country any more nor we can."

"An' you t' ha' to go into court, and own you're akin t' her," said the old man. "Why, they'll cast it up to the

little un, as isn't four 'ear old, some daythey'll cast it up t' her as she'd a cousin tried at the 'sizes for

"It'll be their own wickedness, then," said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in her voice. "But there's One above 'ull

take care o' the innicent child, else it's but little truth they tell us at church. It'll be harder nor ever to die an'

"We'd better ha' sent for Dinah, if we'd known where she is," said Mr. Poyser; "but Adam said she'd left no

"Why, she'd be wi' that woman as was a friend t' her Aunt Judith," said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this

suggestion of her husbands. "I've often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can't remember what name she called

her by. But there's Seth Bede; he's like enough to know, for she's a preaching woman as the Methodists think

"I'll send to Seth," said Mr. Poyser. "I'll send Alick to tell him to come, or else to send up word o' the

woman's name, an' thee canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles'on as soon as we can make out a

"It's poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i' trouble," said Mrs. Poyser. "Happen it'll

Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth's thoughts too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to

Seth, "Eh, there's no comfort for us i' this world any more, wi'out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to

us, as she did when my old man died. I'd like her to come in an' take me by th' hand again, an' talk to me.

She'd tell me the rights on't, belikeshe'd happen know some good i' all this trouble an' heartbreak comin'

upo' that poor lad, as ne'er done a bit o' wrong in's life, but war better nor anybody else's son, pick the country

"Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?" said Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked

"Fetch her?" said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like a crying child who hears some promise

"It's a good way off, motherLeeds, a big town. But I could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me."

"Nay, nay, I canna spare thee. Thee must go an' see thy brother, an' bring me word what he's adoin'. Mester

Irwine said he'd come an' tell me, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me. Thee must go

thysen, sin' Adam wonna let me go to him. Write a letter to Dinah canstna? Thee't fond enough o' writin'

"I'm not sure where she'd be i' that big town," said Seth. "If I'd gone myself, I could ha' found out by asking

the members o' the Society. But perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o' th' outside,

Alick came now with the message, and Seth, finding that Mrs. Poyser was writing to Dinah, gave up the

intention of writing himself; but he went to the Hall Farm to tell them all he could suggest about the address

of the letter, and warn them that there might be some delay in the delivery, from his not knowing an exact

On leaving Lisbeth, Mr. Irwine had gone to Jonathan Burge, who had also a claim to be acquainted with what

was likely to keep Adam away from business for some time; and before six o'clock that evening there were

few people in Broxton and Hayslope who had not heard the sad news. Mr. Irwine had not mentioned Arthur's

name to Burge, and yet the story of his conduct towards Hetty, with all the dark shadows cast upon it by its

terrible consequences, was presently as well known as that his grandfather was dead, and that he was come

into the estate. For Martin Poyser felt no motive to keep silence towards the one or two neighbours who

ventured to come and shake him sorrowfully by the hand on the first day of his trouble; and Carroll, who kept

his ears open to all that passed at the rectory, had framed an inferential version of the story, and found early

One of those neighbours who came to Martin Poyser and shook him by the hand without speaking for some

minutes was Bartle Massey. He had shut up his school, and was on his way to the rectory, where he arrived

about halfpast seven in the evening, and, sending his duty to Mr. Irwine, begged pardon for troubling him at

that hour, but had something particular on his mind. He was shown into the study, where Mr. Irwine soon

"Well, Bartle?" said Mr. Irwine, putting out his hand. That was not his usual way of saluting the

schoolmaster, but trouble makes us treat all who feel with us very much alike. "Sit down."

"You wish to know the truth about the sad news that has reached you...about Hetty Sorrel?"

"Nay, sir, what I wish to know is about Adam Bede. I understand you left him at Stoniton, and I beg the

favour of you to tell me what's the state of the poor lad's mind, and what he means to do. For as for that bit o'

pinkandwhite they've taken the trouble to put in jail, I don't value her a rotten nutnot a rotten nut only

for the harm or good that may come out of her to an honest mana lad I've set such store bytrusted to,

that he'd make my bit o' knowledge go a good way in the world....Why, sir, he's the only scholar I've had in

this stupid country that ever had the will or the headpiece for mathematics. If he hadn't had so much hard

work to do, poor fellow, he might have gone into the higher branches, and then this might never have

Bartle was heated by the exertion of walking fast in an agitated frame of mind, and was not able to check

himself on this first occasion of venting his feelings. But he paused now to rub his moist forehead, and

"You'll excuse me, sir," he said, when this pause had given him time to reflect, "for running on in this way

about my own feelings, like that foolish dog of mine howling in a storm, when there's nobody wants to listen

to me. I came to hear you speak, not to talk myselfif you'll take the trouble to tell me what the poor lad's

"Don't put yourself under any restraint, Bartle," said Mr. Irwine. "The fact is, I'm very much in the same

condition as you just now; I've a great deal that's painful on my mind, and I find it hard work to be quite

silent about my own feelings and only attend to others. I share your concern for Adam, though he is not the

only one whose sufferings I care for in this affair. He intends to remain at Stoniton till after the trial: it will

come on probably a week tomorrow. He has taken a room there, and I encouraged him to do so, because I

think it better he should be away from his own home at present; and, poor fellow, he still believes Hetty is

innocenthe wants to summon up courage to see her if he can; he is unwilling to leave the spot where she

"Do you think the creatur's guilty, then?" said Bartle. "Do you think they'll hang her?"

"I'm afraid it will go hard with her. The evidence is very strong. And one bad symptom is that she denies

everythingdenies that she has had a child in the face of the most positive evidence. I saw her myself, and

she was obstinately silent to me; she shrank up like a frightened animal when she saw me. I was never so

shocked in my life as at the change in her. But I trust that, in the worst case, we may obtain a pardon for the

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Bartle, forgetting in his irritation to whom he was speaking. "I beg your pardon,

sir, I mean it's stuff and nonsense for the innocent to care about her being hanged. For my own part, I think

the sooner such women are put out o' the world the better; and the men that help 'em to do mischief had better

go along with 'em for that matter. What good will you do by keeping such vermin alive, eating the victual that

'ud feed rational beings? But if Adam's fool enough to care about it, I don't want him to suffer more than's

needful....Is he very much cut up, poor fellow?" Bartle added, taking out his spectacles and putting them on,

"Yes, I'm afraid the grief cuts very deep," said Mr. Irwine. "He looks terribly shattered, and a certain violence

came over him now and then yesterday, which made me wish I could have remained near him. But I shall go

to Stoniton again tomorrow, and I have confidence enough in the strength of Adam's principle to trust that

Mr. Irwine, who was involuntarily uttering his own thoughts rather than addressing Bartle Massey in the last

sentence, had in his mind the possibility that the spirit of vengeance towards Arthur, which was the form

Adam's anguish was continually taking, might make him seek an encounter that was likely to end more

fatally than the one in the Grove. This possibility heightened the anxiety with which he looked forward to

Arthur's arrival. But Bartle thought Mr. Irwine was referring to suicide, and his face wore a new alarm.

"I'll tell you what I have in my head, sir," he said, "and I hope you'll approve of it. I'm going to shut up my

schoolif the scholars come, they must go back again, that's alland I shall go to Stoniton and look after

Adam till this business is over. I'll pretend I'm come to look on at the assizes; he can't object to that. What do

"Well," said Mr. Irwine, rather hesitatingly, "there would be some real advantages in that...and I honour you

for your friendship towards him, Bartle. But...you must be careful what you say to him, you know. I'm afraid

you have too little fellowfeeling in what you consider his weakness about Hetty."

"Trust to me, sirtrust to me. I know what you mean. I've been a fool myself in my time, but that's between

you and me. I shan't thrust myself on him only keep my eye on him, and see that he gets some good food, and

"Then," said Mr. Irwine, reassured a little as to Bartle's discretion, "I think you'll be doing a good deed; and it

"Yes, sir, yes," said Bartle, rising, and taking off his spectacles, "I'll do that, I'll do that; though the mother's a

whimpering thingI don't like to come within earshot of her; however, she's a straightbacked, clean

woman, none of your slatterns. I wish you goodbye, sir, and thank you for the time you've spared me.

You're everybody's friend in this business everybody's friend. It's a heavy weight you've got on your

Bartle hurried away from the rectory, evading Carroll's conversational advances, and saying in an exasperated

tone to Vixen, whose short legs pattered beside him on the gravel, "Now, I shall be obliged to take you with

me, you goodfornothing woman. You'd go fretting yourself to death if I left youyou know you would,

and perhaps get snapped up by some tramp. And you'll be running into bad company, I expect, putting your

nose in every hole and corner where you've no business! But if you do anything disgraceful, I'll disown

AN upper room in a dull Stoniton street, with two beds in itone laid on the floor. It is ten o'clock on

Thursday night, and the dark wall opposite the window shuts out the moonlight that might have struggled

with the light of the one dip candle by which Bartle Massey is pretending to read, while he is really looking

You would hardly have known it was Adam without being told. His face has got thinner this last week: he

has the sunken eyes, the neglected beard of a man just risen from a sickbed. His heavy black hair hangs over

his forehead, and there is no active impulse in him which inclines him to push it off, that he may be more

awake to what is around him. He has one arm over the back of the chair, and he seems to be looking down at

"There he is," said Bartle Massey, rising hastily and unfastening the door. It was Mr. Irwine.

Adam rose from his chair with instinctive respect, as Mr. Irwine approached him and took his hand.

"I'm late, Adam," he said, sitting down on the chair which Bartle placed for him, "but I was later in setting off

from Broxton than I intended to be, and I have been incessantly occupied since I arrived. I have done

everything now, howevereverything that can be done tonight, at least. Let us all sit down."

Adam took his chair again mechanically, and Bartle, for whom there was no chair remaining, sat on the bed

"Yes," said Mr. Irwine, with some hesitation, "I spoke of you. I said you wished to see her before the trial, if

"You know she shrinks from seeing any one, Adam. It is not only yousome fatal influence seems to have

shut up her heart against her fellowcreatures. She has scarcely said anything more than 'No' either to me or

the chaplain. Three or four days ago, before you were mentioned to her, when I asked her if there was any

one of her family whom she would like to seeto whom she could open her mindshe said, with a violent

Adam's head was hanging down again, and he did not speak. There was silence for a few minutes, and then

Mr. Irwine said, "I don't like to advise you against your own feelings, Adam, if they now urge you strongly to

go and see her tomorrow morning, even without her consent. It is just possible, notwithstanding appearances

to the contrary, that the interview might affect her favourably. But I grieve to say I have scarcely any hope of

that. She didn't seem agitated when I mentioned your name; she only said 'No,' in the same cold, obstinate

way as usual. And if the meeting had no good effect on her, it would be pure, useless suffering to

Adam started up from his chair and seized his hat, which lay on the table. But he stood still then, and looked

at Mr. Irwine, as if he had a question to ask which it was yet difficult to utter. Bartle Massey rose quietly,

"No, he is not," said Mr. Irwine, quietly. "Lay down your hat, Adam, unless you like to walk out with me for

"You needn't deceive me, sir," said Adam, looking hard at Mr. Irwine and speaking in a tone of angry

suspicion. "You needn't be afraid of me. I only want justice. I want him to feel what she feels. It's his

work...she was a child as it 'ud ha' gone t' anybody's heart to look at...I don't care what she's done...it was him

brought her to it. And he shall know it...he shall feel it...if there's a just God, he shall feel what it is t' ha'

"I'm not deceiving you, Adam," said Mr. Irwine. "Arthur Donnithorne is not come backwas not come back

when I left. I have left a letter for him: he will know all as soon as he arrives."

"But you don't mind about it," said Adam indignantly. "You think it doesn't matter as she lies there in shame

"Adam, he WILL knowhe WILL suffer, long and bitterly. He has a heart and a conscience: I can't be

entirely deceived in his character. I am convincedI am sure he didn't fall under temptation without a

struggle. He may be weak, but he is not callous, not coldly selfish. I am persuaded that this will be a shock of

which he will feel the effects all his life. Why do you crave vengeance in this way? No amount of torture that

"NoO God, no," Adam groaned out, sinking on his chair again; "but then, that's the deepest curse of

all...that's what makes the blackness of it...IT CAN NEVER BE UNDONE. My poor Hetty...she can never be

my sweet Hetty again...the prettiest thing God had made smiling up at me...I thought she loved me...and

Adam's voice had been gradually sinking into a hoarse undertone, as if he were only talking to himself; but

now he said abruptly, looking at Mr. Irwine, "But she isn't as guilty as they say? You don't think she is, sir?

"That perhaps can never be known with certainty, Adam," Mr. Irwine answered gently. "In these cases we

sometimes form our judgment on what seems to us strong evidence, and yet, for want of knowing some small

fact, our judgment is wrong. But suppose the worst: you have no right to say that the guilt of her crime lies

with him, and that he ought to bear the punishment. It is not for us men to apportion the shares of moral guilt

and retribution. We find it impossible to avoid mistakes even in determining who has committed a single

criminal act, and the problem how far a man is to be held responsible for the unforeseen consequences of his

own deed is one that might well make us tremble to look into it. The evil consequences that may lie folded in

a single act of selfish indulgence is a thought so awful that it ought surely to awaken some feeling less

presumptuous than a rash desire to punish. You have a mind that can understand this fully, Adam, when you

are calm. Don't suppose I can't enter into the anguish that drives you into this state of revengeful hatred. But

think of this: if you were to obey your passionfor it IS passion, and you deceive yourself in calling it

justiceit might be with you precisely as it has been with Arthur; nay, worse; your passion might lead you

"Nonot worse," said Adam, bitterly; "I don't believe it's worse I'd sooner do itI'd sooner do a

wickedness as I could suffer for by myself than ha' brought HER to do wickedness and then stand by and see

'em punish her while they let me alone; and all for a bit o' pleasure, as, if he'd had a man's heart in him, he'd

ha' cut his hand off sooner than he'd ha' taken it. What if he didn't foresee what's happened? He foresaw

enough; he'd no right to expect anything but harm and shame to her. And then he wanted to smooth it off wi'

lies. Nothere's plenty o' things folks are hanged for not half so hateful as that. Let a man do what he will, if

he knows he's to bear the punishment himself, he isn't half so bad as a mean selfish coward as makes things

easy t' himself and knows all the while the punishment 'll fall on somebody else."

"There again you partly deceive yourself, Adam. There is no sort of wrong deed of which a man can bear the

punishment alone; you can't isolate yourself and say that the evil which is in you shall not spread. Men's lives

are as thoroughly blended with each other as the air they breathe: evil spreads as necessarily as disease. I

know, I feel the terrible extent of suffering this sin of Arthur's has caused to others; but so does every sin

cause suffering to others besides those who commit it. An act of vengeance on your part against Arthur would

simply be another evil added to those we are suffering under: you could not bear the punishment alone; you

would entail the worst sorrows on every one who loves you. You would have committed an act of blind fury

that would leave all the present evils just as they were and add worse evils to them. You may tell me that you

meditate no fatal act of vengeance, but the feeling in your mind is what gives birth to such actions, and as

long as you indulge it, as long as you do not see that to fix your mind on Arthur's punishment is revenge, and

not justice, you are in danger of being led on to the commission of some great wrong. Remember what you

told me about your feelings after you had given that blow to Arthur in the Grove."

Adam was silent: the last words had called up a vivid image of the past, and Mr. Irwine left him to his

thoughts, while he spoke to Bartle Massey about old Mr. Donnithorne's funeral and other matters of an

indifferent kind. But at length Adam turned round and said, in a more subdued tone, "I've not asked about 'em

"He is come; he is in Stoniton tonight. But I could not advise him to see you, Adam. His own mind is in a

very perturbed state, and it is best he should not see you till you are calmer."

"No. Mr. Poyser tells me she was not come when he left. They're afraid the letter has not reached her. It

Adam sat ruminating a little while, and then said, "I wonder if Dinah 'ud ha' gone to see her. But perhaps the

Poysers would ha' been sorely against it, since they won't come nigh her themselves. But I think she would,

for the Methodists are great folks for going into the prisons; and Seth said he thought she would. She'd a very

tender way with her, Dinah had; I wonder if she could ha' done any good. You never saw her, sir, did you?"

"Yes, I did. I had a conversation with hershe pleased me a good deal. And now you mention it, I wish she

would come, for it is possible that a gentle mild woman like her might move Hetty to open her heart. The jail

"If I'd thought of it earlier, I would have taken some measures for finding her out," said Mr. Irwine, "but it's

too late now, I fear...Well, Adam, I must go now. Try to get some rest tonight. God bless you. I'll see you

AT one o'clock the next day, Adam was alone in his dull upper room; his watch lay before him on the table,

as if he were counting the long minutes. He had no knowledge of what was likely to be said by the witnesses

on the trial, for he had shrunk from all the particulars connected with Hetty's arrest and accusation. This brave

active man, who would have hastened towards any danger or toil to rescue Hetty from an apprehended wrong

or misfortune, felt himself powerless to contemplate irremediable evil and suffering. The susceptibility which

would have been an impelling force where there was any possibility of action became helpless anguish when

he was obliged to be passive, or else sought an active outlet in the thought of inflicting justice on Arthur.

Energetic natures, strong for all strenuous deeds, will often rush away from a hopeless sufferer, as if they

were hardhearted. It is the overmastering sense of pain that drives them. They shrink by an ungovernable

instinct, as they would shrink from laceration. Adam had brought himself to think of seeing Hetty, if she

would consent to see him, because he thought the meeting might possibly be a good to hermight help to

melt away this terrible hardness they told him of. If she saw he bore her no ill will for what she had done to

him, she might open her heart to him. But this resolution had been an immense efforthe trembled at the

thought of seeing her changed face, as a timid woman trembles at the thought of the surgeon's knife, and he

chose now to bear the long hours of suspense rather than encounter what seemed to him the more intolerable

Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. The

yearning memories, the bitter regret, the agonized sympathy, the struggling appeals to the Invisible

Rightall the intense emotions which had filled the days and nights of the past week, and were compressing

themselves again like an eager crowd into the hours of this single morning, made Adam look back on all the

previous years as if they had been a dim sleepy existence, and he had only now awaked to full consciousness.

It seemed to him as if he had always before thought it a light thing that men should suffer, as if all that he had

himself endured and called sorrow before was only a moment's stroke that had never left a bruise. Doubtless

a great anguish may do the work of years, and we may come out from that baptism of fire with a soul full of

"O God," Adam groaned, as he leaned on the table and looked blankly at the face of the watch, "and men

have suffered like this before...and poor helpless young things have suffered like her....Such a little while ago

looking so happy and so pretty...kissing 'em all, her grandfather and all of 'em, and they wishing her luck....O

Adam started and looked round towards the door. Vixen had begun to whimper, and there was a sound of a

stick and a lame walk on the stairs. It was Bartle Massey come back. Could it be all over?

Bartle entered quietly, and, going up to Adam, grasped his hand and said, "I'm just come to look at you, my

Adam's heart beat so violently he was unable to speakhe could only return the pressure of his friend's

handand Bartle, drawing up the other chair, came and sat in front of him, taking off his hat and his

"That's a thing never happened to me before," he observed, "to go out o' the door with my spectacles on. I

The old man made this trivial remark, thinking it better not to respond at all to Adam's agitation: he would

gather, in an indirect way, that there was nothing decisive to communicate at present.

"And now," he said, rising again, "I must see to your having a bit of the loaf, and some of that wine Mr.

Irwine sent this morning. He'll be angry with me if you don't have it. Come, now," he went on, bringing

forward the bottle and the loaf and pouring some wine into a cup, "I must have a bit and a sup myself. Drink

Adam pushed the cup gently away and said, entreatingly, "Tell me about it, Mr. Masseytell me all about it.

"Yes, my boy, yesit's taken all the time since I first went; but they're slow, they're slow; and there's the

counsel they've got for her puts a spoke in the wheel whenever he can, and makes a deal to do with

crossexamining the witnesses and quarrelling with the other lawyers. That's all he can do for the money they

give him; and it's a big sumit's a big sum. But he's a 'cute fellow, with an eye that 'ud pick the needles out

of the hay in no time. If a man had got no feelings, it 'ud be as good as a demonstration to listen to what goes

on in court; but a tender heart makes one stupid. I'd have given up figures for ever only to have had some

"But does it seem to be going against her?" said Adam. "Tell me what they've said. I must know it nowI

"Why, the chief evidence yet has been the doctors; all but Martin Poyserpoor Martin. Everybody in court

felt for himit was like one sob, the sound they made when he came down again. The worst was when they

told him to look at the prisoner at the bar. It was hard work, poor fellowit was hard work. Adam, my boy,

the blow falls heavily on him as well as you; you must help poor Martin; you must show courage. Drink

Bartle had made the right sort of appeal. Adam, with an air of quiet obedience, took up the cup and drank a

"Frightened, very frightened, when they first brought her in; it was the first sight of the crowd and the judge,

poor creatur. And there's a lot o' foolish women in fine clothes, with gewgaws all up their arms and feathers

on their heads, sitting near the judge: they've dressed themselves out in that way, one 'ud think, to be

scarecrows and warnings against any man ever meddling with a woman again. They put up their glasses, and

stared and whispered. But after that she stood like a white image, staring down at her hands and seeming

neither to hear nor see anything. And she's as white as a sheet. She didn't speak when they asked her if she'd

plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty,' and they pleaded 'not guilty' for her. But when she heard her uncle's name, there

seemed to go a shiver right through her; and when they told him to look at her, she hung her head down, and

cowered, and hid her face in her hands. He'd much ado to speak poor man, his voice trembled so. And the

counsellorswho look as hard as nails mostlyI saw, spared him as much as they could. Mr. Irwine put

himself near him and went with him out o' court. Ah, it's a great thing in a man's life to be able to stand by a

"God bless him, and you too, Mr. Massey," said Adam, in a low voice, laying his hand on Bartle's arm.

"Aye, aye, he's good metal; he gives the right ring when you try him, our parson does. A man o' sensesays

no more than's needful. He's not one of those that think they can comfort you with chattering, as if folks who

stand by and look on knew a deal better what the trouble was than those who have to bear it. I've had to do

with such folks in my timein the south, when I was in trouble myself. Mr. Irwine is to be a witness

himself, by and by, on her side, you know, to speak to her character and bringing up."

"But the other evidence...does it go hard against her!" said Adam. "What do you think, Mr. Massey? Tell me

"Yes, my lad, yes. The truth is the best thing to tell. It must come at last. The doctors' evidence is heavy on

heris heavy. But she's gone on denying she's had a child from first to last. These poor silly

womenthingsthey've not the sense to know it's no use denying what's proved. It'll make against her with

the jury, I doubt, her being so obstinate: they may be less for recommending her to mercy, if the verdict's

against her. But Mr. Irwine 'ull leave no stone unturned with the judgeyou may rely upon that, Adam."

"Is there nobody to stand by her and seem to care for her in the court?" said Adam.

"There's the chaplain o' the jail sits near her, but he's a sharp ferretyfaced mananother sort o' flesh and

blood to Mr. Irwine. They say the jail chaplains are mostly the fagend o' the clergy."

"There's one man as ought to be there," said Adam bitterly. Presently he drew himself up and looked fixedly

"Mr. Massey," he said at last, pushing the hair off his forehead, "I'll go back with you. I'll go into court. It's

cowardly of me to keep away. I'll stand by herI'll own herfor all she's been deceitful. They oughtn't to

cast her offher own flesh and blood. We hand folks over to God's mercy, and show none ourselves. I used

to be hard sometimes: I'll never be hard again. I'll go, Mr. MasseyI'll go with you."

