<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter XX </h2>
<h3> Adam Visits the Hall Farm </h3>
<p>ADAM came back from his work in the empty waggon—that was why he had
changed his clothes—and was ready to set out to the Hall Farm when
it still wanted a quarter to seven.</p>
<p>"What's thee got thy Sunday cloose on for?" said Lisbeth complainingly, as
he came downstairs. "Thee artna goin' to th' school i' thy best coat?"</p>
<p>"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 hour—he's only gone to the village;
so thee wutna mind."</p>
<p>"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 a-that'n? It's poor keepin' company wi'
folks as donna like to see thee i' thy workin' jacket."</p>
<p>"Good-bye, mother, I can't stay," said Adam, putting on his hat and going
out.</p>
<p>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 half-way down to the brook, and said, "Nay, my lad, thee
wutna go away angered wi' thy mother, an' her got nought to do but to sit
by hersen an' think on thee?"</p>
<p>"Nay, nay, Mother," said Adam, gravely, and standing still while he put
his arm on her shoulder, "I'm not angered. But I wish, for thy own sake,
thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've made up my mind to do.
I'll never be no other than a good son to thee as long as we live. But a
man has other feelings besides what he owes to's father and mother, and
thee oughtna to want to rule over me body and soul. And thee must make up
thy mind as I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I
like. So let us have no more words about it."</p>
<p>"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 a-sparklin'—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 me—I'll
ne'er plague thee no moor about'n."</p>
<p>"Well, well; good-bye, 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 herself—for 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 blue-edged platters, and breaks 'em, mayhap, though there's
ne'er been one broke sin' my old man an' me bought 'em at the fair twenty
'ear come next Whissuntide. Eh!" she went on, 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,
a-marr'in' a-that'n, afore her teeth's all come."</p>
<p>Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven. Martin
Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the meadow: every one
was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan terrier—no one kept
watch in the yard but the bull-dog; and when Adam reached the house-door,
which stood wide open, he saw there was no one in the bright clean
house-place. But he guessed where Mrs. 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?"</p>
<p>"Come in, Mr. Bede, come in," Mrs. Poyser called out from the dairy. She
always gave Adam this title when she received him in her own house. "You
may come into the dairy if you will, for I canna justly leave the cheese."</p>
<p>Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were crushing the
first evening cheese.</p>
<p>"Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house," said Mrs. Poyser, as
he stood in the open doorway; "they're all i' the meadow; but Martin's
sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving the hay cocked to-night,
ready for carrying first thing to-morrow. I've been forced t' have Nancy
in, upo' 'count as Hetty must gether the red currants to-night; the fruit
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 well set the wasps to gether the
fruit."</p>
<p>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 spinning-wheel, then, and see what wants doing to it. Perhaps it
stands in the house, where I can find it?"</p>
<p>"No, I've put it away in the right-hand parlour; but let it be till I can
fetch it and show it you. I'd be glad now if you'd go into the garden and
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 now—you'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."</p>
<p>"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Adam; "a drink o' whey's allays a treat to
me. I'd rather have it than beer any day."</p>
<p>"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Poyser, reaching a small white basin that stood on
the shelf, and dipping it into the whey-tub, "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 farm-house is, to be sure!' An' I say, 'Yes; a farm-house is a
fine thing for them as look on, an' don't know the liftin', an' the
stannin', an' the worritin' o' th' inside as belongs to't.'"</p>
<p>"Why, Mrs. Poyser, you wouldn't like to live anywhere else but in a
farm-house, so well as you manage it," said Adam, taking the basin; "and
there can be nothing to look at pleasanter nor a fine milch cow, standing
up to'ts knees in pasture, and the new milk frothing in 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, and set a pattern t' all the farmers' wives in the country."</p>
<p>Mrs. Poyser was not to be caught in the weakness of smiling at a
compliment, but a quiet complacency over-spread her face like a stealing
sunbeam, and gave a milder glance than usual to her blue-grey eyes, as she
looked at Adam drinking the whey. Ah! I think I taste that whey now—with
a flavour so delicate that one can hardly distinguish it from an odour,
and with that soft gliding warmth that fills one's imagination with a
still, happy dreaminess. And the light music of the dropping whey is in my
ears, mingling with the twittering of a bird outside the wire network