There was a decision in Adam's manner which would have prevented Bartle from opposing him, even if he

had wished to do so. He only said, "Take a bit, then, and another sup, Adam, for the love of me. See, I must

Nerved by an active resolution, Adam took a morsel of bread and drank some wine. He was haggard and

unshaven, as he had been yesterday, but he stood upright again, and looked more like the Adam Bede of

THE place fitted up that day as a court of justice was a grand old hall, now destroyed by fire. The midday

light that fell on the close pavement of human heads was shed through a line of high pointed windows,

variegated with the mellow tints of old painted glass. Grim dusty armour hung in high relief in front of the

dark oaken gallery at the farther end, and under the broad arch of the great mullioned window opposite was

spread a curtain of old tapestry, covered with dim melancholy figures, like a dozing indistinct dream of the

past. It was a place that through the rest of the year was haunted with the shadowy memories of old kings and

queens, unhappy, discrowned, imprisoned; but today all those shadows had fled, and not a soul in the vast

hall felt the presence of any but a living sorrow, which was quivering in warm hearts.

But that sorrow seemed to have made it itself feebly felt hitherto, now when Adam Bede's tall figure was

suddenly seen being ushered to the side of the prisoner's dock. In the broad sunlight of the great hall, among

the sleek shaven faces of other men, the marks of suffering in his face were startling even to Mr. Irwine, who

had last seen him in the dim light of his small room; and the neighbours from Hayslope who were present,

and who told Hetty Sorrel's story by their firesides in their old age, never forgot to say how it moved them

when Adam Bede, poor fellow, taller by the head than most of the people round him, came into court and

But Hetty did not see him. She was standing in the same position Bartle Massey had described, her hands

crossed over each other and her eyes fixed on them. Adam had not dared to look at her in the first moments,

but at last, when the attention of the court was withdrawn by the proceedings he turned his face towards her

Why did they say she was so changed? In the corpse we love, it is the likeness we seeit is the likeness,

which makes itself felt the more keenly because something else was and is not. There they werethe sweet

face and neck, with the dark tendrils of hair, the long dark lashes, the rounded cheek and the pouting

lipspale and thin, yes, but like Hetty, and only Hetty. Others thought she looked as if some demon had cast

a blighting glance upon her, withered up the woman's soul in her, and left only a hard despairing obstinacy.

But the mother's yearning, that completest type of the life in another life which is the essence of real human

love, feels the presence of the cherished child even in the debased, degraded man; and to Adam, this pale,

hardlooking culprit was the Hetty who had smiled at him in the garden under the appletree boughsshe

was that Hetty's corpse, which he had trembled to look at the first time, and then was unwilling to turn away

But presently he heard something that compelled him to listen, and made the sense of sight less absorbing. A

woman was in the witnessbox, a middleaged woman, who spoke in a firm distinct voice. She said, "My

name is Sarah Stone. I am a widow, and keep a small shop licensed to sell tobacco, snuff, and tea in Church

Lane, Stoniton. The prisoner at the bar is the same young woman who came, looking ill and tired, with a

basket on her arm, and asked for a lodging at my house on Saturday evening, the 27th of February. She had

taken the house for a public, because there was a figure against the door. And when I said I didn't take in

lodgers, the prisoner began to cry, and said she was too tired to go anywhere else, and she only wanted a bed

for one night. And her prettiness, and her condition, and something respectable about her clothes and looks,

and the trouble she seemed to be in made me as I couldn't find in my heart to send her away at once. I asked

her to sit down, and gave her some tea, and asked her where she was going, and where her friends were. She

said she was going home to her friends: they were farming folks a good way off, and she'd had a long journey

that had cost her more money than she expected, so as she'd hardly any money left in her pocket, and was

afraid of going where it would cost her much. She had been obliged to sell most of the things out of her

basket, but she'd thankfully give a shilling for a bed. I saw no reason why I shouldn't take the young woman

in for the night. I had only one room, but there were two beds in it, and I told her she might stay with me. I

thought she'd been led wrong, and got into trouble, but if she was going to her friends, it would be a good

The witness then stated that in the night a child was born, and she identified the babyclothes then shown to

"Those are the clothes. I made them myself, and had kept them by me ever since my last child was born. I

took a deal of trouble both for the child and the mother. I couldn't help taking to the little thing and being

anxious about it. I didn't send for a doctor, for there seemed no need. I told the mother in the day time she

must tell me the name of her friends, and where they lived, and let me write to them. She said, by and by she

would write herself, but not today. She would have no nay, but she would get up and be dressed, in spite of

everything I could say. She said she felt quite strong enough; and it was wonderful what spirit she showed.

But I wasn't quite easy what I should do about her, and towards evening I made up my mind I'd go, after

Meeting was over, and speak to our minister about it. I left the house about halfpast eight o'clock. I didn't go

out at the shop door, but at the back door, which opens into a narrow alley. I've only got the groundfloor of

the house, and the kitchen and bedroom both look into the alley. I left the prisoner sitting up by the fire in the

kitchen with the baby on her lap. She hadn't cried or seemed low at all, as she did the night before. I thought

she had a strange look with her eyes, and she got a bit flushed towards evening. I was afraid of the fever, and

I thought I'd call and ask an acquaintance of mine, an experienced woman, to come back with me when I

went out. It was a very dark night. I didn't fasten the door behind me; there was no lock; it was a latch with a

bolt inside, and when there was nobody in the house I always went out at the shop door. But I thought there

was no danger in leaving it unfastened that little while. I was longer than I meant to be, for I had to wait for

the woman that came back with me. It was an hour and a half before we got back, and when we went in, the

candle was standing burning just as I left it, but the prisoner and the baby were both gone. She'd taken her

cloak and bonnet, but she'd left the basket and the things in it....I was dreadful frightened, and angry with her

for going. I didn't go to give information, because I'd no thought she meant to do any harm, and I knew she

had money in her pocket to buy her food and lodging. I didn't like to set the constable after her, for she'd a

The effect of this evidence on Adam was electrical; it gave him new force. Hetty could not be guilty of the

crimeher heart must have clung to her babyelse why should she have taken it with her? She might have

left it behind. The little creature had died naturally, and then she had hidden it. Babies were so liable to

deathand there might be the strongest suspicions without any proof of guilt. His mind was so occupied

with imaginary arguments against such suspicions, that he could not listen to the cross examination by

Hetty's counsel, who tried, without result, to elicit evidence that the prisoner had shown some movements of

maternal affection towards the child. The whole time this witness was being examined, Hetty had stood as

motionless as before: no word seemed to arrest her ear. But the sound of the next witness's voice touched a

chord that was still sensitive, she gave a start and a frightened look towards him, but immediately turned

away her head and looked down at her hands as before. This witness was a man, a rough peasant. He said:

"My name is John Olding. I am a labourer, and live at Tedd's Hole, two miles out of Stoniton. A week last

Monday, towards one o'clock in the afternoon, I was going towards Hetton Coppice, and about a quarter of a

mile from the coppice I saw the prisoner, in a red cloak, sitting under a bit of a haystack not far off the stile.

She got up when she saw me, and seemed as if she'd be walking on the other way. It was a regular road

through the fields, and nothing very uncommon to see a young woman there, but I took notice of her because

she looked white and scared. I should have thought she was a beggarwoman, only for her good clothes. I

thought she looked a bit crazy, but it was no business of mine. I stood and looked back after her, but she went

right on while she was in sight. I had to go to the other side of the coppice to look after some stakes. There's a

road right through it, and bits of openings here and there, where the trees have been cut down, and some of

'em not carried away. I didn't go straight along the road, but turned off towards the middle, and took a shorter

way towards the spot I wanted to get to. I hadn't got far out of the road into one of the open places before I

heard a strange cry. I thought it didn't come from any animal I knew, but I wasn't for stopping to look about

just then. But it went on, and seemed so strange to me in that place, I couldn't help stopping to look. I began

to think I might make some money of it, if it was a new thing. But I had hard work to tell which way it came

from, and for a good while I kept looking up at the boughs. And then I thought it came from the ground; and

there was a lot of timberchoppings lying about, and loose pieces of turf, and a trunk or two. And I looked

about among them, but could find nothing, and at last the cry stopped. So I was for giving it up, and I went on

about my business. But when I came back the same way pretty nigh an hour after, I couldn't help laying down

my stakes to have another look. And just as I was stooping and laying down the stakes, I saw something odd

and round and whitish lying on the ground under a nutbush by the side of me. And I stooped down on hands

At these words a thrill ran through the court. Hetty was visibly trembling; now, for the first time, she seemed

"There was a lot of timberchoppings put together just where the ground went hollow, like, under the bush,

and the hand came out from among them. But there was a hole left in one place and I could see down it and

see the child's head; and I made haste and did away the turf and the choppings, and took out the child. It had

got comfortable clothes on, but its body was cold, and I thought it must be dead. I made haste back with it out

of the wood, and took it home to my wife. She said it was dead, and I'd better take it to the parish and tell the

constable. And I said, 'I'll lay my life it's that young woman's child as I met going to the coppice.' But she

seemed to be gone clean out of sight. And I took the child on to Hetton parish and told the constable, and we

went on to Justice Hardy. And then we went looking after the young woman till dark at night, and we went

and gave information at Stoniton, as they might stop her. And the next morning, another constable came to

me, to go with him to the spot where I found the child. And when we got there, there was the prisoner a

sitting against the bush where I found the child; and she cried out when she saw us, but she never offered to

Adam had given a faint groan of despair while this witness was speaking. He had hidden his face on his arm,

which rested on the boarding in front of him. It was the supreme moment of his suffering: Hetty was guilty;

and he was silently calling to God for help. He heard no more of the evidence, and was unconscious when the

case for the prosecution had closedunconscious that Mr. Irwine was in the witnessbox, telling of Hetty's

unblemished character in her own parish and of the virtuous habits in which she had been brought up. This

testimony could have no influence on the verdict, but it was given as part of that plea for mercy which her

own counsel would have made if he had been allowed to speak for hera favour not granted to criminals in

At last Adam lifted up his head, for there was a general movement round him. The judge had addressed the

jury, and they were retiring. The decisive moment was not far off Adam felt a shuddering horror that would

not let him look at Hetty, but she had long relapsed into her blank hard indifference. All eyes were strained to

'There was a mingled rustling, whispering, and low buzzing throughout the court during this interval. The

desire to listen was suspended, and every one had some feeling or opinion to express in undertones. Adam sat

looking blankly before him, but he did not see the objects that were right in front of his eyes the counsel

and attorneys talking with an air of cool business, and Mr. Irwine in low earnest conversation with the

judgedid not see Mr. Irwine sit down again in agitation and shake his head mournfully when somebody

whispered to him. The inward action was too intense for Adam to take in outward objects until some strong

It was not very long, hardly more than a quarter of an hour, before the knock which told that the jury had

come to their decision fell as a signal for silence on every ear. It is sublimethat sudden pause of a great

multitude which tells that one soul moves in them all. Deeper and deeper the silence seemed to become, like

the deepening night, while the jurymen's names were called over, and the prisoner was made to hold up her

It was the verdict every one expected, but there was a sigh of disappointment from some hearts that it was

followed by no recommendation to mercy. Still the sympathy of the court was not with the prisoner. The

unnaturalness of her crime stood out the more harshly by the side of her hard immovability and obstinate

silence. Even the verdict, to distant eyes, had not appeared to move her, but those who were near saw her

The stillness was less intense until the judge put on his black cap, and the chaplain in his canonicals was

observed behind him. Then it deepened again, before the crier had had time to command silence. If any sound

were heard, it must have been the sound of beating hearts. The judge spoke, "Hester Sorrel...."

The blood rushed to Hetty's face, and then fled back again as she looked up at the judge and kept her

wideopen eyes fixed on him, as if fascinated by fear. Adam had not yet turned towards her, there was a deep

horror, like a great gulf, between them. But at the words "and then to be hanged by the neck till you be dead,"

a piercing shriek rang through the hall. It was Hetty's shriek. Adam started to his feet and stretched out his

arms towards her. But the arms could not reach her: she had fallen down in a faintingfit, and was carried out

When Arthur Donnithorne landed at Liverpool and read the letter from his Aunt Lydia, briefly announcing

his grandfather's death, his first feeling was, "Poor Grandfather! I wish I could have got to him to be with

him when he died. He might have felt or wished something at the last that I shall never know now. It was a

It is impossible to say that his grief was deeper than that. Pity and softened memory took place of the old

antagonism, and in his busy thoughts about the future, as the chaise carried him rapidly along towards the

home where he was now to be master, there was a continually recurring effort to remember anything by

which he could show a regard for his grandfather's wishes, without counteracting his own cherished aims for

the good of the tenants and the estate. But it is not in human natureonly in human pretencefor a young

man like Arthur, with a fine constitution and fine spirits, thinking well of himself, believing that others think

well of him, and having a very ardent intention to give them more and more reason for that good opinionit

is not possible for such a young man, just coming into a splendid estate through the death of a very old man

whom he was not fond of, to feel anything very different from exultant joy. Now his real life was beginning;

now he would have room and opportunity for action, and he would use them. He would show the Loamshire

people what a fine country gentleman was; he would not exchange that career for any other under the sun. He

felt himself riding over the hills in the breezy autumn days, looking after favourite plans of drainage and

enclosure; then admired on sombre mornings as the best rider on the best horse in the hunt; spoken well of on

marketdays as a firstrate landlord; by and by making speeches at election dinners, and showing a

wonderful knowledge of agriculture; the patron of new ploughs and drills, the severe upbraider of negligent

landowners, and withal a jolly fellow that everybody must likehappy faces greeting him everywhere on his

own estate, and the neighbouring families on the best terms with him. The Irwines should dine with him

every week, and have their own carriage to come in, for in some very delicate way that Arthur would devise,

the layimpropriator of the Hayslope tithes would insist on paying a couple of hundreds more to the vicar;

and his aunt should be as comfortable as possible, and go on living at the Chase, if she liked, in spite of her

oldmaidish waysat least until he was married, and that event lay in the indistinct background, for Arthur

had not yet seen the woman who would play the ladywife to the firstrate country gentleman.

These were Arthur's chief thoughts, so far as a man's thoughts through hours of travelling can be compressed

into a few sentences, which are only like the list of names telling you what are the scenes in a long long

panorama full of colour, of detail, and of life. The happy faces Arthur saw greeting him were not pale

abstractions, but real ruddy faces, long familiar to him: Martin Poyser was therethe whole Poyser family.

Yes; for Arthur was at ease about Hettynot quite at ease about the past, for a certain burning of the ears

would come whenever he thought of the scenes with Adam last August, but at ease about her present lot. Mr.

Irwine, who had been a regular correspondent, telling him all the news about the old places and people, had

sent him word nearly three months ago that Adam Bede was not to marry Mary Burge, as he had thought, but

pretty Hetty Sorrel. Martin Poyser and Adam himself had both told Mr. Irwine all about it that Adam had

been deeply in love with Hetty these two years, and that now it was agreed they were to be married in March.

That stalwart rogue Adam was more susceptible than the rector had thought; it was really quite an idyllic love

affair; and if it had not been too long to tell in a letter, he would have liked to describe to Arthur the blushing

looks and the simple strong words with which the fine honest fellow told his secret. He knew Arthur would

Yes, indeed! Arthur felt there was not air enough in the room to satisfy his renovated life, when he had read

that passage in the letter. He threw up the windows, he rushed out of doors into the December air, and greeted

every one who spoke to him with an eager gaiety, as if there had been news of a fresh Nelson victory. For the

first time that day since he had come to Windsor, he was in true boyish spirits. The load that had been

pressing upon him was gone, the haunting fear had vanished. He thought he could conquer his bitterness

towards Adam nowcould offer him his hand, and ask to be his friend again, in spite of that painful memory

which would still make his ears burn. He had been knocked down, and he had been forced to tell a lie: such

things make a scar, do what we will. But if Adam were the same again as in the old days, Arthur wished to be

the same too, and to have Adam mixed up with his business and his future, as he had always desired before

the accursed meeting in August. Nay, he would do a great deal more for Adam than he should otherwise have

done, when he came into the estate; Hetty's husband had a special claim on himHetty herself should feel

that any pain she had suffered through Arthur in the past was compensated to her a hundredfold. For really

she could not have felt much, since she had so soon made up her mind to marry Adam.

You perceive clearly what sort of picture Adam and Hetty made in the panorama of Arthur's thoughts on his

journey homeward. It was March now; they were soon to be married: perhaps they were already married. And

now it was actually in his power to do a great deal for them. Sweetsweet little Hetty! The little puss hadn't

cared for him half as much as he cared for her; for he was a great fool about her stillwas almost afraid of

seeing herindeed, had not cared much to look at any other woman since he parted from her. That little

figure coming towards him in the Grove, those darkfringed childish eyes, the lovely lips put up to kiss

him that picture had got no fainter with the lapse of months. And she would look just the same. It was

impossible to think how he could meet her: he should certainly tremble. Strange, how long this sort of

influence lasts, for he was certainly not in love with Hetty now. He had been earnestly desiring, for months,

that she should marry Adam, and there was nothing that contributed more to his happiness in these moments

than the thought of their marriage. It was the exaggerating effect of imagination that made his heart still beat

a little more quickly at the thought of her. When he saw the little thing again as she really was, as Adam's

wife, at work quite prosaically in her new home, he should perhaps wonder at the possibility of his past

feelings. Thank heaven it had turned out so well! He should have plenty of affairs and interests to fill his life

Pleasant the crack of the postboy's whip! Pleasant the sense of being hurried along in swift ease through

English scenes, so like those round his own home, only not quite so charming. Here was a

markettownvery much like Treddlestonwhere the arms of the neighbouring lord of the manor were

borne on the sign of the principal inn; then mere fields and hedges, their vicinity to a markettown carrying

an agreeable suggestion of high rent, till the land began to assume a trimmer look, the woods were more

frequent, and at length a white or red mansion looked down from a moderate eminence, or allowed him to be

aware of its parapet and chimneys among the denselooking masses of oaks and elmsmasses reddened

now with early buds. And close at hand came the village: the small church, with its redtiled roof, looking

humble even among the faded halftimbered houses; the old green gravestones with nettles round them;

nothing fresh and bright but the children, opening round eyes at the swift postchaise; nothing noisy and busy

but the gaping curs of mysterious pedigree. What a much prettier village Hayslope was! And it should not be

neglected like this place: vigorous repairs should go on everywhere among farmbuildings and cottages, and

travellers in postchaises, coming along the Rosseter road, should do nothing but admire as they went. And

Adam Bede should superintend all the repairs, for he had a share in Burge's business now, and, if he liked,

Arthur would put some money into the concern and buy the old man out in another year or two. That was an

ugly fault in Arthur's life, that affair last summer, but the future should make amends. Many men would have

retained a feeling of vindictiveness towards Adam, but he would nothe would resolutely overcome all

littleness of that kind, for he had certainly been very much in the wrong; and though Adam had been harsh

and violent, and had thrust on him a painful dilemma, the poor fellow was in love, and had real provocation.

No, Arthur had not an evil feeling in his mind towards any human being: he was happy, and would make

And here was dear old Hayslope at last, sleeping, on the hill, like a quiet old place as it was, in the late

afternoon sunlight, and opposite to it the great shoulders of the Binton Hills, below them the purplish

blackness of the hanging woods, and at last the pale front of the Abbey, looking out from among the oaks of

the Chase, as if anxious for the heir's return. "Poor Grandfather! And he lies dead there. He was a young

fellow once, coming into the estate and making his plans. So the world goes round! Aunt Lydia must feel

very desolate, poor thing; but she shall be indulged as much as she indulges her fat Fido."

The wheels of Arthur's chaise had been anxiously listened for at the Chase, for today was Friday, and the

funeral had already been deferred two days. Before it drew up on the gravel of the courtyard, all the servants

in the house were assembled to receive him with a grave, decent welcome, befitting a house of death. A

month ago, perhaps, it would have been difficult for them to have maintained a suitable sadness in their faces,

when Mr. Arthur was come to take possession; but the hearts of the headservants were heavy that day for

another cause than the death of the old squire, and more than one of them was longing to be twenty miles

away, as Mr. Craig was, knowing what was to become of Hetty Sorrelpretty Hetty Sorrelwhom they

used to see every week. They had the partisanship of household servants who like their places, and were not

inclined to go the full length of the severe indignation felt against him by the farming tenants, but rather to

make excuses for him; nevertheless, the upper servants, who had been on terms of neighbourly intercourse

with the Poysers for many years, could not help feeling that the longedfor event of the young squire's

To Arthur it was nothing surprising that the servants looked grave and sad: he himself was very much

touched on seeing them all again, and feeling that he was in a new relation to them. It was that sort of pathetic

emotion which has more pleasure than pain in itwhich is perhaps one of the most delicious of all states to a

goodnatured man, conscious of the power to satisfy his good nature. His heart swelled agreeably as he said,

But now Mr. Bygate, the lawyer, who had been in the house ever since the death, came forward to give

deferential greetings and answer all questions, and Arthur walked with him towards the library, where his

Aunt Lydia was expecting him. Aunt Lydia was the only person in the house who knew nothing about Hetty.

Her sorrow as a maiden daughter was unmixed with any other thoughts than those of anxiety about funeral

arrangements and her own future lot; and, after the manner of women, she mourned for the father who had

made her life important, all the more because she had a secret sense that there was little mourning for him in

But Arthur kissed her tearful face more tenderly than he had ever done in his life before.

"Dear Aunt," he said affectionately, as he held her hand, "YOUR loss is the greatest of all, but you must tell

"It was so sudden and so dreadful, Arthur," poor Miss Lydia began, pouring out her little plaints, and Arthur

"Now, Aunt, I'll leave you for a quarter of an hour just to go to my own room, and then I shall come and give

"My room is all ready for me, I suppose, Mills?" he said to the butler, who seemed to be lingering uneasily

"Yes, sir, and there are letters for you; they are all laid on the writingtable in your dressingroom."

On entering the small anteroom which was called a dressingroom, but which Arthur really used only to

lounge and write in, he just cast his eyes on the writingtable, and saw that there were several letters and

packets lying there; but he was in the uncomfortable dusty condition of a man who has had a long hurried

journey, and he must really refresh himself by attending to his toilette a little, before he read his letters. Pym

was there, making everything ready for him, and soon, with a delightful freshness about him, as if he were

prepared to begin a new day, he went back into his dressingroom to open his letters. The level rays of the

low afternoon sun entered directly at the window, and as Arthur seated himself in his velvet chair with their

pleasant warmth upon him, he was conscious of that quiet wellbeing which perhaps you and I have felt on a

sunny afternoon when, in our brightest youth and health, life has opened a new vista for us, and long

tomorrows of activity have stretched before us like a lovely plain which there was no need for hurrying to

The top letter was placed with its address upwards: it was in Mr. Irwine's handwriting, Arthur saw at once;

and below the address was written, "To be delivered as soon as he arrives." Nothing could have been less

surprising to him than a letter from Mr. Irwine at that moment: of course, there was something he wished

Arthur to know earlier than it was possible for them to see each other. At such a time as that it was quite

natural that Irwine should have something pressing to say. Arthur broke the seal with an agreeable

"I send this letter to meet you on your arrival, Arthur, because I may then be at Stoniton, whither I am called

by the most painful duty it has ever been given me to perform, and it is right that you should know what I

"I will not attempt to add by one word of reproach to the retribution that is now falling on you: any other

words that I could write at this moment must be weak and unmeaning by the side of those in which I must tell

"Hetty Sorrel is in prison, and will be tried on Friday for the crime of childmurder."...