window—the window overlooking the garden, and shaded by tall Guelder
roses.</p>
<p>"Have a little more, Mr. Bede?" said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down the
basin.</p>
<p>"No, thank you; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the little lass."</p>
<p>"Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy."</p>
<p>Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to the
little wooden gate leading into the garden—once the well-tended
kitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome brick 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 "hide-and-seek." 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 apple-tree making a
barren circle under its low-spreading boughs. But what signified a barren
patch or two? The garden was so large. There was always a superfluity of
broad beans—it took nine or ten of Adam's strides to get to the end
of the uncut grass walk that ran by the side of them; and as for other
vegetables, there was so much more room than was necessary for them that
in the rotation of crops a large flourishing bed of groundsel was of
yearly occurrence on one spot or other. The very rose-trees at which Adam
stopped to pluck one looked as if they grew wild; they were all huddled
together in bushy masses, now flaunting with wide-open petals, almost all
of them of the streaked pink-and-white kind, which doubtless dated from
the union of the houses of York and Lancaster. Adam was wise enough to
choose a compact Provence rose that peeped out half-smothered by its
flaunting scentless neighbours, and held it in his hand—he thought
he should be more at ease holding something in his hand—as he walked
on to the far end of the garden, where he remembered there was the largest
row of currant-trees, not far off from the great yew-tree arbour.</p>
<p>But he had not gone many steps beyond the roses, when he heard the shaking
of a bough, and a boy's voice saying, "Now, then, Totty, hold out your
pinny—there's a duck."</p>
<p>The voice came from the boughs of a tall cherry-tree, where Adam had no
difficulty in discerning a small blue-pinafored figure perched in a
commodious position where the fruit was thickest. Doubtless Totty was
below, behind the screen of peas. Yes—with her bonnet hanging down
her back, and her fat face, dreadfully smeared with red juice, turned up
towards the cherry-tree, while she held her little round hole of a mouth
and her red-stained pinafore to receive the promised downfall. I am sorry
to say, more than half the cherries that fell were hard and yellow instead
of juicy and red; but Totty spent no time in useless regrets, and she was
already sucking the third juiciest when Adam said, "There now, Totty,
you've got your cherries. Run into the house with 'em to Mother—she
wants you—she's in the dairy. Run in this minute—there's a
good little girl."</p>
<p>He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a ceremony
which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to cherry-eating; and when
he set her down she trotted off quite silently towards the house, sucking
her cherries as she went along.</p>
<p>"Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving bird,"
said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees.</p>
<p>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 low-hanging fruit. Strange that she had not heard
him coming! Perhaps it was because she was making the leaves rustle. She
started when she became conscious that some one was near—started so
violently that she dropped the basin with the currants in it, and then,
when she saw it was Adam, she turned from pale to deep red. That blush
made his heart beat with a new happiness. Hetty had never blushed at
seeing him before.</p>
<p>"I frightened you," he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't signify
what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he did; "let ME pick
the currants up."</p>
<p>That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on the
grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again, looked
straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that belongs to the
first moments of hopeful love.</p>
<p>Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she met his
glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because it was so unlike
anything he had seen in her before.</p>
<p>"There's not many more currants to get," she said; "I shall soon ha' done
now."</p>
<p>"I'll help you," said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which was
nearly full of currants, and set it close to them.</p>
<p>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 apple-tree boughs, and rested on her round cheek and neck as if
they too were in love with her. It was to Adam the time that a man can
least forget in after-life, the time when he believes that the first woman
he has ever loved betrays by a slight something—a word, a tone, a
glance, the quivering of a lip or an eyelid—that she is at least
beginning to love him in return. The sign is so slight, it is scarcely
perceptible to the ear or eye—he could describe it to no one—it
is a mere feather-touch, yet it seems to have changed his whole being, to
have merged an uneasy yearning into a delicious unconsciousness of
everything but the present 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
long-past mornings is wrought up in the soft mellowness of the apricot,