Arthur read no more. He started up from his chair and stood for a single minute with a sense of violent

convulsion in his whole frame, as if the life were going out of him with horrible throbs; but the next minute

he had rushed out of the room, still clutching the letterhe was hurrying along the corridor, and down the

stairs into the hall. Mills was still there, but Arthur did not see him, as he passed like a hunted man across the

hall and out along the gravel. The butler hurried out after him as fast as his elderly limbs could run: he

When Mills got to the stables, a horse was being saddled, and Arthur was forcing himself to read the

remaining words of the letter. He thrust it into his pocket as the horse was led up to him, and at that moment

"Tell them I'm gonegone to Stoniton," he said in a muffled tone of agitationsprang into the saddle, and

NEAR sunset that evening an elderly gentleman was standing with his back against the smaller

entrancedoor of Stoniton jail, saying a few last words to the departing chaplain. The chaplain walked away,

but the elderly gentleman stood still, looking down on the pavement and stroking his chin with a ruminating

air, when he was roused by a sweet clear woman's voice, saying, "Can I get into the prison, if you please?"

He turned his head and looked fixedly at the speaker for a few moments without answering.

"I have seen you before," he said at last. "Do you remember preaching on the village green at Hayslope in

"I want to go to Hetty Sorrel, the young woman who has been condemned to deathand to stay with her, if I

"Yes; I am a magistrate, and can get admittance for you. But did you know this criminal, Hetty Sorrel?"

"Yes, we are kin. My own aunt married her uncle, Martin Poyser. But I was away at Leeds, and didn't know

of this great trouble in time to get here before today. I entreat you, sir, for the love of our heavenly Father, to

"How did you know she was condemned to death, if you are only just come from Leeds?"

"I have seen my uncle since the trial, sir. He is gone back to his home now, and the poor sinner is forsaken of

"What! Have you courage to stay all night in the prison? She is very sullen, and will scarcely make answer

"Come, then," said the elderly gentleman, ringing and gaining admission, "I know you have a key to unlock

Dinah mechanically took off her bonnet and shawl as soon as they were within the prison court, from the

habit she had of throwing them off when she preached or prayed, or visited the sick; and when they entered

the jailer's room, she laid them down on a chair unthinkingly. There was no agitation visible in her, but a

deep concentrated calmness, as if, even when she was speaking, her soul was in prayer reposing on an unseen

After speaking to the jailer, the magistrate turned to her and said, "The turnkey will take you to the prisoner's

cell and leave you there for the night, if you desire it, but you can't have a light during the nightit is

contrary to rules. My name is Colonel Townley: if I can help you in anything, ask the jailer for my address

and come to me. I take some interest in this Hetty Sorrel, for the sake of that fine fellow, Adam Bede. I

happened to see him at Hayslope the same evening I heard you preach, and recognized him in court today,

"Ah, sir, can you tell me anything about him? Can you tell me where he lodges? For my poor uncle was too

"Close by here. I inquired all about him of Mr. Irwine. He lodges over a tinman's shop, in the street on the

right hand as you entered the prison. There is an old schoolmaster with him. Now, goodbye: I wish you

As Dinah crossed the prison court with the turnkey, the solemn evening light seemed to make the walls

higher than they were by day, and the sweet pale face in the cap was more than ever like a white flower on

this background of gloom. The turnkey looked askance at her all the while, but never spoke. He somehow felt

that the sound of his own rude voice would be grating just then. He struck a light as they entered the dark

corridor leading to the condemned cell, and then said in his most civil tone, "It'll be pretty nigh dark in the

"As you like," said the jailer, turning the harsh key in the lock and opening the door wide enough to admit

Dinah. A jet of light from his lantern fell on the opposite corner of the cell, where Hetty was sitting on her

straw pallet with her face buried in her knees. It seemed as if she were asleep, and yet the grating of the lock

The door closed again, and the only light in the cell was that of the evening sky, through the small high

gratingenough to discern human faces by. Dinah stood still for a minute, hesitating to speak because Hetty

might be asleep, and looking at the motionless heap with a yearning heart. Then she said, softly, "Hetty!"

There was a slight movement perceptible in Hetty's framea start such as might have been produced by a

feeble electrical shockbut she did not look up. Dinah spoke again, in a tone made stronger by irrepressible

Again there was a slight startled movement through Hetty's frame, and without uncovering her face, she

After a moment's pause, Hetty lifted her head slowly and timidly from her knees and raised her eyes. The two

pale faces were looking at each other: one with a wild hard despair in it, the other full of sad yearning love.

"Don't you know me, Hetty? Don't you remember Dinah? Did you think I wouldn't come to you in trouble?"

Hetty kept her eyes fixed on Dinah's faceat first like an animal that gazes, and gazes, and keeps aloof.

"I'm come to be with you, Hettynot to leave youto stay with youto be your sister to the last."

Slowly, while Dinah was speaking, Hetty rose, took a step forward, and was clasped in Dinah's arms.

They stood so a long while, for neither of them felt the impulse to move apart again. Hetty, without any

distinct thought of it, hung on this something that was come to clasp her now, while she was sinking helpless

in a dark gulf; and Dinah felt a deep joy in the first sign that her love was welcomed by the wretched lost one.

The light got fainter as they stood, and when at last they sat down on the straw pallet together, their faces had

Not a word was spoken. Dinah waited, hoping for a spontaneous word from Hetty, but she sat in the same

dull despair, only clutching the hand that held hers and leaning her cheek against Dinah's. It was the human

Dinah began to doubt whether Hetty was conscious who it was that sat beside her. She thought suffering and

fear might have driven the poor sinner out of her mind. But it was borne in upon her, as she afterwards said,

that she must not hurry God's work: we are overhasty to speakas if God did not manifest himself by our

silent feeling, and make his love felt through ours. She did not know how long they sat in that way, but it got

darker and darker, till there was only a pale patch of light on the opposite wall: all the rest was darkness. But

she felt the Divine presence more and morenay, as if she herself were a part of it, and it was the Divine

pity that was beating in her heart and was willing the rescue of this helpless one. At last she was prompted to

"And do you remember the time when we were at the Hall Farm together, and that night when I told you to

"Yes," said Hetty. Then, after a pause, she added, "But you can do nothing for me. You can't make 'em do

"No, Hetty, I can't save you from that death. But isn't the suffering less hard when you have somebody with

you, that feels for youthat you can speak to, and say what's in your heart?...Yes, Hetty: you lean on me:

"No, Hetty, I won't leave you. I'll stay with you to the last....But, Hetty, there is some one else in this cell

"Some one who has been with you through all your hours of sin and troublewho has known every thought

you have hadhas seen where you went, where you lay down and rose up again, and all the deeds you have

tried to hide in darkness. And on Monday, when I can't follow youwhen my arms can't reach youwhen

death has parted usHe who is with us now, and knows all, will be with you then. It makes no

"Oh, Dinah, won't nobody do anything for me? Will they hang me for certain?...I wouldn't mind if they'd let

"My poor Hetty, death is very dreadful to you. I know it's dreadful. But if you had a friend to take care of you

after deathin that other worldsome one whose love is greater than minewho can do everything?...If

God our Father was your friend, and was willing to save you from sin and suffering, so as you should neither

know wicked feelings nor pain again? If you could believe he loved you and would help you, as you believe I

"Because, Hetty, you are shutting up your soul against him, by trying to hide the truth. God's love and mercy

can overcome all thingsour ignorance, and weakness, and all the burden of our past wickednessall

things but our wilful sin, sin that we cling to, and will not give up. You believe in my love and pity for you,

Hetty, but if you had not let me come near you, if you wouldn't have looked at me or spoken to me, you'd

have shut me out from helping you. I couldn't have made you feel my love; I couldn't have told you what I

felt for you. Don't shut God's love out in that way, by clinging to sin....He can't bless you while you have one

falsehood in your soul; his pardoning mercy can't reach you until you open your heart to him, and say, 'I have

done this great wickedness; O God, save me, make me pure from sin.' While you cling to one sin and will not

part with it, it must drag you down to misery after death, as it has dragged you to misery here in this world,

my poor, poor Hetty. It is sin that brings dread, and darkness, and despair: there is light and blessedness for

us as soon as we cast it off. God enters our souls then, and teaches us, and brings us strength and peace. Cast

it off now, Hettynow: confess the wickedness you have donethe sin you have been guilty of against

your Heavenly Father. Let us kneel down together, for we are in the presence of God."

Hetty obeyed Dinah's movement, and sank on her knees. They still held each other's hands, and there was

long silence. Then Dinah said, "Hetty, we are before God. He is waiting for you to tell the truth."

"Jesus, thou present Saviour! Thou hast known the depths of all sorrow: thou hast entered that black darkness

where God is not, and hast uttered the cry of the forsaken. Come Lord, and gather of the fruits of thy travail

and thy pleading. Stretch forth thy hand, thou who art mighty to save to the uttermost, and rescue this lost

one. She is clothed round with thick darkness. The fetters of her sin are upon her, and she cannot stir to come

to thee. She can only feel her heart is hard, and she is helpless. She cries to me, thy weak creature....Saviour!

It is a blind cry to thee. Hear it! Pierce the darkness! Look upon her with thy face of love and sorrow that

"See, Lord, I bring her, as they of old brought the sick and helpless, and thou didst heal them. I bear her on

my arms and carry her before thee. Fear and trembling have taken hold on her, but she trembles only at the

pain and death of the body. Breathe upon her thy lifegiving Spirit, and put a new fear within her the fear

of her sin. Make her dread to keep the accursed thing within her soul. Make her feel the presence of the living

God, who beholds all the past, to whom the darkness is as noonday; who is waiting now, at the eleventh hour,

for her to turn to him, and confess her sin, and cry for mercynow, before the night of death comes, and the

"Saviour! It is yet timetime to snatch this poor soul from everlasting darkness. I believeI believe in thy

infinite love. What is my love or my pleading? It is quenched in thine. I can only clasp her in my weak arms

and urge her with my weak pity. Thouthou wilt breathe on the dead soul, and it shall arise from the

"Yea, Lord, I see thee, coming through the darkness coming, like the morning, with healing on thy wings.

The marks of thy agony are upon theeI see, I see thou art able and willing to save thou wilt not let her

perish for ever. "Come, mighty Saviour! Let the dead hear thy voice. Let the eyes of the blind be opened. Let

her see that God encompasses her. Let her tremble at nothing but at the sin that cuts her off from him. Melt

the hard heart. Unseal the closed lips: make her cry with her whole soul, 'Father, I have sinned.'..."

"Dinah," Hetty sobbed out, throwing her arms round Dinah's neck, "I will speak...I will tell...I won't hide it

But the tears and sobs were too violent. Dinah raised her gently from her knees and seated her on the pallet

again, sitting down by her side. It was a long time before the convulsed throat was quiet, and even then they

sat some time in stillness and darkness, holding each other's hands. At last Hetty whispered, "I did do it,

Dinah...I buried it in the wood...the little baby...and it cried...I heard it cry...ever such a way off...all

"But I thought perhaps it wouldn't diethere might somebody find it. I didn't kill itI didn't kill it myself. I

put it down there and covered it up, and when I came back it was gone....It was because I was so very

miserable, Dinah...I didn't know where to go...and I tried to kill myself before, and I couldn't. Oh, I tried so to

drown myself in the pool, and I couldn't. I went to WindsorI ran awaydid you know? I went to find him,

as he might take care of me; and he was gone; and then I didn't know what to do. I daredn't go back home

againI couldn't bear it. I couldn't have bore to look at anybody, for they'd have scorned me. I thought o'

you sometimes, and thought I'd come to you, for I didn't think you'd be cross with me, and cry shame on me.

I thought I could tell you. But then the other folks 'ud come to know it at last, and I couldn't bear that. It was

partly thinking o' you made me come toward Stoniton; and, besides, I was so frightened at going wandering

about till I was a beggarwoman, and had nothing; and sometimes it seemed as if I must go back to the farm

sooner than that. Oh, it was so dreadful, Dinah...I was so miserable...I wished I'd never been born into this

world. I should never like to go into the green fields againI hated 'em so in my misery."

Hetty paused again, as if the sense of the past were too strong upon her for words.

"And then I got to Stoniton, and I began to feel frightened that night, because I was so near home. And then

the little baby was born, when I didn't expect it; and the thought came into my mind that I might get rid of it

and go home again. The thought came all of a sudden, as I was lying in the bed, and it got stronger and

stronger...I longed so to go back again...I couldn't bear being so lonely and coming to beg for want. And it

gave me strength and resolution to get up and dress myself. I felt I must do it...I didn't know how...I thought

I'd find a pool, if I could, like that other, in the corner of the field, in the dark. And when the woman went

out, I felt as if I was strong enough to do anything...I thought I should get rid of all my misery, and go back

home, and never let 'em know why I ran away I put on my bonnet and shawl, and went out into the dark

street, with the baby under my cloak; and I walked fast till I got into a street a good way off, and there was a

public, and I got some warm stuff to drink and some bread. And I walked on and on, and I hardly felt the

ground I trod on; and it got lighter, for there came the moon oh, Dinah, it frightened me when it first

looked at me out o' the cloudsit never looked so before; and I turned out of the road into the fields, for I

was afraid o' meeting anybody with the moon shining on me. And I came to a haystack, where I thought I

could lie down and keep myself warm all night. There was a place cut into it, where I could make me a bed,

and I lay comfortable, and the baby was warm against me; and I must have gone to sleep for a good while, for

when I woke it was morning, but not very light, and the baby was crying. And I saw a wood a little way off...I

thought there'd perhaps be a ditch or a pond there...and it was so early I thought I could hide the child there,

and get a long way off before folks was up. And then I thought I'd go homeI'd get rides in carts and go

home and tell 'em I'd been to try and see for a place, and couldn't get one. I longed so for it, Dinah, I longed

so to be safe at home. I don't know how I felt about the baby. I seemed to hate itit was like a heavy weight

hanging round my neck; and yet its crying went through me, and I daredn't look at its little hands and face.

Hetty shuddered. She was silent for some moments, and when she began again, it was in a whisper.

"I came to a place where there was lots of chips and turf, and I sat down on the trunk of a tree to think what I

should do. And all of a sudden I saw a hole under the nuttree, like a little grave. And it darted into me like

lightningI'd lay the baby there and cover it with the grass and the chips. I couldn't kill it any other way.

And I'd done it in a minute; and, oh, it cried so, DinahI couldn't cover it quite upI thought perhaps

somebody 'ud come and take care of it, and then it wouldn't die. And I made haste out of the wood, but I

could hear it crying all the while; and when I got out into the fields, it was as if I was held fastI couldn't go

away, for all I wanted so to go. And I sat against the haystack to watch if anybody 'ud come. I was very

hungry, and I'd only a bit of bread left, but I couldn't go away. And after ever such a whilehours and

hoursthe man camehim in a smockfrock, and he looked at me so, I was frightened, and I made haste

and went on. I thought he was going to the wood and would perhaps find the baby. And I went right on, till I

came to a village, a long way off from the wood, and I was very sick, and faint, and hungry. I got something

to eat there, and bought a loaf. But I was frightened to stay. I heard the baby crying, and thought the other

folks heard it tooand I went on. But I was so tired, and it was getting towards dark. And at last, by the

roadside there was a barnever such a way off any houselike the barn in Abbot's Close, and I thought I

could go in there and hide myself among the hay and straw, and nobody 'ud be likely to come. I went in, and

it was half full o' trusses of straw, and there was some hay too. And I made myself a bed, ever so far behind,

where nobody could find me; and I was so tired and weak, I went to sleep....But oh, the baby's crying kept

waking me, and I thought that man as looked at me so was come and laying hold of me. But I must have slept

a long while at last, though I didn't know, for when I got up and went out of the barn, I didn't know whether it

was night or morning. But it was morning, for it kept getting lighter, and I turned back the way I'd come. I

couldn't help it, Dinah; it was the baby's crying made me goand yet I was frightened to death. I thought

that man in the smockfrock 'ud see me and know I put the baby there. But I went on, for all that. I'd left off

thinking about going homeit had gone out o' my mind. I saw nothing but that place in the wood where I'd

Hetty clung round Dinah and shuddered again. The silence seemed long before she went on.

"I met nobody, for it was very early, and I got into the wood....I knew the way to the place...the place against

the nuttree; and I could hear it crying at every step....I thought it was alive....I don't know whether I was

frightened or glad...I don't know what I felt. I only know I was in the wood and heard the cry. I don't know

what I felt till I saw the baby was gone. And when I'd put it there, I thought I should like somebody to find it

and save it from dying; but when I saw it was gone, I was struck like a stone, with fear. I never thought o'

stirring, I felt so weak. I knew I couldn't run away, and everybody as saw me 'ud know about the baby. My

heart went like a stone. I couldn't wish or try for anything; it seemed like as if I should stay there for ever, and

Hetty was silent, but she shuddered again, as if there was still something behind; and Dinah waited, for her

heart was so full that tears must come before words. At last Hetty burst out, with a sob, "Dinah, do you think

God will take away that crying and the place in the wood, now I've told everything?"

"Let us pray, poor sinner. Let us fall on our knees again, and pray to the God of all mercy."

ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for morning service, Bartle Massey

reentered Adam's room, after a short absence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you."

Adam was seated with is back towards the door, but he started up and turned round instantly, with a flushed

face and an eager look. His face was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was

"Keep yourself quiet, my lad," said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not what you're thinking of. It's the young

Methodist woman come from the prison. She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you think well

to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poor castaway; but she wouldn't come in without

your leave, she said. She thought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preaching women are

He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered, lifting up her mild grey eyes towards

him, she saw at once the great change that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tall man in

the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she put her hand into his and said, "Be comforted,

"Bless you for coming to her," Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me word yesterday as you was come."

They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each other in silence; and Bartle Massey,

too, who had put on his spectacles, seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himself

first, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit down," placing the chair for her and retiring to his old seat on the

"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down," said Dinah, "for I must hasten back. She entreated me not to stay long

away. What I came for, Adam Bede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid her farewell. She

desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you should see her today, rather than in the early morning,

"It won't be," he said, "it'll be put offthere'll perhaps come a pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He

"That's a blessed thought to me," said Dinah, her eyes filling with tears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul

"But let what will be," she added presently. "You will surely come, and let her speak the words that are in her

heart. Although her poor soul is very dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is no longer

hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride of her heart has given way, and she leans on me

for help and desires to be taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that the brethren sometimes

err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner's knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the

Hall Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were here, she said, 'I should like to

say goodbye to Adam and ask him to forgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come

"I can't," Adam said. "I can't say goodbye while there's any hope. I'm listening, and listeningI can't think

o' nothing but that. It can't be as she'll die that shameful deathI can't bring my mind to it."

He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while Dinah stood with compassionate

patience. In a minute or two he turned round and said, "I will come, Dinah...tomorrow morning...if it must

be. I may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must be. Tell her, I forgive her; tell her I will come at

"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart," said Dinah. "I must hasten back to her, for it is

wonderful how she clings now, and was not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any

return to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart. Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father

comfort you and strengthen you to bear all things." Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in silence.

Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for her, but before he could reach it, she had

said gently, "Farewell, friend," and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.

"Well," said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his pocket, "if there must be women to

make trouble in the world, it's but fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she's oneshe's

one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting a woman without some foolishness or other."

Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense, heightening with every hour that brought

him nearer the fatal moment, was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises that he

"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep more or less? I shall sleep long enough, by and

It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would sometimes get up and tread backwards and

forwards along the short space from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no sound

would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or the falling of a cinder from the fire which the

schoolmaster carefully tended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, "If I could ha' done

anything to save herif my bearing anything would ha' done any good...but t' have to sit still, and know it,

and do nothing...it's hard for a man to bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if it hadn't been for

"Aye, my lad," said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavyit's heavy. But you must remember this: when you thought

of marrying her, you'd a notion she'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think she could have

"I knowI know that," said Adam. "I thought she was loving and tenderhearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or

act deceitful. How could I think any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd married her, and

been loving to her, and took care of her, she might never ha' done anything bad. What would it ha'

signified my having a bit o' trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this."

"There's no knowing, my ladthere's no knowing what might have come. The smart's bad for you to bear

now: you must have time you must have time. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and

"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't alter th' evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate

that talk o' people, as if there was a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought to

see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiled his fellowcreatur's life, he's no right to

comfort himself with thinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter her shame and

"Well, lad, well," said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast with his usual peremptoriness and

impatience of contradiction, "it's likely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a good many

years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons why other folks should be patient."

"Mr. Massey," said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you something different; but you mustn't

So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing light brought the tremulous quiet that

"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey," said Adam, when he saw the hand of his watch at six. "If there's

The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, through the streets. Adam tried not to think

where they were going, as they hurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prison gates.

Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself to send word to Dinah that he was

In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah had sent him word that she could not

come to him; she could not leave Hetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting.

He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses, and the dim cell was almost dark to

him. He stood a moment after the door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.

But he began to see through the dimnessto see the dark eyes lifted up to him once more, but with no smile

in them. O God, how sad they looked! The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with his

heart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face.

The face was marble now; the sweet lips were pallid and halfopen and quivering; the dimples were all

goneall but one, that never went; and the eyesO, the worst of all was the likeness they had to Hetty's.

They were Hetty's eyes looking at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the dead

She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. It seemed as if her last faint strength and

hope lay in that contact, and the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visible pledge of

When the sad eyes metwhen Hetty and Adam looked at each other she felt the change in him too, and it

seemed to strike her with fresh fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to reflect

the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past and the dreadful present. She trembled

"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you forgive me...before I die?"

Adam answered with a halfsob, "Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave thee long ago."

It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of meeting Hetty's eyes in the first

moments, but the sound of her voice uttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been less

strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable, and the rare tears camethey had

never come before, since he had hung on Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.

Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love that she had once lived in the midst of

was come near her again. She kept hold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, "Will

Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave each other the solemn unspeakable

"And tell him," Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell him...for there's nobody else to tell him...as I went

after him and couldn't find him...and I hated him and cursed him once...but Dinah says I should forgive

There was a noise at the door of the cell nowthe key was being turned in the lock, and when the door

opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there were several faces there. He was too agitated to see moreeven to

see that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the last preparations were beginning, and he could

stay no longer. Room was silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in loneliness, leaving

IT was a sight that some people remembered better even than their own sorrowsthe sight in that grey clear

morning, when the fatal cart with the two young women in it was descried by the waiting watching multitude,

cleaving its way towards the hideous symbol of a deliberately inflicted sudden death.

All Stoniton had heard of Dinah Morris, the young Methodist woman who had brought the obstinate criminal

to confess, and there was as much eagerness to see her as to see the wretched Hetty.

But Dinah was hardly conscious of the multitude. When Hetty had caught sight of the vast crowd in the

And in a low voice, as the cart went slowly along through the midst of the gazing crowd, she poured forth her

soul with the wrestling intensity of a last pleading, for the trembling creature that clung to her and clutched

Dinah did not know that the crowd was silent, gazing at her with a sort of aweshe did not even know how

near they were to the fatal spot, when the cart stopped, and she shrank appalled at a loud shout hideous to her

ear, like a vast yell of demons. Hetty's shriek mingled with the sound, and they clasped each other in mutual

It was a shout of sudden excitement at the appearance of a horseman cleaving the crowd at full gallop. The

horse is hot and distressed, but answers to the desperate spurring; the rider looks as if his eyes were glazed by

madness, and he saw nothing but what was unseen by others. See, he has something in his handhe is

The Sheriff knows him: it is Arthur Donnithorne, carrying in his hand a hardwon release from death.