but it is gone for ever from our imagination, and we can only BELIEVE in
the joy of childhood. But the first glad moment in our first love is a
vision which returns to us to the last, and brings with it a thrill of
feeling intense and special as the recurrent sensation of a sweet odour
breathed in a far-off hour of happiness. It is a memory that gives a more
exquisite touch to tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy and adds
the last keenness to the agony of despair.</p>
<p>Hetty bending over the red bunches, the level rays piercing the screen of
apple-tree boughs, the length of bushy garden beyond, his own emotion as
he looked at her and believed that she was thinking of him, and that there
was no need for them to talk—Adam remembered it all to the last
moment of his life.</p>
<p>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 way—she
would have FELT it might be Arthur before she had time to see, and the
blood that forsook her cheek in the agitation of that momentary feeling
would have rushed back again at the sight of any one else just as much as
at the sight of Adam. He was not wrong in thinking that a change had come
over Hetty: the anxieties and fears of a first passion, with which she was
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 lovingly—oh, it was very hard to bear this blank of
absence, silence, apparent indifference, after those moments of glowing
love! She was not afraid that Adam would tease her with love-making and
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 Adam was pitiable too—that Adam too must suffer one day.</p>
<p>Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more gently to
the man who loved her in vain because she had herself begun to love
another. It was a very old story, but Adam knew nothing about it, so he
drank in the sweet delusion.</p>
<p>"That'll do," said Hetty, after a little while. "Aunt wants me to leave
some on the trees. I'll take 'em in now."</p>
<p>"It's very well I came to carry the basket," said Adam "for it 'ud ha'
been too heavy for your little arms."</p>
<p>"No; I could ha' carried it with both hands."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"No," said Hetty, indifferently, not caring to know the difficulties of
ant life.</p>
<p>"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
for little arms like yours to lean on."</p>
<p>Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down at her,
but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner of the garden.</p>
<p>"Have you ever been to Eagledale?" she said, as they walked slowly along.</p>
<p>"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 sight—rocks and caves such as you never saw
in your life. I never had a right notion o' rocks till I went there."</p>
<p>"How long did it take to get there?"</p>
<p>"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 first-rate nag. The captain 'ud get
there in nine or ten hours, I'll be bound, he's such a rider. And I
shouldn't wonder if he's back again to-morrow; he's too active to rest
long in that lonely place, 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 to
any man i' the world."</p>
<p>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 into her eyes and a half-smile upon her
lips.</p>
<p>"How pretty the roses are now!" Adam continued, pausing to look at them.
"See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it myself. I think
these as are all pink, and have got a finer sort o' green leaves, are
prettier than the striped uns, don't you?"</p>
<p>He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole.</p>
<p>"It smells very sweet," he said; "those striped uns have no smell. Stick
it in your frock, and then you can put it in water after. It 'ud be a pity
to let it fade."</p>
<p>Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought that
Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash of hope and
happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of gaiety she did what
she had very often done before—stuck the rose in her hair a little
above the left ear. The 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 anything that belonged to her.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Nay, nay, I don't want you to wear a Methodist cap like Dinah's. I
daresay it's a very ugly cap, and I used to think when I saw her here as
it was nonsense for her to dress different t' other people; but I never
rightly noticed her till she came to see mother last week, and then I
thought the cap seemed to fit her face somehow as th 'acorn-cup fits th'
acorn, and I shouldn't like to see her so well without it. But you've got
another sort o' face; I'd have you just as you are now, without anything
t' interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's singing a good
tune—you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering wi' the
sound."</p>
<p>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
half-expressed. 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 took up
the basket of currants once more, and they went on towards the house.</p>
<p>The scene had quite changed in the half-hour that Adam had been in the
garden. The yard was full of life now: Marty was letting the screaming
geese through the gate, and wickedly provoking the gander by hissing at
him; the granary-door 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 house-place, Mr. Poyser was