THE next day, at evening, two men were walking from opposite points towards the same scene, drawn thither

by a common memory. The scene was the Grove by Donnithorne Chase: you know who the men were.

The old squire's funeral had taken place that morning, the will had been read, and now in the first

breathingspace, Arthur Donnithorne had come out for a lonely walk, that he might look fixedly at the new

future before him and confirm himself in a sad resolution. He thought he could do that best in the Grove.

Adam too had come from Stontion on Monday evening, and today he had not left home, except to go to the

family at the Hall Farm and tell them everything that Mr. Irwine had left untold. He had agreed with the

Poysers that he would follow them to their new neighbourhood, wherever that might be, for he meant to give

up the management of the woods, and, as soon as it was practicable, he would wind up his business with

Jonathan Burge and settle with his mother and Seth in a home within reach of the friends to whom he felt

"Seth and me are sure to find work," he said. "A man that's got our trade at his fingerends is at home

everywhere; and we must make a new start. My mother won't stand in the way, for she's told me, since I came

home, she'd made up her mind to being buried in another parish, if I wished it, and if I'd be more comfortable

elsewhere. It's wonderful how quiet she's been ever since I came back. It seems as if the very greatness o' the

trouble had quieted and calmed her. We shall all be better in a new country, though there's some I shall be

loath to leave behind. But I won't part from you and yours, if I can help it, Mr. Poyser. Trouble's made us

"Aye, lad," said Martin. "We'll go out o' hearing o' that man's name. But I doubt we shall ne'er go far enough

for folks not to find out as we've got them belonging to us as are transported o'er the seas, and were like to be

hanged. We shall have that flyin' up in our faces, and our children's after us."

That was a long visit to the Hall Farm, and drew too strongly on Adam's energies for him to think of seeing

others, or reentering on his old occupations till the morrow. "But tomorrow," he said to himself, "I'll go to

work again. I shall learn to like it again some time, maybe; and it's right whether I like it or not."

This evening was the last he would allow to be absorbed by sorrow: suspense was gone now, and he must

bear the unalterable. He was resolved not to see Arthur Donnithorne again, if it were possible to avoid him.

He had no message to deliver from Hetty now, for Hetty had seen Arthur. And Adam distrusted himselfhe

had learned to dread the violence of his own feeling. That word of Mr. Irwine'sthat he must remember

what he had felt after giving the last blow to Arthur in the Grovehad remained with him.

These thoughts about Arthur, like all thoughts that are charged with strong feeling, were continually

recurring, and they always called up the image of the Groveof that spot under the overarching boughs

where he had caught sight of the two bending figures, and had been possessed by sudden rage.

"I'll go and see it again tonight for the last time," he said; "it'll do me good; it'll make me feel over again

what I felt when I'd knocked him down. I felt what poor empty work it was, as soon as I'd done it, before I

In this way it happened that Arthur and Adam were walking towards the same spot at the same time.

Adam had on his workingdress again, now, for he had thrown off the other with a sense of relief as soon as

he came home; and if he had had the basket of tools over his shoulder, he might have been taken, with his

pale wasted face, for the spectre of the Adam Bede who entered the Grove on that August evening eight

months ago. But he had no basket of tools, and he was not walking with the old erectness, looking keenly

round him; his hands were thrust in his side pockets, and his eyes rested chiefly on the ground. He had not

long entered the Grove, and now he paused before a beech. He knew that tree well; it was the boundary mark

of his youththe sign, to him, of the time when some of his earliest, strongest feelings had left him. He felt

sure they would never return. And yet, at this moment, there was a stirring of affection at the remembrance of

that Arthur Donnithorne whom he had believed in before he had come up to this beech eight months ago. It

He was disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps, but the beech stood at a turning in the road, and he

could not see who was coming until the tall slim figure in deep mourning suddenly stood before him at only

two yards' distance. They both started, and looked at each other in silence. Often, in the last fortnight, Adam

had imagined himself as close to Arthur as this, assailing him with words that should be as harrowing as the

voice of remorse, forcing upon him a just share in the misery he had caused; and often, too, he had told

himself that such a meeting had better not be. But in imagining the meeting he had always seen Arthur, as he

had met him on that evening in the Grove, florid, careless, light of speech; and the figure before him touched

him with the signs of suffering. Adam knew what suffering washe could not lay a cruel finger on a bruised

man. He felt no impulse that he needed to resist. Silence was more just than reproach. Arthur was the first to

"Adam," he said, quietly, "it may be a good thing that we have met here, for I wished to see you. I should

"I know it is painful to you to meet me," Arthur went on, "but it is not likely to happen again for years to

"No, sir," said Adam, coldly, "that was what I meant to write to you tomorrow, as it would be better all

Arthur felt the answer keenly, and it was not without an effort that he spoke again.

"It was partly on that subject I wished to speak to you. I don't want to lessen your indignation against me, or

ask you to do anything for my sake. I only wish to ask you if you will help me to lessen the evil consequences

of the past, which is unchangeable. I don't mean consequences to myself, but to others. It is but little I can do,

I know. I know the worst consequences will remain; but something may be done, and you can help me. Will

"Yes, sir," said Adam, after some hesitation; "I'll hear what it is. If I can help to mend anything, I will. Anger

"I was going to the Hermitage," said Arthur. "Will you go there with me and sit down? We can talk better

The Hermitage had never been entered since they left it together, for Arthur had locked up the key in his

desk. And now, when he opened the door, there was the candle burnt out in the socket; there was the chair in

the same place where Adam remembered sitting; there was the wastepaper basket full of scraps, and deep

down in it, Arthur felt in an instant, there was the little pink silk handkerchief. It would have been painful to

They sat down opposite each other in the old places, and Arthur said, "I'm going away, Adam; I'm going into

Poor Arthur felt that Adam ought to be affected by this announcementought to have a movement of

sympathy towards him. But Adam's lips remained firmly closed, and the expression of his face unchanged.

"What I want to say to you," Arthur continued, "is this: one of my reasons for going away is that no one else

may leave Hayslopemay leave their home on my account. I would do anything, there is no sacrifice I

would not make, to prevent any further injury to others through mythrough what has happened."

Arthur's words had precisely the opposite effect to that he had anticipated. Adam thought he perceived in

them that notion of compensation for irretrievable wrong, that selfsoothing attempt to make evil bear the

same fruits as good, which most of all roused his indignation. He was as strongly impelled to look painful

facts right in the face as Arthur was to turn away his eyes from them. Moreover, he had the wakeful

suspicious pride of a poor man in the presence of a rich man. He felt his old severity returning as he said,

"The time's past for that, sir. A man should make sacrifices to keep clear of doing a wrong; sacrifices won't

undo it when it's done. When people's feelings have got a deadly wound, they can't be cured with favours."

"Favours!" said Arthur, passionately; "no; how can you suppose I meant that? But the PoysersMr. Irwine

tells me the Poysers mean to leave the place where they have lived so many yearsfor generations. Don't

you see, as Mr. Irwine does, that if they could be persuaded to overcome the feeling that drives them away, it

would be much better for them in the end to remain on the old spot, among the friends and neighbours who

"That's true," said Adam coldly. "But then, sir, folks's feelings are not so easily overcome. It'll be hard for

Martin Poyser to go to a strange place, among strange faces, when he's been bred up on the Hall Farm, and

his father before him; but then it 'ud be harder for a man with his feelings to stay. I don't see how the thing's

to be made any other than hard. There's a sort o' damage, sir, that can't be made up for."

Arthur was silent some moments. In spite of other feelings dominant in him this evening, his pride winced

under Adam's mode of treating him. Wasn't he himself suffering? Was not he too obliged to renounce his

most cherished hopes? It was now as it had been eight months agoAdam was forcing Arthur to feel more

intensely the irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. He was presenting the sort of resistance that was the

most irritating to Arthur's eager ardent nature. But his anger was subdued by the same influence that had

subdued Adam's when they first confronted each otherby the marks of suffering in a long familiar face.

The momentary struggle ended in the feeling that he could bear a great deal from Adam, to whom he had

been the occasion of bearing so much; but there was a touch of pleading, boyish vexation in his tone as he

said, "But people may make injuries worse by unreasonable conductby giving way to anger and satisfying

"If I were going to stay here and act as landlord," he added presently, with still more eagerness"if I were

careless about what I've donewhat I've been the cause of, you would have some excuse, Adam, for going

away and encouraging others to go. You would have some excuse then for trying to make the evil worse. But

when I tell you I'm going away for yearswhen you know what that means for me, how it cuts off every

plan of happiness I've ever formedit is impossible for a sensible man like you to believe that there is any

real ground for the Poysers refusing to remain. I know their feeling about disgraceMr. Irwine has told me

all; but he is of opinion that they might be persuaded out of this idea that they are disgraced in the eyes of

their neighbours, and that they can't remain on my estate, if you would join him in his effortsif you would

Arthur paused a moment and then added, pleadingly, "You know that's a good work to do for the sake of

other people, besides the owner. And you don't know but that they may have a better owner soon, whom you

will like to work for. If I die, my cousin Tradgett will have the estate and take my name. He is a good

Adam could not help being moved: it was impossible for him not to feel that this was the voice of the honest

warmhearted Arthur whom he had loved and been proud of in old days; but nearer memories would not be

thrust away. He was silent; yet Arthur saw an answer in his face that induced him to go on, with growing

"And then, if you would talk to the Poysersif you would talk the matter over with Mr. Irwinehe means

to see you tomorrowand then if you would join your arguments to his to prevail on them not to go....I

know, of course, that they would not accept any favour from meI mean nothing of that kindbut I'm sure

they would suffer less in the end. Irwine thinks so too. And Mr. Irwine is to have the chief authority on the

estatehe has consented to undertake that. They will really be under no man but one whom they respect and

like. It would be the same with you, Adam, and it could be nothing but a desire to give me worse pain that

Arthur was silent again for a little while, and then said, with some agitation in his voice, "I wouldn't act so

towards you, I know. If you were in my place and I in yours, I should try to help you to do the best."

Adam made a hasty movement on his chair and looked on the ground. Arthur went on, "Perhaps you've never

done anything you've had bitterly to repent of in your life, Adam; if you had, you would be more generous.

Arthur rose from his seat with the last words, and went to one of the windows, looking out and turning his

back on Adam, as he continued, passionately, "Haven't I loved her too? Didn't I see her yesterday? Shan't I

carry the thought of her about with me as much as you will? And don't you think you would suffer more if

There was silence for several minutes, for the struggle in Adam's mind was not easily decided. Facile natures,

whose emotions have little permanence, can hardly understand how much inward resistance he overcame

before he rose from his seat and turned towards Arthur. Arthur heard the movement, and turning round, met

the sad but softened look with which Adam said, "It's true what you say, sir. I'm hardit's in my nature. I

was too hard with my father, for doing wrong. I've been a bit hard t' everybody but her. I felt as if nobody

pitied her enoughher suffering cut into me so; and when I thought the folks at the farm were too hard with

her, I said I'd never be hard to anybody myself again. But feeling overmuch about her has perhaps made me

unfair to you. I've known what it is in my life to repent and feel it's too late. I felt I'd been too harsh to my

father when he was gone from meI feel it now, when I think of him. I've no right to be hard towards them

Adam spoke these words with the firm distinctness of a man who is resolved to leave nothing unsaid that he

"I wouldn't shake hands with you once, sir, when you asked mebut if you're willing to do it now, for all I

Arthur's white hand was in Adam's large grasp in an instant, and with that action there was a strong rush, on

"Adam," Arthur said, impelled to full confession now, "it would never have happened if I'd known you loved

her. That would have helped to save me from it. And I did struggle. I never meant to injure her. I deceived

you afterwardsand that led on to worse; but I thought it was forced upon me, I thought it was the best thing

I could do. And in that letter I told her to let me know if she were in any trouble: don't think I would not have

done everything I could. But I was all wrong from the very first, and horrible wrong has come of it. God

They sat down again opposite each other, and Adam said, tremulously, "How did she seem when you left her,

"Don't ask me, Adam," Arthur said; "I feel sometimes as if I should go mad with thinking of her looks and

what she said to me, and then, that I couldn't get a full pardonthat I couldn't save her from that wretched

fate of being transportedthat I can do nothing for her all those years; and she may die under it, and never

"Ah, sir," said Adam, for the first time feeling his own pain merged in sympathy for Arthur, "you and me'll

often be thinking o' the same thing, when we're a long way off one another. I'll pray God to help you, as I

"But there's that sweet womanthat Dinah Morris," Arthur said, pursuing his own thoughts and not knowing

what had been the sense of Adam's words, "she says she shall stay with her to the very last momenttill she

goes; and the poor thing clings to her as if she found some comfort in her. I could worship that woman; I

don't know what I should do if she were not there. Adam, you will see her when she comes back. I could say

nothing to her yesterdaynothing of what I felt towards her. Tell her," Arthur went on hurriedly, as if he

wanted to hide the emotion with which he spoke, while he took off his chain and watch, "tell her I asked you

to give her this in remembrance of meof the man to whom she is the one source of comfort, when he thinks

of...I know she doesn't care about such thingsor anything else I can give her for its own sake. But she will

"I'll give it to her, sir," Adam said, "and tell her your words. She told me she should come back to the people

"And you will persuade the Poysers to stay, Adam?" said Arthur, reminded of the subject which both of them

had forgotten in the first interchange of revived friendship. "You will stay yourself, and help Mr. Irwine to

"There's one thing, sir, that perhaps you don't take account of," said Adam, with hesitating gentleness, "and

that was what made me hang back longer. You see, it's the same with both me and the Poysers: if we stay, it's

for our own worldly interest, and it looks as if we'd put up with anything for the sake o' that. I know that's

what they'll feel, and I can't help feeling a little of it myself. When folks have got an honourable independent

"But no one who knows you will think that, Adam. That is not a reason strong enough against a course that is

really more generous, more unselfish than the other. And it will be knownit shall be made known, that

both you and the Poysers stayed at my entreaty. Adam, don't try to make things worse for me; I'm punished

"No, sir, no," Adam said, looking at Arthur with mournful affection. "God forbid I should make things worse

for you. I used to wish I could do it, in my passionbut that was when I thought you didn't feel enough. I'll

stay, sir, I'll do the best I can. It's all I've got to think of nowto do my work well and make the world a bit

"Then we'll part now, Adam. You will see Mr. Irwine tomorrow, and consult with him about everything."

"As soon as possibleafter I've made the necessary arrangements. Goodbye, Adam. I shall think of you

The hands were clasped once more, and Adam left the Hermitage, feeling that sorrow was more bearable now

As soon as the door was closed behind him, Arthur went to the wastepaper basket and took out the little

THE first autumnal afternoon sunshine of 1801more than eighteen months after that parting of Adam and

Arthur in the Hermitagewas on the yard at the Hall Farm; and the bulldog was in one of his most excited

moments, for it was that hour of the day when the cows were being driven into the yard for their afternoon

milking. No wonder the patient beasts ran confusedly into the wrong places, for the alarming din of the

bulldog was mingled with more distant sounds which the timid feminine creatures, with pardonable

superstition, imagined also to have some relation to their own movementswith the tremendous crack of the

waggoner's whip, the roar of his voice, and the booming thunder of the waggon, as it left the rickyard empty

The milking of the cows was a sight Mrs. Poyser loved, and at this hour on mild days she was usually

standing at the house door, with her knitting in her hands, in quiet contemplation, only heightened to a keener

interest when the vicious yellow cow, who had once kicked over a pailful of precious milk, was about to

Today, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager

discussion with Dinah, who was stitching Mr. Poyser's shirtcollars, and had borne patiently to have her

thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that she should look at "Baby,"

that is, at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her small chair

at Dinah's side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek with much fervour. Totty is larger by more than

two years' growth than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore. Mrs. Poyser

too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family likeness between her and Dinah. In other

respects there is little outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant houseplace,

"I never saw the like to you, Dinah," Mrs. Poyser was saying, "when you've once took anything into your

head: there's no more moving you than the rooted tree. You may say what you like, but I don't believe that's

religion; for what's the Sermon on the Mount about, as you're so fond o' reading to the boys, but doing what

other folks 'ud have you do? But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like taking your

cloak off and giving it to 'em, or letting 'em slap you i' the face, I daresay you'd be ready enough. It's only

when one 'ud have you do what's plain common sense and good for yourself, as you're obstinate th' other

"Nay, dear Aunt," said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her work, "I'm sure your wish 'ud be a

"Wrong! You drive me past bearing. What is there wrong, I should like to know, i' staying along wi' your

own friends, as are th' happier for having you with 'em an' are willing to provide for you, even if your work

didn't more nor pay 'em for the bit o' sparrow's victual y' eat and the bit o' rag you put on? An' who is it, I

should like to know, as you're bound t' help and comfort i' the world more nor your own flesh and bloodan'

me th' only aunt you've got aboveground, an' am brought to the brink o' the grave welly every winter as

comes, an' there's the child as sits beside you 'ull break her little heart when you go, an' the grandfather not

been dead a twelvemonth, an' your uncle 'ull miss you so as never wasalighting his pipe an' waiting on

him, an' now I can trust you wi' the butter, an' have had all the trouble o' teaching you, and there's all the

sewing to be done, an' I must have a strange gell out o' Treddles'on to do itan' all because you must go

"Dear Aunt Rachel," said Dinah, looking up in Mrs. Poyser's face, "it's your kindness makes you say I'm

useful to you. You don't really want me now, for Nancy and Molly are clever at their work, and you're in

good health now, by the blessing of God, and my uncle is of a cheerful countenance again, and you have

neighbours and friends not a fewsome of them come to sit with my uncle almost daily. Indeed, you will

not miss me; and at Snowfield there are brethren and sisters in great need, who have none of those comforts

you have around you. I feel that I am called back to those amongst whom my lot was first cast. I feel drawn

again towards the hills where I used to be blessed in carrying the word of life to the sinful and desolate."

"You feel! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, returning from a parenthetic glance at the cows, "that's allays the reason

I'm to sit down wi', when you've a mind to do anything contrairy. What do you want to be preaching for more

than you're preaching now? Don't you go off, the Lord knows where, every Sunday apreaching and praying?

An' haven't you got Methodists enow at Treddles'on to go and look at, if churchfolks's faces are too

handsome to please you? An' isn't there them i' this parish as you've got under hand, and they're like enough

to make friends wi' Old Harry again as soon as your back's turned? There's that Bessy Cranageshe'll be

flaunting i' new finery three weeks after you're gone, I'll be bound. She'll no more go on in her new ways

without you than a dog 'ull stand on its hindlegs when there's nobody looking. But I suppose it doesna

matter so much about folks's souls i' this country, else you'd be for staying with your own aunt, for she's none

There was a certain something in Mrs. Poyser's voice just then, which she did not wish to be noticed, so she

turned round hastily to look at the clock, and said: "See there! It's teatime; an' if Martin's i' the rickyard,

he'll like a cup. Here, Totty, my chicken, let mother put your bonnet on, and then you go out into the

rickyard and see if Father's there, and tell him he mustn't go away again without coming t' have a cup o' tea;

Totty trotted off in her flapping bonnet, while Mrs. Poyser set out the bright oak table and reached down the

"You talk o' them gells Nancy and Molly being clever i' their work," she began again; "it's fine talking.

They're all the same, clever or stupidone can't trust 'em out o' one's sight a minute. They want somebody's

eye on 'em constant if they're to be kept to their work. An' suppose I'm ill again this winter, as I was the

winter before last? Who's to look after 'em then, if you're gone? An' there's that blessed childsomething's

sure t' happen to her they'll let her tumble into the fire, or get at the kettle wi' the boiling lard in't, or some

"Aunt," said Dinah, "I promise to come back to you in the winter if you're ill. Don't think I will ever stay

away from you if you're in real want of me. But, indeed, it is needful for my own soul that I should go away

from this life of ease and luxury in which I have all things too richly to enjoyat least that I should go away

for a short space. No one can know but myself what are my inward needs, and the besetments I am most in

danger from. Your wish for me to stay is not a call of duty which I refuse to hearken to because it is against

my own desires; it is a temptation that I must resist, lest the love of the creature should become like a mist in

"It passes my cunning to know what you mean by ease and luxury," said Mrs. Poyser, as she cut the bread

and butter. "It's true there's good victual enough about you, as nobody shall ever say I don't provide enough

and to spare, but if there's ever a bit o' odds an' ends as nobody else 'ud eat, you're sure to pick it out...but

look there! There's Adam Bede acarrying the little un in. I wonder how it is he's come so early."

Mrs. Poyser hastened to the door for the pleasure of looking at her darling in a new position, with love in her

"Oh for shame, Totty! Little gells o' five year old should be ashamed to be carried. Why, Adam, she'll break

"Nay, nay," said Adam, "I can lift her with my handI've no need to take my arm to it."

Totty, looking as serenely unconscious of remark as a fat white puppy, was set down at the doorplace, and

"Yes, but come in," said Mrs. Poyser, making way for him; "there's no bad news, I hope?"

"No, nothing bad," Adam answered, as he went up to Dinah and put out his hand to her. She had laid down

her work and stood up, instinctively, as he approached her. A faint blush died away from her pale cheek as

"It's an errand to you brought me, Dinah," said Adam, apparently unconscious that he was holding her hand

all the while; "mother's a bit ailing, and she's set her heart on your coming to stay the night with her, if you'll

be so kind. I told her I'd call and ask you as I came from the village. She overworks herself, and I can't

persuade her to have a little girl t' help her. I don't know what's to be done."

Adam released Dinah's hand as he ceased speaking, and was expecting an answer, but before she had opened

her lips Mrs. Poyser said, "Look there now! I told you there was folks enow t' help i' this parish, wi'out going

further off. There's Mrs. Bede getting as old and cas'alty as can be, and she won't let anybody but you go

anigh her hardly. The folks at Snowfield have learnt by this time to do better wi'out you nor she can."

"I'll put my bonnet on and set off directly, if you don't want anything done first, Aunt," said Dinah, folding up

"Yes, I do want something done. I want you t' have your tea, child; it's all readyand you'll have a cup,

"Yes, I'll have a cup, please; and then I'll walk with Dinah. I'm going straight home, for I've got a lot o' timber

"Why, Adam, lad, are you here?" said Mr. Poyser, entering warm and coatless, with the two blackeyed boys

behind him, still looking as much like him as two small elephants are like a large one. "How is it we've got

"I came on an errand for Mother," said Adam. "She's got a touch of her old complaint, and she wants Dinah

"Well, we'll spare her for your mother a little while," said Mr. Poyser. "But we wonna spare her for anybody

"Husband!" said Marty, who was at the most prosaic and literal period of the boyish mind. "Why, Dinah

"Spare her?" said Mrs. Poyser, placing a seedcake on the table and then seating herself to pour out the tea.

"But we must spare her, it seems, and not for a husband neither, but for her own megrims. Tommy, what are

you doing to your little sister's doll? Making the child naughty, when she'd be good if you'd let her. You

Tommy, with true brotherly sympathy, was amusing himself by turning Dolly's skirt over her bald head and

exhibiting her truncated body to the general scornan indignity which cut Totty to the heart.

"What do you think Dinah's been atelling me since dinnertime?" Mrs. Poyser continued, looking at her

"Why, she means to go back to Snowfield again, and work i' the mill, and starve herself, as she used to do,

Mr. Poyser did not readily find words to express his unpleasant astonishment; he only looked from his wife to

Dinah, who had now seated herself beside Totty, as a bulwark against brotherly playfulness, and was busying

herself with the children's tea. If he had been given to making general reflections, it would have occurred to

him that there was certainly a change come over Dinah, for she never used to change colour; but, as it was, he

merely observed that her face was flushed at that moment. Mr. Poyser thought she looked the prettier for it: it

was a flush no deeper than the petal of a monthly rose. Perhaps it came because her uncle was looking at her

so fixedly; but there is no knowing, for just then Adam was saying, with quiet surprise, "Why, I hoped Dinah

was settled among us for life. I thought she'd given up the notion o' going back to her old country."

"Thought! Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "and so would anybody else ha' thought, as had got their right end up'ards.

But I suppose you must be a Methodist to know what a Methodist 'ull do. It's ill guessing what the bats are

"Why, what have we done to you. Dinah, as you must go away from us?" said Mr. Poyser, still pausing over

his teacup. "It's like breaking your word, welly, for your aunt never had no thought but you'd make this your

"Nay, Uncle," said Dinah, trying to be quite calm. "When I first came, I said it was only for a time, as long as

"Well, an' who said you'd ever left off being a comfort to me?" said Mrs. Poyser. "If you didna mean to stay

wi' me, you'd better never ha' come. Them as ha' never had a cushion don't miss it."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who objected to exaggerated views. "Thee mustna say so; we should ha' been ill

off wi'out her, Lady day was a twelvemont'. We mun be thankful for that, whether she stays or no. But I

canna think what she mun leave a good home for, to go back int' a country where the land, most on't, isna

"Why, that's just the reason she wants to go, as fur as she can give a reason," said Mrs. Poyser. "She says this

country's too comfortable, an' there's too much t' eat, an' folks arena miserable enough. And she's going next

week. I canna turn her, say what I will. It's allays the way wi' them meekfaced people; you may's well pelt a

bag o' feathers as talk to 'em. But I say it isna religion, to be so obstinateis it now, Adam?"

Adam saw that Dinah was more disturbed than he had ever seen her by any matter relating to herself, and,

anxious to relieve her, if possible, he said, looking at her affectionately, "Nay, I can't find fault with anything

Dinah does. I believe her thoughts are better than our guesses, let 'em be what they may. I should ha' been

thankful for her to stay among us, but if she thinks well to go, I wouldn't cross her, or make it hard to her by

As it often happens, the words intended to relieve her were just too much for Dinah's susceptible feelings at

this moment. The tears came into the grey eyes too fast to be hidden and she got up hurriedly, meaning it to

"Thee'st gone a bit too fur," said Mr. Poyser. "We've no right t' interfere with her doing as she likes. An'

thee'dst be as angry as could be wi' me, if I said a word against anything she did."

"Because you'd very like be finding fault wi'out reason," said Mrs. Poyser. "But there's reason i' what I say,

else I shouldna say it. It's easy talking for them as can't love her so well as her own aunt does. An' me got so

used to her! I shall feel as uneasy as a new sheared sheep when she's gone from me. An' to think of her

leaving a parish where she's so looked on. There's Mr. Irwine makes as much of her as if she was a lady, for

all her being a Methodist, an' wi' that maggot o' preaching in her head God forgi'e me if I'm i' the wrong to

"Aye," said Mr. Poyser, looking jocose; "but thee dostna tell Adam what he said to thee about it one day. The

missis was saying, Adam, as the preaching was the only fault to be found wi' Dinah, and Mr. Irwine says,

'But you mustn't find fault with her for that, Mrs. Poyser; you forget she's got no husband to preach to. I'll

answer for it, you give Poyser many a good sermon.' The parson had thee there," Mr. Poyser added, laughing

"Yes, it's a small joke sets men laughing when they sit astaring at one another with a pipe i' their mouths,"

said Mrs. Poyser. "Give Bartle Massey his way and he'd have all the sharpness to himself. If the chaffcutter

had the making of us, we should all be straw, I reckon. Totty, my chicken, go upstairs to cousin Dinah, and

This errand was devised for Totty as a means of checking certain threatening symptoms about the corners of

the mouth; for Tommy, no longer expectant of cake, was lifting up his eyelids with his forefingers and

turning his eyeballs towards Totty in a way that she felt to be disagreeably personal.

"You're rare and busy noweh, Adam?" said Mr. Poyser. "Burge's getting so bad wi' his asthmy, it's well if

"Yes, we've got a pretty bit o' building on hand now," said Adam, "what with the repairs on th' estate, and the

"I'll bet a penny that new house Burge is building on his own bit o' land is for him and Mary to go to," said

Mr. Poyser. "He'll be for laying by business soon, I'll warrant, and be wanting you to take to it all and pay

him so much by th' 'ear. We shall see you living on th' hill before another twelvemont's over."

"Well," said Adam, "I should like t' have the business in my own hands. It isn't as I mind much about getting

any more money. We've enough and to spare now, with only our two selves and mother; but I should like t'

"Yes, yes; he's a sensible man enough; understands farminghe's carrying on the draining, and all that,

capital. You must go some day towards the Stonyshire side and see what alterations they're making. But he's

got no notion about buildings. You can so seldom get hold of a man as can turn his brains to more nor one

thing; it's just as if they wore blinkers like th' horses and could see nothing o' one side of 'em. Now, there's

Mr. Irwine has got notions o' building more nor most architects; for as for th' architects, they set up to be fine

fellows, but the most of 'em don't know where to set a chimney so as it shan't be quarrelling with a door. My

notion is, a practical builder that's got a bit o' taste makes the best architect for common things; and I've ten

Mr. Poyser listened with an admiring interest to Adam's discourse on building, but perhaps it suggested to

him that the building of his cornrick had been proceeding a little too long without the control of the master's

eye, for when Adam had done speaking, he got up and said, "Well, lad, I'll bid you goodbye now, for I'm off

Adam rose too, for he saw Dinah entering, with her bonnet on and a little basket in her hand, preceded by

"You're ready, I see, Dinah," Adam said; "so we'll set off, for the sooner I'm at home the better."

"Mother," said Totty, with her treble pipe, "Dinah was saying her prayers and crying ever so."

Whereupon the father, shaking with silent laughter, set Totty on the white deal table and desired her to kiss

"Come back tomorrow if Mrs. Bede doesn't want you, Dinah," said Mrs. Poyser: "but you can stay, you

So, when the goodbyes had been said, Dinah and Adam left the Hall Farm together.

ADAM did not ask Dinah to take his arm when they got out into the lane. He had never yet done so, often as

they had walked together, for he had observed that she never walked arminarm with Seth, and he thought,

perhaps, that kind of support was not agreeable to her. So they walked apart, though side by side, and the

"You can't be happy, then, to make the Hall Farm your home, Dinah?" Adam said, with the quiet interest of a

brother, who has no anxiety for himself in the matter. "It's a pity, seeing they're so fond of you."

"You know, Adam, my heart is as their heart, so far as love for them and care for their welfare goes, but they

are in no present need. Their sorrows are healed, and I feel that I am called back to my old work, in which I

found a blessing that I have missed of late in the midst of too abundant worldly good. I know it is a vain

thought to flee from the work that God appoints us, for the sake of finding a greater blessing to our own

souls, as if we could choose for ourselves where we shall find the fulness of the Divine Presence, instead of

seeking it where alone it is to be found, in loving obedience. But now, I believe, I have a clear showing that

my work lies elsewhereat least for a time. In the years to come, if my aunt's health should fail, or she

"You know best, Dinah," said Adam. "I don't believe you'd go against the wishes of them that love you, and

are akin to you, without a good and sufficient reason in your own conscience. I've no right to say anything

about my being sorry: you know well enough what cause I have to put you above every other friend I've got;

and if it had been ordered so that you could ha' been my sister, and lived with us all our lives, I should ha'

counted it the greatest blessing as could happen to us now. But Seth tells me there's no hope o' that: your

feelings are different, and perhaps I'm taking too much upon me to speak about it."

Dinah made no answer, and they walked on in silence for some yards, till they came to the stone stile, where,

as Adam had passed through first and turned round to give her his hand while she mounted the unusually

high step, she could not prevent him from seeing her face. It struck him with surprise, for the grey eyes,

usually so mild and grave, had the bright uneasy glance which accompanies suppressed agitation, and the

slight flush in her cheeks, with which she had come downstairs, was heightened to a deep rosecolour. She

looked as if she were only sister to Dinah. Adam was silent with surprise and conjecture for some moments,

and then he said, "I hope I've not hurt or displeased you by what I've said, Dinah. Perhaps I was making too

free. I've no wish different from what you see to be best, and I'm satisfied for you to live thirty mile off, if

you think it right. I shall think of you just as much as I do now, for you're bound up with what I can no more

Poor Adam! Thus do men blunder. Dinah made no answer, but she presently said, "Have you heard any news

Dinah always called Arthur so; she had never lost the image of him as she had seen him in the prison.

"Yes," said Adam. "Mr. Irwine read me part of a letter from him yesterday. It's pretty certain, they say, that

there'll be a peace soon, though nobody believes it'll last long; but he says he doesn't mean to come home.

He's no heart for it yet, and it's better for others that he should keep away. Mr. Irwine thinks he's in the right

not to come. It's a sorrowful letter. He asks about you and the Poysers, as he always does. There's one thing in

the letter cut me a good deal: 'You can't think what an old fellow I feel,' he says; 'I make no schemes now. I'm

"He's of a rash, warmhearted nature, like Esau, for whom I have always felt great pity," said Dinah. "That

meeting between the brothers, where Esau is so loving and generous, and Jacob so timid and distrustful,

notwithstanding his sense of the Divine favour, has always touched me greatly. Truly, I have been tempted

sometimes to say that Jacob was of a mean spirit. But that is our trial: we must learn to see the good in the

"Ah," said Adam, "I like to read about Moses best, in th' Old Testament. He carried a hard business well

through, and died when other folks were going to reap the fruits. A man must have courage to look at his life

so, and think what'll come of it after he's dead and gone. A good solid bit o' work lasts: if it's only laying a

floor down, somebody's the better for it being done well, besides the man as does it."

They were both glad to talk of subjects that were not personal, and in this way they went on till they passed

the bridge across the Willow Brook, when Adam turned round and said, "Ah, here's Seth. I thought he'd be

Adam remembered now that Seth had come home much depressed on Sunday evening, a circumstance which

had been very unusual with him of late, for the happiness he had in seeing Dinah every week seemed long to

have outweighed the pain of knowing she would never marry him. This evening he had his habitual air of

dreamy benignant contentment, until he came quite close to Dinah and saw the traces of tears on her delicate

eyelids and eyelashes. He gave one rapid glance at his brother, but Adam was evidently quite outside the

current of emotion that had shaken Dinah: he wore his everyday look of unexpectant calm. Seth tried not to

let Dinah see that he had noticed her face, and only said, "I'm thankful you're come, Dinah, for Mother's been

hungering after the sight of you all day. She began to talk of you the first thing in the morning."

When they entered the cottage, Lisbeth was seated in her arm chair, too tired with setting out the evening

meal, a task she always performed a long time beforehand, to go and meet them at the door as usual, when

"Coom, child, thee't coom at last," she said, when Dinah went towards her. "What dost mane by lavin' me a

"Dear friend," said Dinah, taking her hand, "you're not well. If I'd known it sooner, I'd have come."

"An' how's thee t' know if thee dostna coom? Th' lads on'y know what I tell 'em. As long as ye can stir hand

and foot the men think ye're hearty. But I'm none so bad, on'y a bit of a cold sets me achin'. An' th' lads tease

me so t' ha' somebody wi' me t' do the workthey make me ache worse wi' talkin'. If thee'dst come and stay

wi' me, they'd let me alone. The Poysers canna want thee so bad as I do. But take thy bonnet off, an' let me

Dinah was moving away, but Lisbeth held her fast, while she was taking off her bonnet, and looked at her

face as one looks into a newly gathered snowdrop, to renew the old impressions of purity and gentleness.

"What's the matter wi' thee?" said Lisbeth, in astonishment; "thee'st been acryin'."

"It's only a grief that'll pass away," said Dinah, who did not wish just now to call forth Lisbeth's

remonstrances by disclosing her intention to leave Hayslope. "You shall know about it shortlywe'll talk of

Lisbeth was pacified by this prospect. And she had the whole evening to talk with Dinah alone; for there was

a new room in the cottage, you remember, built nearly two years ago, in the expectation of a new inmate; and

here Adam always sat when he had writing to do or plans to make. Seth sat there too this evening, for he

There were two pretty pictures on the two sides of the wall in the cottage. On one side there was the

broadshouldered, large featured, hardy old woman, in her blue jacket and buff kerchief, with her dimeyed

anxious looks turned continually on the lily face and the slight form in the black dress that were either

moving lightly about in helpful activity, or seated close by the old woman's armchair, holding her withered

hand, with eyes lifted up towards her to speak a language which Lisbeth understood far better than the Bible

or the hymnbook. She would scarcely listen to reading at all tonight. "Nay, nay, shut the book," she said.

"We mun talk. I want t' know what thee was cryin' about. Hast got troubles o' thy own, like other folks?"

On the other side of the wall there were the two brothers so like each other in the midst of their unlikeness:

Adam with knit brows, shaggy hair, and dark vigorous colour, absorbed in his "figuring"; Seth, with large

rugged features, the close copy of his brother's, but with thin, wavy, brown hair and blue dreamy eyes, as

often as not looking vaguely out of the window instead of at his book, although it was a newly bought

bookWesley's abridgment of Madame Guyon's life, which was full of wonder and interest for him. Seth

had said to Adam, "Can I help thee with anything in here tonight? I don't want to make a noise in the shop."

"No, lad," Adam answered, "there's nothing but what I must do myself. Thee'st got thy new book to read."

And often, when Seth was quite unconscious, Adam, as he paused after drawing a line with his ruler, looked

at his brother with a kind smile dawning in his eyes. He knew "th' lad liked to sit full o' thoughts he could

give no account of; they'd never come t' anything, but they made him happy," and in the last year or so, Adam

had been getting more and more indulgent to Seth. It was part of that growing tenderness which came from

For Adam, though you see him quite master of himself, working hard and delighting in his work after his

inborn inalienable nature, had not outlived his sorrowhad not felt it slip from him as a temporary burden,

and leave him the same man again. Do any of us? God forbid. It would be a poor result of all our anguish and

our wrestling if we won nothing but our old selves at the end of it if we could return to the same blind

loves, the same self confident blame, the same light thoughts of human suffering, the same frivolous gossip

over blighted human lives, the same feeble sense of that Unknown towards which we have sent forth

irrepressible cries in our loneliness. Let us rather be thankful that our sorrow lives in us as an indestructible

force, only changing its form, as forces do, and passing from pain into sympathythe one poor word which

includes all our best insight and our best love. Not that this transformation of pain into sympathy had

completely taken place in Adam yet. There was still a great remnant of pain, and this he felt would subsist as

long as her pain was not a memory, but an existing thing, which he must think of as renewed with the light of

every new morning. But we get accustomed to mental as well as bodily pain, without, for all that, losing our

sensibility to it. It becomes a habit of our lives, and we cease to imagine a condition of perfect ease as

possible for us. Desire is chastened into submission, and we are contented with our day when we have been

able to bear our grief in silence and act as if we were not suffering. For it is at such periods that the sense of

our lives having visible and invisible relations, beyond any of which either our present or prospective self is

That was Adam's state of mind in this second autumn of his sorrow. His work, as you know, had always been

part of his religion, and from very early days he saw clearly that good carpentry was God's willwas that

form of God's will that most immediately concerned him. But now there was no margin of dreams for him

beyond this daylight reality, no holidaytime in the workingday world, no moment in the distance when

duty would take off her iron glove and breastplate and clasp him gently into rest. He conceived no picture of

the future but one made up of hardworking days such as he lived through, with growing contentment and

intensity of interest, every fresh week. Love, he thought, could never be anything to him but a living

memorya limb lopped off, but not gone from consciousness. He did not know that the power of loving was

all the while gaining new force within him; that the new sensibilities bought by a deep experience were so

many new fibres by which it was possible, nay, necessary to him, that his nature should intertwine with

another. Yet he was aware that common affection and friendship were more precious to him than they used to

bethat he clung more to his mother and Seth, and had an unspeakable satisfaction in the sight or

imagination of any small addition to their happiness. The Poysers, toohardly three or four days passed but

he felt the need of seeing them and interchanging words and looks of friendliness with them. He would have

felt this, probably, even if Dinah had not been with them, but he had only said the simplest truth in telling

Dinah that he put her above all other friends in the world. Could anything be more natural? For in the darkest

moments of memory the thought of her always came as the first ray of returning comfort. The early days of

gloom at the Hall Farm had been gradually turned into soft moonlight by her presence; and in the cottage,

too, for she had come at every spare moment to soothe and cheer poor Lisbeth, who had been stricken with a

fear that subdued even her querulousness at the sight of her darling Adam's griefworn face. He had become

used to watching her light quiet movements, her pretty loving ways to the children, when he went to the Hall

Farm; to listen for her voice as for a recurrent music; to think everything she said and did was just right, and

could not have been better. In spite of his wisdom, he could not find fault with her for her overindulgence of

the children, who had managed to convert Dinah the preacher, before whom a circle of rough men had often

trembled a little, into a convenient household slavethough Dinah herself was rather ashamed of this

weakness, and had some inward conflict as to her departure from the precepts of Solomon. Yes, there was

one thing that might have been better; she might have loved Seth and consented to marry him. He felt a little

vexed, for his brother's sake, and he could not help thinking regretfully how Dinah, as Seth's wife, would

have made their home as happy as it could be for them allhow she was the one being that would have

"It's wonderful she doesn't love th' lad," Adam had said sometimes to himself, "for anybody 'ud think he was

just cut out for her. But her heart's so taken up with other things. She's one o' those women that feel no

drawing towards having a husband and children o' their own. She thinks she should be filled up with her own

life then, and she's been used so to living in other folks's cares, she can't bear the thought of her heart being

shut up from 'em. I see how it is, well enough. She's cut out o' different stuff from most women: I saw that

long ago. She's never easy but when she's helping somebody, and marriage 'ud interfere with her

waysthat's true. I've no right to be contriving and thinking it 'ud be better if she'd have Seth, as if I was

wiser than she is or than God either, for He made her what she is, and that's one o' the greatest blessings

This selfreproof had recurred strongly to Adam's mind when he gathered from Dinah's face that he had

wounded her by referring to his wish that she had accepted Seth, and so he had endeavoured to put into the

strongest words his confidence in her decision as righthis resignation even to her going away from them

and ceasing to make part of their life otherwise than by living in their thoughts, if that separation were chosen

by herself. He felt sure she knew quite well enough how much he cared to see her continuallyto talk to her

with the silent consciousness of a mutual great remembrance. It was not possible she should hear anything

but selfrenouncing affection and respect in his assurance that he was contented for her to go away; and yet

there remained an uneasy feeling in his mind that he had not said quite the right thingthat, somehow,

Dinah must have risen a little before the sun the next morning, for she was downstairs about five o'clock. So

was Seth, for, through Lisbeth's obstinate refusal to have any womanhelper in the house, he had learned to

make himself, as Adam said, "very handy in the housework," that he might save his mother from too great

weariness; on which ground I hope you will not think him unmanly, any more than you can have thought the

gallant Colonel Bath unmanly when he made the gruel for his invalid sister. Adam, who had sat up late at his

writing, was still asleep, and was not likely, Seth said, to be down till breakfasttime. Often as Dinah had

visited Lisbeth during the last eighteen months, she had never slept in the cottage since that night after Thias's

death, when, you remember, Lisbeth praised her deft movements and even gave a modified approval to her

porridge. But in that long interval Dinah had made great advances in household cleverness, and this morning,

since Seth was there to help, she was bent on bringing everything to a pitch of cleanliness and order that

would have satisfied her Aunt Poyser. The cottage was far from that standard at present, for Lisbeth's

rheumatism had forced her to give up her old habits of dilettante scouring and polishing. When the kitchen

was to her mind, Dinah went into the new room, where Adam had been writing the night before, to see what

sweeping and dusting were needed there. She opened the window and let in the fresh morning air, and the

smell of the sweetbrier, and the bright lowslanting rays of the early sun, which made a glory about her pale

face and pale auburn hair as she held the long brush, and swept, singing to herself in a very low tonelike a

sweet summer murmur that you have to listen for very closelyone of Charles Wesley's hymns:

Eternal Beam of Light Divine, Fountain of unexhausted love, In whom the Father's glories shine, Through

Jesus! the weary wanderer's rest, Give me thy easy yoke to bear; With steadfast patience arm my breast, With

Speak to my warring passions, "Peace!" Say to my trembling heart, "Be still!" Thy power my strength and

She laid by the brush and took up the duster; and if you had ever lived in Mrs. Poyser's household, you would

know how the duster behaved in Dinah's handhow it went into every small corner, and on every ledge in

and out of sighthow it went again and again round every bar of the chairs, and every leg, and under and

over everything that lay on the table, till it came to Adam's papers and rulers and the open desk near them.

Dinah dusted up to the very edge of these and then hesitated, looking at them with a longing but timid eye. It

was painful to see how much dust there was among them. As she was looking in this way, she heard Seth's

step just outside the open door, towards which her back was turned, and said, raising her clear treble, "Seth, is

"Yes, very, when they are not put back in the right places," said a deep strong voice, not Seth's.

It was as if Dinah had put her hands unawares on a vibrating chord. She was shaken with an intense thrill, and

for the instant felt nothing else; then she knew her cheeks were glowing, and dared not look round, but stood

still, distressed because she could not say goodmorning in a friendly way. Adam, finding that she did not

look round so as to see the smile on his face, was afraid she had thought him serious about his wrathfulness,

"Nay," said Dinah, looking up with timid eyes, "not so. But you might be put about by finding things

meddled with; and even the man Moses, the meekest of men, was wrathful sometimes."

"Come, then," said Adam, looking at her affectionately, "I'll help you move the things, and put 'em back

again, and then they can't get wrong. You're getting to be your aunt's own niece, I see, for particularness."

They began their little task together, but Dinah had not recovered herself sufficiently to think of any remark,

and Adam looked at her uneasily. Dinah, he thought, had seemed to disapprove him somehow lately; she had

not been so kind and open to him as she used to be. He wanted her to look at him, and be as pleased as he was

himself with doing this bit of playful work. But Dinah did not look at himit was easy for her to avoid

looking at the tall manand when at last there was no more dusting to be done and no further excuse for him

to linger near her, he could bear it no longer, and said, in rather a pleading tone, "Dinah, you're not displeased

with me for anything, are you? I've not said or done anything to make you think ill of me?"

The question surprised her, and relieved her by giving a new course to her feeling. She looked up at him now,

quite earnestly, almost with the tears coming, and said, "Oh, no, Adam! how could you think so?"

"I couldn't bear you not to feel as much a friend to me as I do to you," said Adam. "And you don't know the

value I set on the very thought of you, Dinah. That was what I meant yesterday, when I said I'd be content for

you to go, if you thought right. I meant, the thought of you was worth so much to me, I should feel I ought to

be thankful, and not grumble, if you see right to go away. You know I do mind parting with you, Dinah?"

"Yes, dear friend," said Dinah, trembling, but trying to speak calmly, "I know you have a brother's heart

towards me, and we shall often be with one another in spirit; but at this season I am in heaviness through

manifold temptations. You must not mark me. I feel called to leave my kindred for a while; but it is a trial

"I hurt you by talking about it, Dinah," he said. "I'll say no more. Let's see if Seth's ready with breakfast

That is a simple scene, reader. But it is almost certain that you, too, have been in loveperhaps, even, more

than once, though you may not choose to say so to all your feminine friends. If so, you will no more think the

slight words, the timid looks, the tremulous touches, by which two human souls approach each other

gradually, like two little quivering rainstreams, before they mingle into oneyou will no more think these

things trivial than you will think the firstdetected signs of coming spring trivial, though they be but a faint

indescribable something in the air and in the song of the birds, and the tiniest perceptible budding on the

hedgerow branches. Those slight words and looks and touches are part of the soul's language; and the finest

language, I believe, is chiefly made up of unimposing words, such as "light," "sound," "stars,"

"music"words really not worth looking at, or hearing, in themselves, any more than "chips" or "sawdust."

It is only that they happen to be the signs of something unspeakably great and beautiful. I am of opinion that

love is a great and beautiful thing too, and if you agree with me, the smallest signs of it will not be chips and

sawdust to you: they will rather be like those little words,"light" and "music," stirring the long winding

LISBETH'S touch of rheumatism could not be made to appear serious enough to detain Dinah another night

from the Hall Farm, now she had made up her mind to leave her aunt so soon, and at evening the friends must

part. "For a long while," Dinah had said, for she had told Lisbeth of her resolve.

"Then it'll be for all my life, an' I shall ne'er see thee again," said Lisbeth. "Long while! I'n got no long while

t' live. An' I shall be took bad an' die, an' thee canst ne'er come anigh me, an' I shall die alonging for thee."

That had been the keynote of her wailing talk all day; for Adam was not in the house, and so she put no

restraint on her complaining. She had tried poor Dinah by returning again and again to the question, why she

must go away; and refusing to accept reasons, which seemed to her nothing but whim and "contrairiness";

and still more, by regretting that she "couldna' ha' one o' the lads" and be her daughter.

"Thee couldstna put up wi' Seth," she said. "He isna cliver enough for thee, happen, but he'd ha' been very

good t' theehe's as handy as can be at doin' things for me when I'm bad, an' he's as fond o' the Bible an'

chappellin' as thee art thysen. But happen, thee'dst like a husband better as isna just the cut o' thysen: the

runnin' brook isna athirst for th' rain. Adam 'ud ha' done for theeI know he wouldan' he might come t'

like thee well enough, if thee'dst stop. But he's as stubborn as th' iron barthere's no bending him no way

but's own. But he'd be a fine husband for anybody, be they who they will, so lookedon an' so cliver as he is.

And he'd be rare an' lovin': it does me good on'y a look o' the lad's eye when he means kind tow'rt me."

Dinah tried to escape from Lisbeth's closest looks and questions by finding little tasks of housework that kept

her moving about, and as soon as Seth came home in the evening she put on her bonnet to go. It touched

Dinah keenly to say the last goodbye, and still more to look round on her way across the fields and see the

old woman still standing at the door, gazing after her till she must have been the faintest speck in the dim

aged eyes. "The God of love and peace be with them," Dinah prayed, as she looked back from the last stile.

"Make them glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted them, and the years wherein they have

seen evil. It is thy will that I should part from them; let me have no will but thine."

Lisbeth turned into the house at last and sat down in the workshop near Seth, who was busying himself there

with fitting some bits of turned wood he had brought from the village into a small workbox, which he meant

"Thee't see her again o' Sunday afore she goes," were her first words. "If thee wast good for anything, thee'dst

"Nay, Mother," said Seth. "Dinah 'ud be sure to come again if she saw right to come. I should have no need to

persuade her. She only thinks it 'ud be troubling thee for nought, just to come in to say goodbye over again."

"She'd ne'er go away, I know, if Adam 'ud be fond on her an' marry her, but everything's so contrairy," said

Seth paused a moment and looked up, with a slight blush, at his mother's face. "What! Has she said anything

"Said? Nay, she'll say nothin'. It's on'y the men as have to wait till folks say things afore they find 'em out."

"It's no matter what's put it into my head. My head's none so hollow as it must get in, an' nought to put it

there. I know she's fond on him, as I know th' wind's comin' in at the door, an' that's anoof. An' he might be

willin' to marry her if he know'd she's fond on him, but he'll ne'er think on't if somebody doesna put it into's

His mother's suggestion about Dinah's feeling towards Adam was not quite a new thought to Seth, but her last

words alarmed him, lest she should herself undertake to open Adam's eyes. He was not sure about Dinah's

"Nay, Mother, nay," he said, earnestly, "thee mustna think o' speaking o' such things to Adam. Thee'st no

right to say what Dinah's feelings are if she hasna told thee, and it 'ud do nothing but mischief to say such

things to Adam. He feels very grateful and affectionate toward Dinah, but he's no thoughts towards her that

'ud incline him to make her his wife, and I don't believe Dinah 'ud marry him either. I don't think she'll marry

"Eh," said Lisbeth, impatiently. "Thee think'st so 'cause she wouldna ha' thee. She'll ne'er marry thee; thee

Seth was hurt. "Mother," he said, in a remonstrating tone, "don't think that of me. I should be as thankful t'

have her for a sister as thee wouldst t' have her for a daughter. I've no more thoughts about myself in that

"Well, well, then thee shouldstna cross me wi' sayin' things arena as I say they are."

"But, Mother," said Seth, "thee'dst be doing Dinah a wrong by telling Adam what thee think'st about her. It

'ud do nothing but mischief, for it 'ud make Adam uneasy if he doesna feel the same to her. And I'm pretty

"Eh, donna tell me what thee't sure on; thee know'st nought about it. What's he allays goin' to the Poysers' for,

if he didna want t' see her? He goes twice where he used t' go once. Happen he knowsna as he wants t' see

her; he knowsna as I put salt in's broth, but he'd miss it pretty quick if it warna there. He'll ne'er think o'

marrying if it isna put into's head, an' if thee'dst any love for thy mother, thee'dst put him up to't an' not let her

go away out o' my sight, when I might ha' her to make a bit o' comfort for me afore I go to bed to my old man

"Nay, Mother," said Seth, "thee mustna think me unkind, but I should be going against my conscience if I

took upon me to say what Dinah's feelings are. And besides that, I think I should give offence to Adam by

speaking to him at all about marrying; and I counsel thee not to do't. Thee may'st be quite deceived about

Dinah. Nay, I'm pretty sure, by words she said to me last Sabbath, as she's no mind to marry."

"Eh, thee't as contrairy as the rest on 'em. If it war summat I didna want, it 'ud be done fast enough."

Lisbeth rose from the bench at this, and went out of the workshop, leaving Seth in much anxiety lest she

should disturb Adam's mind about Dinah. He consoled himself after a time with reflecting that, since Adam's

trouble, Lisbeth had been very timid about speaking to him on matters of feeling, and that she would hardly

dare to approach this tenderest of all subjects. Even if she did, he hoped Adam would not take much notice of

Seth was right in believing that Lisbeth would be held in restraint by timidity, and during the next three days,

the intervals in which she had an opportunity of speaking to Adam were too rare and short to cause her any

strong temptation. But in her long solitary hours she brooded over her regretful thoughts about Dinah, till

they had grown very near that point of unmanageable strength when thoughts are apt to take wing out of their

secret nest in a startling manner. And on Sunday morning, when Seth went away to chapel at Treddleston, the

Sunday morning was the happiest time in all the week to Lisbeth, for as there was no service at Hayslope

church till the afternoon, Adam was always at home, doing nothing but reading, an occupation in which she

could venture to interrupt him. Moreover, she had always a better dinner than usual to prepare for her

sonsvery frequently for Adam and herself alone, Seth being often away the entire dayand the smell of

the roast meat before the clear fire in the clean kitchen, the clock ticking in a peaceful Sunday manner, her

darling Adam seated near her in his best clothes, doing nothing very important, so that she could go and

stroke her hand across his hair if she liked, and see him look up at her and smile, while Gyp, rather jealous,

poked his muzzle up between themall these things made poor Lisbeth's earthly paradise.

The book Adam most often read on a Sunday morning was his large pictured Bible, and this morning it lay

open before him on the round white deal table in the kitchen; for he sat there in spite of the fire, because he

knew his mother liked to have him with her, and it was the only day in the week when he could indulge her in

that way. You would have liked to see Adam reading his Bible. He never opened it on a weekday, and so he

came to it as a holiday book, serving him for history, biography, and poetry. He held one hand thrust between

his waistcoat buttons, and the other ready to turn the pages, and in the course of the morning you would have

seen many changes in his face. Sometimes his lips moved in semi articulationit was when he came to a

speech that he could fancy himself uttering, such as Samuel's dying speech to the people; then his eyebrows

would be raised, and the corners of his mouth would quiver a little with sad sympathysomething, perhaps

old Isaac's meeting with his son, touched him closely; at other times, over the New Testament, a very solemn

look would come upon his face, and he would every now and then shake his head in serious assent, or just lift

up his hand and let it fall again. And on some mornings, when he read in the Apocrypha, of which he was

very fond, the son of Sirach's keenedged words would bring a delighted smile, though he also enjoyed the

freedom of occasionally differing from an Apocryphal writer. For Adam knew the Articles quite well, as

Lisbeth, in the pauses of attending to her dinner, always sat opposite to him and watched him, till she could

rest no longer without going up to him and giving him a caress, to call his attention to her. This morning he

was reading the Gospel according to St. Matthew, and Lisbeth had been standing close by him for some

minutes, stroking his hair, which was smoother than usual this morning, and looking down at the large page

with silent wonderment at the mystery of letters. She was encouraged to continue this caress, because when

she first went up to him, he had thrown himself back in his chair to look at her affectionately and say, "Why,

Mother, thee look'st rare and hearty this morning. Eh, Gyp wants me t' look at him. He can't abide to think I

love thee the best." Lisbeth said nothing, because she wanted to say so many things. And now there was a

new leaf to be turned over, and it was a picturethat of the angel seated on the great stone that has been

rolled away from the sepulchre. This picture had one strong association in Lisbeth's memory, for she had

been reminded of it when she first saw Dinah, and Adam had no sooner turned the page, and lifted the book

sideways that they might look at the angel, than she said, "That's herthat's Dinah."

Adam smiled, and, looking more intently at the angel's face, said, "It is a bit like her; but Dinah's prettier, I

Adam looked up in surprise. "Why, Mother, dost think I don't set store by Dinah?"

"Nay," said Lisbeth, frightened at her own courage, yet feeling that she had broken the ice, and the waters

must flow, whatever mischief they might do. "What's th' use o' settin' store by things as are thirty mile off? If

"But I've no right t' hinder her, if she thinks well," said Adam, looking at his book as if he wanted to go on

reading. He foresaw a series of complaints tending to nothing. Lisbeth sat down again in the chair opposite to

"But she wouldna think well if thee wastna so contrairy." Lisbeth dared not venture beyond a vague phrase

"Contrairy, mother?" Adam said, looking up again in some anxiety. "What have I done? What dost mean?"

"Why, thee't never look at nothin', nor think o' nothin', but thy figurin, an' thy work," said Lisbeth,

halfcrying. "An' dost think thee canst go on so all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber? An' what

wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody to take care on thee as thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i'

"What hast got i' thy mind, Mother?" said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. "I canna see what thee't driving

"Aye, an' that there is. Thee might'st do as I should ha' somebody wi' me to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me

"Well, Mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th' house t' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee

hast a stroke o' work to do. We can afford itI've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better for us."

"Eh, what's the use o' talking o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o' th' wenches out o' th' village, or

somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'er set eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my own

Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost severity he could show towards his mother

on a Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had gone too far now to check herself, and after scarcely a minute's

"Thee mightst know well enough who 'tis I'd like t' ha' wi' me. It isna many folks I send for t' come an' see

"Thee mean'st Dinah, Mother, I know," said Adam. "But it's no use setting thy mind on what can't be. If

Dinah 'ud be willing to stay at Hayslope, it isn't likely she can come away from her aunt's house, where they

hold her like a daughter, and where she's more bound than she is to us. If it had been so that she could ha'

married Seth, that 'ud ha' been a great blessing to us, but we can't have things just as we like in this life. Thee

"Nay, but I canna ma' up my mind, when she's just cut out for thee; an' nought shall ma' me believe as God

didna make her an' send her there o' purpose for thee. What's it sinnify about her bein' a Methody! It 'ud

Adam threw himself back in his chair and looked at his mother. He understood now what she had been

aiming at from the beginning of the conversation. It was as unreasonable, impracticable a wish as she had

ever urged, but he could not help being moved by so entirely new an idea. The chief point, however, was to

"Mother," he said, gravely, "thee't talking wild. Don't let me hear thee say such things again. It's no good

talking o' what can never be. Dinah's not for marrying; she's fixed her heart on a different sort o' life."

"Very like," said Lisbeth, impatiently, "very like she's none for marr'ing, when them as she'd be willin' t'

marry wonna ax her. I shouldna ha' been for marr'ing thy feyther if he'd ne'er axed me; an' she's as fond o'

The blood rushed to Adam's face, and for a few moments he was not quite conscious where he was. His

mother and the kitchen had vanished for him, and he saw nothing but Dinah's face turned up towards his. It

seemed as if there were a resurrection of his dead joy. But he woke up very speedily from that dream (the

waking was chill and sad), for it would have been very foolish in him to believe his mother's wordsshe

could have no ground for them. He was prompted to express his disbelief very strongly perhaps that he

"What dost say such things for, Mother, when thee'st got no foundation for 'em? Thee know'st nothing as

"Then I knowna nought as gi'es me a right to say as the year's turned, for all I feel it fust thing when I get up i'

th' morning. She isna fond o' Seth, I reckon, is she? She doesna want to marry HIM? But I can see as she

doesna behave tow'rt thee as she daes tow'rt Seth. She makes no more o' Seth's coming anigh her nor if he

war Gyp, but she's all of a tremble when thee't asittin' down by her at breakfast an' alooking at her. Thee

"Eh, what else should it mane? It isna hate, I reckon. An' what should she do but love thee? Thee't made to be

lovedfor where's there a straighter cliverer man? An' what's it sinnify her bein' a Methody? It's on'y the

Adam had thrust his hands in his pockets, and was looking down at the book on the table, without seeing any

of the letters. He was trembling like a goldseeker who sees the strong promise of gold but sees in the same

moment a sickening vision of disappointment. He could not trust his mother's insight; she had seen what she

wished to see. And yetand yet, now the suggestion had been made to him, he remembered so many things,

very slight things, like the stirring of the water by an imperceptible breeze, which seemed to him some

Lisbeth noticed that he was moved. She went on, "An' thee't find out as thee't poorly aff when she's gone.

Thee't fonder on her nor thee know'st. Thy eyes follow her about, welly as Gyp's follow thee."

Adam could sit still no longer. He rose, took down his hat, and went out into the fields.

The sunshine was on them: that early autumn sunshine which we should know was not summer's, even if

there were not the touches of yellow on the lime and chestnut; the Sunday sunshine too, which has more than

autumnal calmness for the working man; the morning sunshine, which still leaves the dewcrystals on the

Adam needed the calm influence; he was amazed at the way in which this new thought of Dinah's love had

taken possession of him, with an overmastering power that made all other feelings give way before the

impetuous desire to know that the thought was true. Strange, that till that moment the possibility of their ever

being lovers had never crossed his mind, and yet now, all his longing suddenly went out towards that

possibility. He had no more doubt or hesitation as to his own wishes than the bird that flies towards the

The autumnal Sunday sunshine soothed him, but not by preparing him with resignation to the disappointment

if his motherif he himselfproved to be mistaken about Dinah. It soothed him by gentle encouragement

of his hopes. Her love was so like that calm sunshine that they seemed to make one presence to him, and he

believed in them both alike. And Dinah was so bound up with the sad memories of his first passion that he

was not forsaking them, but rather giving them a new sacredness by loving her. Nay, his love for her had

But Seth? Would the lad be hurt? Hardly; for he had seemed quite contented of late, and there was no selfish

jealousy in him; he had never been jealous of his mother's fondness for Adam. But had he seen anything of

what their mother talked about? Adam longed to know this, for he thought he could trust Seth's observation

better than his mother's. He must talk to Seth before he went to see Dinah, and, with this intention in his

mind, he walked back to the cottage and said to his mother, "Did Seth say anything to thee about when he

"Aye, lad, he'll be back for a wonder. He isna gone to Treddles'on. He's gone somewhere else apreachin' and

Adam wanted to go and meet Seth, but he must content himself with walking about the near fields and getting

sight of him as soon as possible. That would not be for more than an hour to come, for Seth would scarcely

be at home much before their dinnertime, which was twelve o'clock. But Adam could not sit down to his

reading again, and he sauntered along by the brook and stood leaning against the stiles, with eager intense

eyes, which looked as if they saw something very vividly; but it was not the brook or the willows, not the

fields or the sky. Again and again his vision was interrupted by wonder at the strength of his own feeling, at

the strength and sweetness of this new lovealmost like the wonder a man feels at the added power he finds

in himself for an art which he had laid aside for a space. How is it that the poets have said so many fine things

about our first love, so few about our later love? Are their first poems their best? Or are not those the best

which come from their fuller thought, their larger experience, their deeperrooted affections? The boy's

flutelike voice has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer deeper music.

At last, there was Seth, visible at the farthest stile, and Adam hastened to meet him. Seth was surprised, and

thought something unusual must have happened, but when Adam came up, his face said plainly enough that it

"I've been to the Common," said Seth. "Dinah's been speaking the Word to a little company of hearers at

Brimstone's, as they call him. They're folks as never go to church hardlythem on the Commonbut they'll

go and hear Dinah a bit. She's been speaking with power this forenoon from the words, 'I came not to call the

righteous, but sinners to repentance.' And there was a little thing happened as was pretty to see. The women

mostly bring their children with 'em, but today there was one stout curly headed fellow about three or four

year old, that I never saw there before. He was as naughty as could be at the beginning while I was praying,

and while we was singing, but when we all sat down and Dinah began to speak, th' young un stood stock still

all at once, and began to look at her with's mouth open, and presently he ran away from's mother and went to

Dinah, and pulled at her, like a little dog, for her to take notice of him. So Dinah lifted him up and held th' lad

on her lap, while she went on speaking; and he was as good as could be till he went to sleepand the mother

"It's a pity she shouldna be a mother herself," said Adam, "so fond as the children are of her. Dost think she's

There was something peculiar in his brother's tone, which made Seth steal a glance at his face before he

"It 'ud be wrong of me to say nothing 'ud turn her," he answered. "But if thee mean'st it about myself, I've

given up all thoughts as she can ever be my wife. She calls me her brother, and that's enough."

"But dost think she might ever get fond enough of anybody else to be willing to marry 'em?" said Adam

"Well," said Seth, after some hesitation, "it's crossed my mind sometimes o' late as she might; but Dinah 'ud

let no fondness for the creature draw her out o' the path as she believed God had marked out for her. If she

thought the leading was not from Him, she's not one to be brought under the power of it. And she's allays

seemed clear about thatas her work was to minister t' others, and make no home for herself i' this world."

"But suppose," said Adam, earnestly, "suppose there was a man as 'ud let her do just the same and not

interfere with hershe might do a good deal o' what she does now, just as well when she was married as

when she was single. Other women of her sort have marriedthat's to say, not just like her, but women as

preached and attended on the sick and needy. There's Mrs. Fletcher as she talks of."

A new light had broken in on Seth. He turned round, and laying his hand on Adam's shoulder, said, "Why,

Adam looked doubtfully at Seth's inquiring eyes and said, "Wouldst be hurt if she was to be fonder o' me than

"Nay," said Seth warmly, "how canst think it? Have I felt thy trouble so little that I shouldna feel thy joy?"

There was silence a few moments as they walked on, and then Seth said, "I'd no notion as thee'dst ever think

"But is it o' any use to think of her?" said Adam. "What dost say? Mother's made me as I hardly know where I

am, with what she's been saying to me this forenoon. She says she's sure Dinah feels for me more than

common, and 'ud be willing t' have me. But I'm afraid she speaks without book. I want to know if thee'st seen

"It's a nice point to speak about," said Seth, "and I'm afraid o' being wrong; besides, we've no right t'

"But thee mightst ask her," he said presently. "She took no offence at me for asking, and thee'st more right

than I had, only thee't not in the Society. But Dinah doesn't hold wi' them as are for keeping the Society so

strict to themselves. She doesn't mind about making folks enter the Society, so as they're fit t' enter the

kingdom o' God. Some o' the brethren at Treddles'on are displeased with her for that."

"She said she shouldn't leave the farm again today," said Seth, "because it's her last Sabbath there, and she's

Adam thoughtbut did not say"Then I'll go this afternoon; for if I go to church, my thoughts 'ull be with

IT was about three o'clock when Adam entered the farmyard and roused Alick and the dogs from their

Sunday dozing. Alick said everybody was gone to church "but th' young missis"so he called Dinahbut

this did not disappoint Adam, although the "everybody" was so liberal as to include Nancy the dairymaid,

There was perfect stillness about the house. The doors were all closed, and the very stones and tubs seemed

quieter than usual. Adam heard the water gently dripping from the pumpthat was the only soundand he

The door opened, and Dinah stood before him, colouring deeply with the great surprise of seeing Adam at

this hour, when she knew it was his regular practice to be at church. Yesterday he would have said to her

without any difficulty, "I came to see you, Dinah: I knew the rest were not at home." But today something

prevented him from saying that, and he put out his hand to her in silence. Neither of them spoke, and yet both

wished they could speak, as Adam entered, and they sat down. Dinah took the chair she had just left; it was at

the corner of the table near the window, and there was a book lying on the table, but it was not open. She had

been sitting perfectly still, looking at the small bit of clear fire in the bright grate. Adam sat down opposite

"Your mother is not ill again, I hope, Adam?" Dinah said, recovering herself. "Seth said she was well this

"No, she's very hearty today," said Adam, happy in the signs of Dinah's feeling at the sight of him, but shy.

"There's nobody at home, you see," Dinah said; "but you'll wait. You've been hindered from going to church

"Yes," Adam said, and then paused, before he added, "I was thinking about you: that was the reason."

This confession was very awkward and sudden, Adam felt, for he thought Dinah must understand all he

meant. But the frankness of the words caused her immediately to interpret them into a renewal of his

brotherly regrets that she was going away, and she answered calmly, "Do not be careful and troubled for me,

Adam. I have all things and abound at Snowfield. And my mind is at rest, for I am not seeking my own will

"But if things were different, Dinah," said Adam, hesitatingly. "If you knew things that perhaps you don't

Dinah looked at him inquiringly, but instead of going on, he reached a chair and brought it near the corner of

the table where she was sitting. She wondered, and was afraidand the next moment her thoughts flew to

the past: was it something about those distant unhappy ones that she didn't know?

Adam looked at her. It was so sweet to look at her eyes, which had now a selfforgetful questioning in

themfor a moment he forgot that he wanted to say anything, or that it was necessary to tell her what he

"Dinah," he said suddenly, taking both her hands between his, "I love you with my whole heart and soul. I

Dinah's lips became pale, like her cheeks, and she trembled violently under the shock of painful joy. Her

hands were cold as death between Adam's. She could not draw them away, because he held them fast.

"Don't tell me you can't love me, Dinah. Don't tell me we must part and pass our lives away from one

The tears were trembling in Dinah's eyes, and they fell before she could answer. But she spoke in a quiet low

"Not if you love me, Dinahnot if you love me," Adam said passionately. "Tell metell me if you can love

Dinah was too entirely reliant on the Supreme guidance to attempt to achieve any end by a deceptive

concealment. She was recovering now from the first shock of emotion, and she looked at Adam with simple

sincere eyes as she said, "Yes, Adam, my heart is drawn strongly towards you; and of my own will, if I had

no clear showing to the contrary, I could find my happiness in being near you and ministering to you

continually. I fear I should forget to rejoice and weep with others; nay, I fear I should forget the Divine

Adam did not speak immediately. They sat looking at each other in delicious silencefor the first sense of

"Then, Dinah," Adam said at last, "how can there be anything contrary to what's right in our belonging to one

another and spending our lives together? Who put this great love into our hearts? Can anything be holier than

that? For we can help one another in everything as is good. I'd never think o' putting myself between you and

God, and saying you oughtn't to do this and you oughtn't to do that. You'd follow your conscience as much as

"Yes, Adam," Dinah said, "I know marriage is a holy state for those who are truly called to it, and have no

other drawing; but from my chilhood upwards I have been led towards another path; all my peace and my joy

have come from having no life of my own, no wants, no wishes for myself, and living only in God and those

of his creatures whose sorrows and joys he has given me to know. Those have been very blessed years to me,

and I feel that if I was to listen to any voice that would draw me aside from that path, I should be turning my

back on the light that has shone upon me, and darkness and doubt would take hold of me. We could not bless

each other, Adam, if there were doubts in my soul, and if I yearned, when it was too late, after that better part

"But if a new feeling has come into your mind, Dinah, and if you love me so as to be willing to be nearer to

me than to other people, isn't that a sign that it's right for you to change your life? Doesn't the love make it

"Adam, my mind is full of questionings about that; for now, since you tell me of your strong love towards

me, what was clear to me has become dark again. I felt before that my heart was too strongly drawn towards

you, and that your heart was not as mine; and the thought of you had taken hold of me, so that my soul had

lost its freedom, and was becoming enslaved to an earthly affection, which made me anxious and careful

about what should befall myself. For in all other affection I had been content with any small return, or with

none; but my heart was beginning to hunger after an equal love from you. And I had no doubt that I must

wrestle against that as a great temptation, and the command was clear that I must go away."

"But now, dear, dear Dinah, now you know I love you better than you love me...it's all different now. You

won't think o' going. You'll stay, and be my dear wife, and I shall thank God for giving me my life as I never

"Adam, it's hard to me to turn a deaf ear...you know it's hard; but a great fear is upon me. It seems to me as if

you were stretching out your arms to me, and beckoning me to come and take my ease and live for my own

delight, and Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, was standing looking towards me, and pointing to the sinful, and

suffering, and afflicted. I have seen that again and again when I have been sitting in stillness and darkness,

and a great terror has come upon me lest I should become hard, and a lover of self, and no more bear

Dinah had closed her eyes, and a faint shudder went through her. "Adam," she went on, "you wouldn't desire

that we should seek a good through any unfaithfulness to the light that is in us; you wouldn't believe that

"Yes, Dinah," said Adam sadly, "I'll never be the man t' urge you against your conscience. But I can't give up

the hope that you may come to see different. I don't believe your loving me could shut up your heartit's

only adding to what you've been before, not taking away from it. For it seems to me it's the same with love

and happiness as with sorrowthe more we know of it the better we can feel what other people's lives are or

might be, and so we shall only be more tender to 'em, and wishful to help 'em. The more knowledge a man

Dinah was silent; her eyes were fixed in contemplation of something visible only to herself. Adam went on

presently with his pleading, "And you can do almost as much as you do now. I won't ask you to go to church

with me of a Sunday. You shall go where you like among the people, and teach 'em; for though I like church

best, I don't put my soul above yours, as if my words was better for you to follow than your own conscience.

And you can help the sick just as much, and you'll have more means o' making 'em a bit comfortable; and

you'll be among all your own friends as love you, and can help 'em and be a blessing to 'em till their dying

day. Surely, Dinah, you'd be as near to God as if you was living lonely and away from me."

Dinah made no answer for some time. Adam was still holding her hands and looking at her with almost

trembling anxiety, when she turned her grave loving eyes on his and said, in rather a sad voice, "Adam there

is truth in what you say, and there's many of the brethren and sisters who have greater strength than I have,

and find their hearts enlarged by the cares of husband and kindred. But I have not faith that it would be so

with me, for since my affections have been set above measure on you, I have had less peace and joy in God. I

have felt as it were a division in my heart. And think how it is with me, Adam. That life I have led is like a

land I have trodden in blessedness since my childhood; and if I long for a moment to follow the voice which

calls me to another land that I know not, I cannot but fear that my soul might hereafter yearn for that early

blessedness which I had forsaken; and where doubt enters there is not perfect love. I must wait for clearer

guidance. I must go from you, and we must submit ourselves entirely to the Divine Will. We are sometimes

Adam dared not plead again, for Dinah's was not the voice of caprice or insincerity. But it was very hard for

"But you may come to feel satisfied...to feel that you may come to me again, and we may never part, Dinah?"

"We must submit ourselves, Adam. With time, our duty will be made clear. It may be when I have entered on

my former life, I shall find all these new thoughts and wishes vanish, and become as things that were not.

"Dinah," said Adam mournfully, "you can't love me so well as I love you, else you'd have no doubts. But it's

natural you shouldn't, for I'm not so good as you. I can't doubt it's right for me to love the best thing God's

"Nay, Adam. It seems to me that my love for you is not weak, for my heart waits on your words and looks,

almost as a little child waits on the help and tenderness of the strong on whom it depends. If the thought of

you took slight hold of me, I should not fear that it would be an idol in the temple. But you will strengthen

"Let us go out into the sunshine, Dinah, and walk together. I'll speak no word to disturb you."

They went out and walked towards the fields, where they would meet the family coming from church. Adam

said, "Take my arm, Dinah," and she took it. That was the only change in their manner to each other since

they were last walking together. But no sadness in the prospect of her going awayin the uncertainty of the

issue could rob the sweetness from Adam's sense that Dinah loved him. He thought he would stay at the

"Heyday! There's Adam along wi' Dinah," said Mr. Poyser, as he opened the far gate into the Home Close.

"I couldna think how he happened away from church. Why," added good Martin, after a moment's pause,

"Summat as hadna far to jump, for it's just under our nose. You mean as Adam's fond o' Dinah."

"To be sure I have," said Mrs. Poyser, who always declined, if possible, to be taken by surprise. "I'm not one

"Well, I aren't like a birdclapper, forced to make a rattle when the wind blows on me. I can keep my own

"Nay," said Mrs. Poyser, not sufficiently on her guard against a possible surprise, "she'll never marry

"It 'ud ha' been a pretty thing though for 'em t' marry," said Martin, turning his head on one side, as if in

"Ah! I should. I should ha' been sure of her then, as she wouldn't go away from me to Snowfield, welly thirty

mile off, and me not got a creatur to look to, only neighbours, as are no kin to me, an' most of 'em women as

I'd be ashamed to show my face, if my dairy things war like their'n. There may well be streaky butter i' the

market. An' I should be glad to see the poor thing settled like a Christian woman, with a house of her own

over her head; and we'd stock her well wi' linen and feathers, for I love her next to my own children. An' she

makes one feel safer when she's i' the house, for she's like the driven snow: anybody might sin for two as had

"Dinah," said Tommy, running forward to meet her, "mother says you'll never marry anybody but a

Methodist cripple. What a silly you must be!" a comment which Tommy followed up by seizing Dinah with

"Ah, lad! Can you persuade her to stop somehow? Find her a good husband somewhere i' the parish. If you'll

do that, we'll forgive you for missing church. But, anyway, she isna going before the harvest supper o'

Wednesday, and you must come then. There's Bartle Massey comin', an' happen Craig. You'll be sure an'

"Aye," said Adam, "I'll come if I can. But I can't often say what I'll do beforehand, for the work often holds

"She's no call to be in a hurry," observed Mrs. Poyser. "Scarceness o' victual 'ull keep: there's no need to be

hasty wi' the cooking. An' scarceness is what there's the biggest stock of i' that country."

Dinah smiled, but gave no promise to stay, and they talked of other things through the rest of the walk,

lingering in the sunshine to look at the great flock of geese grazing, at the new cornricks, and at the

surprising abundance of fruit on the old peartree; Nancy and Molly having already hastened home, side by

side, each holding, carefully wrapped in her pockethandkerchief, a prayerbook, in which she could read

Surely all other leisure is hurry compared with a sunny walk through the fields from "afternoon church"as

such walks used to be in those old leisurely times, when the boat, gliding sleepily along the canal, was the

newest locomotive wonder; when Sunday books had most of them old brownleather covers, and opened

with remarkable precision always in one place. Leisure is gonegone where the spinningwheels are gone,

and the packhorses, and the slow waggons, and the pedlars, who brought bargains to the door on sunny

afternoons. Ingenious philosophers tell you, perhaps, that the great work of the steamengine is to create

leisure for mankind. Do not believe them: it only creates a vacuum for eager thought to rush in. Even idleness

is eager noweager for amusement; prone to excursiontrains, art museums, periodical literature, and

exciting novels; prone even to scientific theorizing and cursory peeps through microscopes. Old Leisure was

quite a different personage. He only read one newspaper, innocent of leaders, and was free from that

periodicity of sensations which we call posttime. He was a contemplative, rather stout gentleman, of

excellent digestion; of quiet perceptions, undiseased by hypothesis; happy in his inability to know the causes

of things, preferring the things themselves. He lived chiefly in the country, among pleasant seats and

homesteads, and was fond of sauntering by the fruittree wall and scenting the apricots when they were

warmed by the morning sunshine, or of sheltering himself under the orchard boughs at noon, when the

summer pears were falling. He knew nothing of weekday services, and thought none the worse of the Sunday

sermon if it allowed him to sleep from the text to the blessing; liking the afternoon service best, because the

prayers were the shortest, and not ashamed to say so; for he had an easy, jolly conscience, broad backed like

himself, and able to carry a great deal of beer or portwine, not being made squeamish by doubts and qualms

and lofty aspirations. Life was not a task to him, but a sinecure. He fingered the guineas in his pocket, and ate

his dinners, and slept the sleep of the irresponsible, for had he not kept up his character by going to church on

Fine old Leisure! Do not be severe upon him, and judge him by our modern standard. He never went to

Exeter Hall, or heard a popular preacher, or read Tracts for the Times or Sartor Resartus.

As Adam was going homeward, on Wednesday evening, in the six o'clock sunlight, he saw in the distance the

last load of barley winding its way towards the yardgate of the Hall Farm, and heard the chant of "Harvest

Home!" rising and sinking like a wave. Fainter and fainter, and more musical through the growing distance,

the falling dying sound still reached him, as he neared the Willow Brook. The low westering sun shone right

on the shoulders of the old Binton Hills, turning the unconscious sheep into bright spots of light; shone on the

windows of the cottage too, and made them aflame with a glory beyond that of amber or amethyst. It was

enough to make Adam feel that he was in a great temple, and that the distant chant was a sacred song.

"It's wonderful," he thought, "how that sound goes to one's heart almost like a funeral bell, for all it tells one

o' the joyfullest time o' the year, and the time when men are mostly the thankfullest. I suppose it's a bit hard

to us to think anything's over and gone in our lives; and there's a parting at the root of all our joys. It's like

what I feel about Dinah. I should never ha' come to know that her love 'ud be the greatest o' blessings to me,

if what I counted a blessing hadn't been wrenched and torn away from me, and left me with a greater need, so

He expected to see Dinah again this evening, and get leave to accompany her as far as Oakbourne; and then

he would ask her to fix some time when he might go to Snowfield, and learn whether the last best hope that

had been born to him must be resigned like the rest. The work he had to do at home, besides putting on his

best clothes, made it seven before he was on his way again to the Hall Farm, and it was questionable whether,

with his longest and quickest strides, he should be there in time even for the roast beef, which came after the

Great was the clatter of knives and pewter plates and tin cans when Adam entered the house, but there was no

hum of voices to this accompaniment: the eating of excellent roast beef, provided free of expense, was too

serious a business to those good farm labourers to be performed with a divided attention, even if they had

had anything to say to each otherwhich they had not. And Mr. Poyser, at the head of the table, was too

"Here, Adam," said Mrs. Poyser, who was standing and looking on to see that Molly and Nancy did their duty

as waiters, "here's a place kept for you between Mr. Massey and the boys. It's a poor tale you couldn't come

Adam looked anxiously round for a fourth woman's figure, but Dinah was not there. He was almost afraid of

asking about her; besides, his attention was claimed by greetings, and there remained the hope that Dinah was

in the house, though perhaps disinclined to festivities on the eve of her departure.

It was a goodly sightthat table, with Martin Poyser's round goodhumoured face and large person at the

head of it helping his servants to the fragrant roast beef and pleased when the empty plates came again.

Martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef tonightit was so

pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving and see how the others enjoyed their supper; for were

they not men who, on all the days of the year except Christmas Day and Sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a

makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottleswith relish certainly,

but with their mouths towards the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds.

Martin Poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and freshdrawn

ale. He held his head on one side and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged Bartle Massey, and watched

halfwitted Tom Tholer, otherwise known as "Tom Saft," receiving his second plateful of beef. A grin of

delight broke over Tom's face as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he

held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers. But the delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a

grinit burst out the next instant in a longdrawn "haw, haw!" followed by a sudden collapse into utter

gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent

unctuous laugh. He turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she too had been observant of Tom, and the eyes of

"Tom Saft" was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part of the old jester, and made up for his

practical deficiencies by his success in repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which falls quite

at random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were much quoted at sheepshearing and

haymaking times, but I refrain from recording them here, lest Tom's wit should prove to be like that of many

other bygone jesters eminent in their dayrather of a temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and

Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and labourers, thinking with satisfaction that

they were the best worth their pay of any set on the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example (Beale,

probably, if the truth were known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any claim to a fifth

letter), the old man with the close leather cap and the network of wrinkles on his sunbrowned face. Was

there any man in Loamshire who knew better the "natur" of all farming work? He was one of those invaluable

labourers who can not only turn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn their hand to. It is

true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time, and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were

among the, most reverent of men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that the object of his reverence

was his own skill, towards which he performed some rather affecting acts of worship. He always thatched the

ricksfor if anything were his forte more than another, it was thatchingand when the last touch had been

put to the last beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some distance from the farm, would take a walk to the

rickyard in his best clothes on a Sunday morning and stand in the lane, at a due distance, to contemplate his

own thatching walking about to get each rick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along, with his

eyes upturned to the straw knobs imitative of golden globes at the summits of the beehive ricks, which indeed

were gold of the best sort, you might have imagined him to be engaged in some pagan act of adoration.

Kester was an old bachelor and reputed to have stockings full of coin, concerning which his master cracked a

joke with him every paynight: not a new unseasoned joke, but a good old one, that had been tried many

times before and had worn well. "Th' young measter's a merry mon," Kester frequently remarked; for having

begun his career by frightening away the crows under the last Martin Poyser but one, he could never cease to

account the reigning Martin a young master. I am not ashamed of commemorating old Kester. You and I are

indebted to the hard hands of such menhands that have long ago mingled with the soil they tilled so

faithfully, thriftily making the best they could of the earth's fruits, and receiving the smallest share as their

Then, at the end of the table, opposite his master, there was Alick, the shepherd and headman, with the

ruddy face and broad shoulders, not on the best terms with old Kester; indeed, their intercourse was confined

to an occasional snarl, for though they probably differed little concerning hedging and ditching and the

treatment of ewes, there was a profound difference of opinion between them as to their own respective merits.

When Tityrus and Meliboeus happen to be on the same farm, they are not sentimentally polite to each other.

Alick, indeed, was not by any means a honeyed man. His speech had usually something of a snarl in it, and

his broadshouldered aspect something of the bulldog expression"Don't you meddle with me, and I won't

meddle with you." But he was honest even to the splitting of an oatgrain rather than he would take beyond

his acknowledged share, and as "closefisted" with his master's property as if it had been his ownthrowing

very small handfuls of damaged barley to the chickens, because a large handful affected his imagination

painfully with a sense of profusion. Goodtempered Tim, the waggoner, who loved his horses, had his

grudge against Alick in the matter of corn. They rarely spoke to each other, and never looked at each other,

even over their dish of cold potatoes; but then, as this was their usual mode of behaviour towards all

mankind, it would be an unsafe conclusion that they had more than transient fits of unfriendliness. The

bucolic character at Hayslope, you perceive, was not of that entirely genial, merry, broadgrinning sort,

apparently observed in most districts visited by artists. The mild radiance of a smile was a rare sight on a

fieldlabourer's face, and there was seldom any gradation between bovine gravity and a laugh. Nor was every

labourer so honest as our friend Alick. At this very table, among Mr. Poyser's men, there is that big Ben

Tholoway, a very powerful thresher, but detected more than once in carrying away his master's corn in his

pocketsan action which, as Ben was not a philosopher, could hardly be ascribed to absence of mind.

However, his master had forgiven him, and continued to employ him, for the Tholoways had lived on the

Common time out of mind, and had always worked for the Poysers. And on the whole, I daresay, society was

not much the worse because Ben had not six months of it at the treadmill, for his views of depredation were

narrow, and the House of Correction might have enlarged them. As it was, Ben ate his roast beef tonight

with a serene sense of having stolen nothing more than a few peas and beans as seed for his garden since the

last harvest supper, and felt warranted in thinking that Alick's suspicious eye, for ever upon him, was an

But NOW the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving a fair large deal table for the bright

drinkingcans, and the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold. NOW, the

great ceremony of the evening was to beginthe harvestsong, in which every man must join. He might be

in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips. The movement was obliged to be in

As to the origin of this songwhether it came in its actual state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was

gradually perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, I am ignorant. There is a stamp of unity, of

individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though I am not blind to the

consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a

condition of primitive thought, foreign to our modern consciousness. Some will perhaps think that they detect

in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in imaginative vigour, have

supplied by the feeble device of iteration. Others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an

The ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony. (That is perhaps a painful fact, but then,

you know, we cannot reform our forefathers.) During the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly forte, no

Here's a health unto our master, The founder of the feast; Here's a health unto our master And to our mistress!

And may his doings prosper, Whate'er he takes in hand, For we are all his servants, And are at his command.

But now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung fortissimo, with emphatic raps of the table,

which gave the effect of cymbals and drum together, Alick's can was filled, and he was bound to empty it

Then drink, boys, drink! And see ye do not spill, For if ye do, ye shall drink two, For 'tis our master's will.

When Alick had gone successfully through this test of steady handed manliness, it was the turn of old

Kester, at his right handand so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the

chorus. Tom Saftthe roguetook care to spill a little by accident; but Mrs. Poyser (too officiously, Tom

To any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of obvious why the "Drink, boys, drink!"

should have such an immediate and oftenrepeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all

faces were at present sober, and most of them seriousit was the regular and respectable thing for those

excellent farmlabourers to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their

wineglasses. Bartle Massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it

was at an early stage in the ceremony, and had not finished his contemplation until a silence of five minutes

declared that "Drink, boys, drink!" was not likely to begin again for the next twelvemonth. Much to the regret

of the boys and Totty: on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the table, towards

which Totty, seated on her father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist.

When Bartle reentered, however, there appeared to be a general desire for solo music after the choral.

Nancy declared that Tim the waggoner knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable,"

whereupon Mr. Poyser said encouragingly, "Come, Tim, lad, let's hear it." Tim looked sheepish, tucked down

his head, and said he couldn't sing, but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all round the

table. It was a conversational opportunity: everybody could say, "Come, Tim," except Alick, who never

relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech. At last, Tim's next neighbour, Ben Tholoway, began to give

emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which Tim, growing rather savage, said, "Let me alooan, will ye? Else

I'll ma' ye sing a toon ye wonna like." A goodtempered waggoner's patience has limits, and Tim was not to

"Well, then, David, ye're the lad to sing," said Ben, willing to show that he was not discomfited by this check.

The amatory David was a young man of an unconscious abstracted expression, which was due probably to a

squint of superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to Ben's

invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a

symptom of yielding. And for some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear

David's song. But in vain. The lyricism of the evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn

Meanwhile the conversation at the head of the table had taken a political turn. Mr. Craig was not above

talking politics occasionally, though he piqued himself rather on a wise insight than on specific information.

He saw so far beyond the mere facts of a case that really it was superfluous to know them.

"I'm no reader o' the paper myself," he observed tonight, as he filled his pipe, "though I might read it fast

enough if I liked, for there's Miss Lyddy has 'em and 's done with 'em i' no time. But there's Mills, now, sits i'

the chimneycorner and reads the paper pretty nigh from morning to night, and when he's got to th' end on't

he's more addleheaded than he was at the beginning. He's full o' this peace now, as they talk on; he's been

reading and reading, and thinks he's got to the bottom on't. 'Why, Lor' bless you, Mills,' says I, 'you see no

more into this thing nor you can see into the middle of a potato. I'll tell you what it is: you think it'll be a fine

thing for the country. And I'm not again' itmark my wordsI'm not again' it. But it's my opinion as there's

them at the head o' this country as are worse enemies to us nor Bony and all the mounseers he's got at 's back;

for as for the mounseers, you may skewer halfadozen of 'em at once as if they war frogs.'"

"Aye, aye," said Martin Poyser, listening with an air of much intelligence and edification, "they ne'er ate a bit

"And says I to Mills," continued Mr. Craig, "'Will you try to make me believe as furriners like them can do us

half th' harm them ministers do with their bad government? If King George 'ud turn 'em all away and govern

by himself, he'd see everything righted. He might take on Billy Pitt again if he liked; but I don't see myself

what we want wi' anybody besides King and Parliament. It's that nest o' ministers does the mischief, I tell

"Ah, it's fine talking," observed Mrs. Poyser, who was now seated near her husband, with Totty on her

lap"it's fine talking. It's hard work to tell which is Old Harry when everybody's got boots on."

"As for this peace," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on one side in a dubitative manner and giving a

precautionary puff to his pipe between each sentence, "I don't know. Th' war's a fine thing for the country, an'

how'll you keep up prices wi'out it? An' them French are a wicked sort o' folks, by what I can make out. What

"Ye're partly right there, Poyser," said Mr. Craig, "but I'm not again' the peaceto make a holiday for a bit.

We can break it when we like, an' I'm in no fear o' Bony, for all they talk so much o' his cliverness. That's

what I says to Mills this morning. Lor' bless you, he sees no more through Bony!...why, I put him up to more

in three minutes than he gets from's paper all the year round. Says I, 'Am I a gardener as knows his business,

or arn't I, Mills? Answer me that.' 'To be sure y' are, Craig,' says he he's not a bad fellow, Mills isn't, for a

butler, but weak i' the head. 'Well,' says I, 'you talk o' Bony's cliverness; would it be any use my being a

firstrate gardener if I'd got nought but a quagmire to work on?' 'No,' says he. 'Well,' I says, 'that's just what it

is wi' Bony. I'll not deny but he may be a bit cliverhe's no Frenchman born, as I understandbut what's he

Mr. Craig paused a moment with an emphatic stare after this triumphant specimen of Socratic argument, and

then added, thumping the table rather fiercely, "Why, it's a sure thingand there's them 'ull bear witness

to'tas i' one regiment where there was one man amissing, they put the regimentals on a big monkey, and

they fit him as the shell fits the walnut, and you couldn't tell the monkey from the mounseers!"

"Ah! Think o' that, now!" said Mr. Poyser, impressed at once with the political bearings of the fact and with

"Come, Craig," said Adam, "that's a little too strong. You don't believe that. It's all nonsense about the French

being such poor sticks. Mr. Irwine's seen 'em in their own country, and he says they've plenty o' fine fellows

among 'em. And as for knowledge, and contrivances, and manufactures, there's a many things as we're a fine

sight behind 'em in. It's poor foolishness to run down your enemies. Why, Nelson and the rest of 'em 'ud have

Mr. Poyser looked doubtfully at Mr. Craig, puzzled by this opposition of authorities. Mr. Irwine's testimony

was not to be disputed; but, on the other hand, Craig was a knowing fellow, and his view was less startling.

Martin had never "heard tell" of the French being good for much. Mr. Craig had found no answer but such as

was implied in taking a long draught of ale and then looking down fixedly at the proportions of his own leg,

which he turned a little outward for that purpose, when Bartle Massey returned from the fireplace, where he

had been smoking his first pipe in quiet, and broke the silence by saying, as he thrust his forefinger into the

canister, "Why, Adam, how happened you not to be at church on Sunday? Answer me that, you rascal. The

anthem went limping without you. Are you going to disgrace your schoolmaster in his old age?"

"No, Mr. Massey," said Adam. "Mr. and Mrs. Poyser can tell you where I was. I was in no bad company."

"She's gone, Adamgone to Snowfield," said Mr. Poyser, reminded of Dinah for the first time this evening.

"I thought you'd ha' persuaded her better. Nought 'ud hold her, but she must go yesterday forenoon. The

missis has hardly got over it. I thought she'd ha' no sperrit for th' harvest supper."

Mrs. Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam had come in, but she had had "no heart" to

"What!" said Bartle, with an air of disgust. "Was there a woman concerned? Then I give you up, Adam."

"But it's a woman you'n spoke well on, Bartle," said Mr. Poyser. "Come now, you canna draw back; you said

"I meant her voice, manI meant her voice, that was all," said Bartle. "I can bear to hear her speak without

wanting to put wool in my ears. As for other things, I daresay she's like the rest o' the womenthinks two

"Aye, aye!" said Mrs. Poyser; "one 'ud think, an' hear some folks talk, as the men war 'cute enough to count

the corns in a bag o' wheat wi' only smelling at it. They can see through a barndoor, they can. Perhaps that's

Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at Adam, as much as to say the schoolmaster was in

"Ah!" said Bartle sneeringly, "the women are quick enoughthey're quick enough. They know the rights of

a story before they hear it, and can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows 'em himself."

"Like enough," said Mrs. Poyser, "for the men are mostly so slow, their thoughts overrun 'em, an' they can

only catch 'em by the tail. I can count a stockingtop while a man's getting's tongue ready an' when he outs

wi' his speech at last, there's little broth to be made on't. It's your dead chicks take the longest hatchin'.

Howiver, I'm not denyin' the women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."

"Match!" said Bartle. "Aye, as vinegar matches one's teeth. If a man says a word, his wife 'll match it with a

contradiction; if he's a mind for hot meat, his wife 'll match it with cold bacon; if he laughs, she'll match him

with whimpering. She's such a match as the horsefly is to th' horse: she's got the right venom to sting him

"Yes," said Mrs. Poyser, "I know what the men likea poor soft, as 'ud simper at 'em like the picture o' the

sun, whether they did right or wrong, an' say thank you for a kick, an' pretend she didna know which end she

stood uppermost, till her husband told her. That's what a man wants in a wife, mostly; he wants to make sure

o' one fool as 'ull tell him he's wise. But there's some men can do wi'out thatthey think so much o'

"Come, Craig," said Mr. Poyser jocosely, "you mun get married pretty quick, else you'll be set down for an

"Well," said Mr. Craig, willing to conciliate Mrs. Poyser and setting a high value on his own compliments, "I

"You're out there, Craig," said Bartle, dryly; "you're out there. You judge o' your gardenstuff on a better

plan than that. You pick the things for what they can excel infor what they can excel in. You don't value

your peas for their roots, or your carrots for their flowers. Now, that's the way you should choose women.

Their cleverness 'll never come to muchnever come to muchbut they make excellent simpletons, ripe

"What dost say to that?" said Mr. Poyser, throwing himself back and looking merrily at his wife.

"Say!" answered Mrs. Poyser, with dangerous fire kindling in her eye. "Why, I say as some folks' tongues are

like the clocks as run on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the day, but because there's summat wrong i' their

Mrs. Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a further climax, if every one's attention had not at

this moment been called to the other end of the table, where the lyricism, which had at first only manifested

itself by David's sotto voce performance of "My love's a rose without a thorn," had gradually assumed a

rather deafening and complex character. Tim, thinking slightly of David's vocalization, was impelled to

supersede that feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of "Three Merry Mowers," but David was not to be

put down so easily, and showed himself capable of a copious crescendo, which was rendering it doubtful

whether the rose would not predominate over the mowers, when old Kester, with an entirely unmoved and

immovable aspect, suddenly set up a quavering trebleas if he had been an alarum, and the time was come

The company at Alick's end of the table took this form of vocal entertainment very much as a matter of

course, being free from musical prejudices; but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put his fingers in his

ears; and Adam, who had been longing to go ever since he had heard Dinah was not in the house, rose and

"I'll go with you, lad," said Bartle; "I'll go with you before my ears are split."

"I'll go round by the Common and see you home, if you like, Mr. Massey," said Adam.

"Aye, aye!" said Bartle; "then we can have a bit o' talk together. I never get hold of you now."

"Eh! It's a pity but you'd sit it out," said Martin Poyser. "They'll all go soon, for th' missis niver lets 'em stay

But Adam was resolute, so the goodnights were said, and the two friends turned out on their starlight walk

"There's that poor fool, Vixen, whimpering for me at home," said Bartle. "I can never bring her here with me

for fear she should be struck with Mrs. Poyser's eye, and the poor bitch might go limping for ever after."

"I've never any need to drive Gyp back," said Adam, laughing. "He always turns back of his own head when

"Aye, aye," said Bartle. "A terrible woman!made of needles, made of needles. But I stick to MartinI

shall always stick to Martin. And he likes the needles, God help him! He's a cushion made on purpose for

"But she's a downright goodnatur'd woman, for all that," said Adam, "and as true as the daylight. She's a bit

cross wi' the dogs when they offer to come in th' house, but if they depended on her, she'd take care and have

'em well fed. If her tongue's keen, her heart's tender: I've seen that in times o' trouble. She's one o' those

"Well, well," said Bartle, "I don't say th' apple isn't sound at the core; but it sets my teeth on edgeit sets my

ADAM understood Dinah's haste to go away, and drew hope rather than discouragement from it. She was

fearful lest the strength of her feeling towards him should hinder her from waiting and listening faithfully for

"I wish I'd asked her to write to me, though," he thought. "And yet even that might disturb her a bit, perhaps.

She wants to be quite quiet in her old way for a while. And I've no right to be impatient and interrupting her

with my wishes. She's told me what her mind is, and she's not a woman to say one thing and mean another.

That was Adam's wise resolution, and it throve excellently for the first two or three weeks on the nourishment

it got from the remembrance of Dinah's confession that Sunday afternoon. There is a wonderful amount of

sustenance in the first few words of love. But towards the middle of October the resolution began to dwindle

perceptibly, and showed dangerous symptoms of exhaustion. The weeks were unusually long: Dinah must

surely have had more than enough time to make up her mind. Let a woman say what she will after she has

once told a man that she loves him, he is a little too flushed and exalted with that first draught she offers him

to care much about the taste of the second. He treads the earth with a very elastic step as he walks away from

her, and makes light of all difficulties. But that sort of glow dies out: memory gets sadly diluted with time,

and is not strong enough to revive us. Adam was no longer so confident as he had been. He began to fear that

perhaps Dinah's old life would have too strong a grasp upon her for any new feeling to triumph. If she had not

felt this, she would surely have written to him to give him some comfort; but it appeared that she held it right

to discourage him. As Adam's confidence waned, his patience waned with it, and he thought he must write

himself. He must ask Dinah not to leave him in painful doubt longer than was needful. He sat up late one

night to write her a letter, but the next morning he burnt it, afraid of its effect. It would be worse to have a

discouraging answer by letter than from her own lips, for her presence reconciled him to her will.

You perceive how it was: Adam was hungering for the sight of Dinah, and when that sort of hunger reaches a

certain stage, a lover is likely to still it though he may have to put his future in pawn.

But what harm could he do by going to Snowfield? Dinah could not be displeased with him for it. She had

not forbidden him to go. She must surely expect that he would go before long. By the second Sunday in

October this view of the case had become so clear to Adam that he was already on his way to Snowfield, on

horseback this time, for his hours were precious now, and he had borrowed Jonathan Burge's good nag for the

What keen memories went along the road with him! He had often been to Oakbourne and back since that first

journey to Snowfield, but beyond Oakbourne the greystone walls, the broken country, the meagre trees,

seemed to be telling him afresh the story of that painful past which he knew so well by heart. But no story is

the same to us after a lapse of timeor rather, we who read it are no longer the same interpretersand

Adam this morning brought with him new thoughts through that grey country, thoughts which gave an altered

That is a base and selfish, even a blasphemous, spirit which rejoices and is thankful over the past evil that has

blighted or crushed another, because it has been made a source of unforeseen good to ourselves. Adam could

never cease to mourn over that mystery of human sorrow which had been brought so close to him; he could

never thank God for another's misery. And if I were capable of that narrowsighted joy in Adam's behalf, I

should still know he was not the man to feel it for himself. He would have shaken his head at such a

sentiment and said, "Evil's evil, and sorrow's sorrow, and you can't alter it's natur by wrapping it up in other

words. Other folks were not created for my sake, that I should think all square when things turn out well for

But it is not ignoble to feel that the fuller life which a sad experience has brought us is worth our own

personal share of pain. Surely it is not possible to feel otherwise, any more than it would be possible for a

man with cataract to regret the painful process by which his dim blurred sight of men as trees walking had

been exchanged for clear outline and effulgent day. The growth of higher feeling within us is like the growth

of faculty, bringing with it a sense of added strength. We can no more wish to return to a narrower sympathy

than a painter or a musician can wish to return to his cruder manner, or a philosopher to his less complete

Something like this sense of enlarged being was in Adam's mind this Sunday morning, as he rode along in

vivid recollection of the past. His feeling towards Dinah, the hope of passing his life with her, had been the

distant unseen point towards which that hard journey from Snowfield eighteen months ago had been leading

him. Tender and deep as his love for Hetty had beenso deep that the roots of it would never be torn

awayhis love for Dinah was better and more precious to him, for it was the outgrowth of that fuller life

which had come to him from his acquaintance with deep sorrow. "It's like as if it was a new strength to me,"

he said to himself, "to love her and know as she loves me. I shall look t' her to help me to see things right. For

she's better than I am there's less o' self in her, and pride. And it's a feeling as gives you a sort o' liberty, as

if you could walk more fearless, when you've more trust in another than y' have in yourself. I've always been

thinking I knew better than them as belonged to me, and that's a poor sort o' life, when you can't look to them

nearest to you t' help you with a bit better thought than what you've got inside you a'ready."

It was more than two o'clock in the afternoon when Adam came in sight of the grey town on the hillside and

looked searchingly towards the green valley below, for the first glimpse of the old thatched roof near the ugly

red mill. The scene looked less harsh in the soft October sunshine than it had in the eager time of early spring,

and the one grand charm it possessed in common with all widestretching woodless regionsthat it filled

you with a new consciousness of the overarching skyhad a milder, more soothing influence than usual, on

this almost cloudless day. Adam's doubts and fears melted under this influence as the delicate weblike clouds

had gradually melted away into the clear blue above him. He seemed to see Dinah's gentle face assuring him,

He did not expect Dinah to be at home at this hour, but he got down from his horse and tied it at the little

gate, that he might ask where she was gone today. He had set his mind on following her and bringing her

home. She was gone to Sloman's End, a hamlet about three miles off, over the hill, the old woman told

himhad set off directly after morning chapel, to preach in a cottage there, as her habit was. Anybody at the

town would tell him the way to Sloman's End. So Adam got on his horse again and rode to the town, putting

up at the old inn and taking a hasty dinner there in the company of the too chatty landlord, from whose

friendly questions and reminiscences he was glad to escape as soon as possible and set out towards Sloman's

End. With all his haste it was nearly four o'clock before he could set off, and he thought that as Dinah had

gone so early, she would perhaps already be near returning. The little, grey, desolatelooking hamlet,

unscreened by sheltering trees, lay in sight long before he reached it, and as he came near he could hear the

sound of voices singing a hymn. "Perhaps that's the last hymn before they come away," Adam thought. "I'll

walk back a bit and turn again to meet her, farther off the village." He walked back till he got nearly to the

top of the hill again, and seated himself on a loose stone, against the low wall, to watch till he should see the

little black figure leaving the hamlet and winding up the hill. He chose this spot, almost at the top of the hill,

because it was away from all eyesno house, no cattle, not even a nibbling sheep nearno presence but the

She was much longer coming than he expected. He waited an hour at least watching for her and thinking of

her, while the afternoon shadows lengthened and the light grew softer. At last he saw the little black figure

coming from between the grey houses and gradually approaching the foot of the hill. Slowly, Adam thought,

but Dinah was really walking at her usual pace, with a light quiet step. Now she was beginning to wind along

the path up the hill, but Adam would not move yet; he would not meet her too soon; he had set his heart on

meeting her in this assured loneliness. And now he began to fear lest he should startle her too much. "Yet," he

thought, "she's not one to be overstartled; she's always so calm and quiet, as if she was prepared for

What was she thinking of as she wound up the hill? Perhaps she had found complete repose without him, and

had ceased to feel any need of his love. On the verge of a decision we all tremble: hope pauses with fluttering

But now at last she was very near, and Adam rose from the stone wall. It happened that just as he walked

forward, Dinah had paused and turned round to look back at the villagewho does not pause and look back

in mounting a hill? Adam was glad, for, with the fine instinct of a lover, he felt that it would be best for her to

hear his voice before she saw him. He came within three paces of her and then said, "Dinah!" She started

without looking round, as if she connected the sound with no place. "Dinah!" Adam said again. He knew

quite well what was in her mind. She was so accustomed to think of impressions as purely spiritual monitions

But this second time she looked round. What a look of yearning love it was that the mild grey eyes turned on

the strong darkeyed man! She did not start again at the sight of him; she said nothing, but moved towards

And they walked on so in silence, while the warm tears fell. Adam was content, and said nothing. It was

"Adam," she said, "it is the Divine Will. My soul is so knit to yours that it is but a divided life I live without

you. And this moment, now you are with me, and I feel that our hearts are filled with the same love. I have a

fulness of strength to bear and do our heavenly Father's Will that I had lost before."

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for lifeto strengthen each

other in all labour, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each

IN little more than a month after that meeting on the hillon a rimy morning in departing

It was an event much thought of in the village. All Mr. Burge's men had a holiday, and all Mr. Poyser's, and

most of those who had a holiday appeared in their best clothes at the wedding. I think there was hardly an

inhabitant of Hayslope specially mentioned in this history and still resident in the parish on this November

morning who was not either in church to see Adam and Dinah married, or near the church door to greet them

as they came forth. Mrs. Irwine and her daughters were waiting at the churchyard gates in their carriage (for

they had a carriage now) to shake hands with the bride and bridegroom and wish them well; and in the

absence of Miss Lydia Donnithorne at Bath, Mrs. Best, Mr. Mills, and Mr. Craig had felt it incumbent on

them to represent "the family" at the Chase on the occasion. The churchyard walk was quite lined with

familiar faces, many of them faces that had first looked at Dinah when she preached on the Green. And no

wonder they showed this eager interest on her marriage morning, for nothing like Dinah and the history

which had brought her and Adam Bede together had been known at Hayslope within the memory of man.

Bessy Cranage, in her neatest cap and frock, was crying, though she did not exactly know why; for, as her

cousin Wiry Ben, who stood near her, judiciously suggested, Dinah was not going away, and if Bessy was in

low spirits, the best thing for her to do was to follow Dinah's example and marry an honest fellow who was

ready to have her. Next to Bessy, just within the church door, there were the Poyser children, peeping round

the corner of the pews to get a sight of the mysterious ceremony; Totty's face wearing an unusual air of

anxiety at the idea of seeing cousin Dinah come back looking rather old, for in Totty's experience no married

I envy them all the sight they had when the marriage was fairly ended and Adam led Dinah out of church.

She was not in black this morning, for her Aunt Poyser would by no means allow such a risk of incurring bad

luck, and had herself made a present of the wedding dress, made all of grey, though in the usual Quaker form,

for on this point Dinah could not give way. So the lily face looked out with sweet gravity from under a grey

Quaker bonnet, neither smiling nor blushing, but with lips trembling a little under the weight of solemn

feelings. Adam, as he pressed her arm to his side, walked with his old erectness and his head thrown rather

backward as if to face all the world better. But it was not because he was particularly proud this morning, as

is the wont of bridegrooms, for his happiness was of a kind that had little reference to men's opinion of it.

There was a tinge of sadness in his deep joy; Dinah knew it, and did not feel aggrieved.

There were three other couples, following the bride and bridegroom: first, Martin Poyser, looking as cheery

as a bright fire on this rimy morning, led quiet Mary Burge, the bridesmaid; then came Seth serenely happy,

with Mrs. Poyser on his arm; and last of all Bartle Massey, with LisbethLisbeth in a new gown and bonnet,

too busy with her pride in her son and her delight in possessing the one daughter she had desired to devise a

Bartle Massey had consented to attend the wedding at Adam's earnest request, under protest against marriage

in general and the marriage of a sensible man in particular. Nevertheless, Mr. Poyser had a joke against him

after the wedding dinner, to the effect that in the vestry he had given the bride one more kiss than was

Behind this last couple came Mr. Irwine, glad at heart over this good morning's work of joining Adam and

Dinah. For he had seen Adam in the worst moments of his sorrow; and what better harvest from that painful

seedtime could there be than this? The love that had brought hope and comfort in the hour of despair, the

love that had found its way to the dark prison cell and to poor Hetty's darker soulthis strong gentle love

There was much shaking of hands mingled with "God bless you's" and other good wishes to the four couples,

at the churchyard gate, Mr. Poyser answering for the rest with unwonted vivacity of tongue, for he had all the

appropriate weddingday jokes at his command. And the women, he observed, could never do anything but

put finger in eye at a wedding. Even Mrs. Poyser could not trust herself to speak as the neighbours shook

hands with her, and Lisbeth began to cry in the face of the very first person who told her she was getting

Mr. Joshua Rann, having a slight touch of rheumatism, did not join in the ringing of the bells this morning,

and, looking on with some contempt at these informal greetings which required no official cooperation from

the clerk, began to hum in his musical bass, "Oh what a joyful thing it is," by way of preluding a little to the

"That's a bit of good news to cheer Arthur," said Mr. Irwine to his mother, as they drove off. "I shall write to

IT is near the end of June, in 1807. The workshops have been shut up half an hour or more in Adam Bede's

timberyard, which used to be Jonathan Burge's, and the mellow evening light is falling on the pleasant

house with the buff walls and the soft grey thatch, very much as it did when we saw Adam bringing in the

There is a figure we know well, just come out of the house, and shading her eyes with her hands as she looks

for something in the distance, for the rays that fall on her white borderless cap and her pale auburn hair are

very dazzling. But now she turns away from the sunlight and looks towards the door.

We can see the sweet pale face quite well now: it is scarcely at all alteredonly a little fuller, to correspond

to her more matronly figure, which still seems light and active enough in the plain black dress.

"I see him, Seth," Dinah said, as she looked into the house. "Let us go and meet him. Come, Lisbeth, come

The last call was answered immediately by a small fair creature with pale auburn hair and grey eyes, little

more than four years old, who ran out silently and put her hand into her mother's.

"Aye, aye, we're coming," Seth answered from within, and presently appeared stooping under the doorway,

being taller than usual by the black head of a sturdy twoyearold nephew, who had caused some delay by

"Better take him on thy arm, Seth," said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout blackeyed fellow. "He's

"Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit." A kindness which young Addy

acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth's chest. But to walk by

Dinah's side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah's and Adam's children, was Uncle Seth's earthly happiness.

"Where didst see him?" asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. "I can't catch sight of him

"Between the hedges by the roadside," said Dinah. "I saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again."

"Trust thee for catching sight of him if he's anywhere to be seen," said Seth, smiling. "Thee't like poor mother

used to be. She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for all her

"He's been longer than he expected," said Dinah, taking Arthur's watch from a small side pocket and looking

"Aye, they'd have a deal to say to one another," said Seth, "and the meeting 'ud touch 'em both pretty closish.

"Yes," said Dinah, "Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the change he should see in the

poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the

death of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow."

"See, Addy," said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, "there's Father comingat the

Dinah hastened her steps, and little Lisbeth ran on at her utmost speed till she clasped her father's leg. Adam

patted her head and lifted her up to kiss her, but Dinah could see the marks of agitation on his face as she

"Well, youngster, must I take you?" he said, trying to smile, when Addy stretched out his armsready, with

the usual baseness of infancy, to give up his Uncle Seth at once, now there was some rarer patronage at hand.

"Why, he's altered and yet not altered. I should ha' known him anywhere. But his colour's changed, and he

looks sadly. However, the doctors say he'll soon be set right in his own country air. He's all sound in th'

inside; it's only the fever shattered him so. But he speaks just the same, and smiles at me just as he did when

he was a lad. It's wonderful how he's always had just the same sort o' look when he smiles."

"But thee wilt see him smile, tomorrow," said Adam. "He asked after thee the first thing when he began to

come round, and we could talk to one another. 'I hope she isn't altered,' he said, 'I remember her face so well.'

I told him 'no,'" Adam continued, looking fondly at the eyes that were turned towards his, "only a bit

plumper, as thee'dst a right to be after seven year. 'I may come and see her tomorrow, mayn't I?' he said; 'I

"Aye; and we talked a deal about thee, for he says he never saw a woman a bit like thee. 'I shall turn

Methodist some day,' he said, 'when she preaches out of doors, and go to hear her.' And I said, 'Nay, sir, you

can't do that, for Conference has forbid the women preaching, and she's given it up, all but talking to the

"Ah," said Seth, who could not repress a comment on this point, "and a sore pity it was o' Conference; and if

Dinah had seen as I did, we'd ha' left the Wesleyans and joined a body that 'ud put no bonds on Christian

"Nay, lad, nay," said Adam, "she was right and thee wast wrong. There's no rules so wise but what it's a pity

for somebody or other. Most o' the women do more harm nor good with their preachingthey've not got

Dinah's gift nor her sperritand she's seen that, and she thought it right to set th' example o' submitting, for

she's not held from other sorts o' teaching. And I agree with her, and approve o' what she did."

Seth was silent. This was a standing subject of difference rarely alluded to, and Dinah, wishing to quit it at

once, said, "Didst remember, Adam, to speak to Colonel Donnithorne the words my uncle and aunt entrusted

"Yes, and he's going to the Hall Farm with Mr. Irwine the day after tomorrow. Mr. Irwine came in while we

were talking about it, and he would have it as the Colonel must see nobody but thee tomorrow. He

saidand he's in the right of itas it'll be bad for him t' have his feelings stirred with seeing many people

one after another. 'We must get you strong and hearty,' he said, 'that's the first thing to be done Arthur, and

then you shall have your own way. But I shall keep you under your old tutor's thumb till then.' Mr. Irwine's

Adam was silent a little while, and then said, "It was very cutting when we first saw one another. He'd never

heard about poor Hetty till Mr. Irwine met him in London, for the letters missed him on his journey. The first

thing he said to me, when we'd got hold o' one another's hands was, 'I could never do anything for her,

Adamshe lived long enough for all the sufferingand I'd thought so of the time when I might do

something for her. But you told me the truth when you said to me once, "There's a sort of wrong that can

"So there is," said Dinah. "Run, Lisbeth, run to meet Aunt Poyser. Come in, Adam, and rest; it has been a