seated in the three-cornered chair, and the grandfather in the large
arm-chair opposite, looking on with pleasant expectation while the supper
was being laid on the oak table. Mrs. Poyser had laid the cloth herself—a
cloth made of homespun linen, with a shining checkered pattern on it, and
of an agreeable whitey-brown hue, such as all sensible housewives like to
see—none of your bleached "shop-rag" that would wear into holes in
no time, but good homespun that would last for two generations. The cold
veal, the fresh lettuces, and the stuffed chine might well look tempting
to hungry men who had dined at half-past twelve o'clock. On the large deal
table against the wall there were bright pewter plates and spoons and
cans, ready for 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 to-morrow morning's work occurred to Mr. Poyser, Alick
was at hand to hear it.</p>
<p>"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 three-week since y' had your supper with us; and
the missis has got one of her rare stuffed chines. I'm glad ye're come."</p>
<p>"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 stuff herself wi' fruit as she
can't eat a bit o' good victual?"</p>
<p>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 fair-play: every woman was young in her turn, and had her
chances of matrimony, which it was a point of honour for other women not
to spoil—just as one market-woman who has sold her own eggs must not
try to balk another of a customer.</p>
<p>Hetty made haste to run away upstairs, not easily finding an answer to her
aunt's question, and Mrs. Poyser went out to see after Marty and Tommy and
bring them in to supper.</p>
<p>Soon they were all seated—the two rosy lads, one on each side, by
the pale mother, a place being left for Hetty between Adam and her uncle.
Alick too was come in, and was seated in his far corner, eating cold broad
beans out of a large dish with his pocket-knife, and finding a flavour in
them which he would not have exchanged for the finest pineapple.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"She's drawin' for the men too," said Mr. Poyser. "Thee shouldst ha' told
her to bring our jug up first."</p>
<p>"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 it."</p>
<p>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 beer—an 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 mistress's
eye.</p>
<p>"Molly, I niver knew your equils—to think o' your poor mother as is
a widow, an' I took you wi' as good as no character, an' the times an'
times I've told you...."</p>
<p>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 cans—caught
her foot in her apron, which had become untied, and fell with a crash and
a splash into a pool of beer; whereupon a tittering explosion from Marty
and Tommy, and a serious "Ello!" from Mr. Poyser, who saw his draught of
ale unpleasantly deferred.</p>
<p>"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 swear—God forgi' me for saying so—an' 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
hearing as 'ull make much odds to you—anybody 'ud think you war
case-hardened."</p>
<p>Poor Molly's tears were dropping fast by this time, and in her desperation
at the lively movement of the beer-stream towards Alick's legs, she was
converting her apron into a mop, while Mrs. Poyser, opening the cupboard,
turned a blighting eye upon her.</p>
<p>"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 brown-and-white jug, as it's niver been used three times this year,
and go down i' the cellar myself, and belike catch my death, and be laid
up wi' inflammation...."</p>
<p>Mrs. Poyser had turned round from the cupboard with the brown-and-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 jug-breaking,
like other crimes, has a contagious influence. However it was, she stared
and started like a ghost-seer, and the precious brown-and-white jug fell
to the ground, parting for ever with its spout and handle.</p>
<p>"Did ever anybody see the like?" she said, with a suddenly lowered tone,
after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. "The jugs are
bewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles—they slip o'er
the finger like a snail."</p>
<p>"Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face," said her husband, who had
now joined in the laugh of the young ones.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>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 high-crowned borderless net caps. The thought of
Dinah's pale grave face and mild grey eyes, which the sight of the gown
and cap brought with it, made it a 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 from bewitchment.</p>
<p>"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; mustna
she, Adam? How come you put them things on, eh?"</p>
<p>"Adam said he liked Dinah's cap and gown better nor my clothes," said
Hetty, sitting down demurely. "He says folks looks better in ugly
clothes."</p>
<p>"Nay, nay," said Adam, looking at her admiringly; "I only said they seemed
to suit Dinah. But if I'd said you'd look pretty in 'em, I should ha' said
nothing but what was true."</p>
<p>"Why, thee thought'st Hetty war a ghost, didstna?" said Mr. Poyser to his
wife, who now came back and took her seat again. "Thee look'dst as scared
as scared."</p>
<p>"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 die—as there's no knowing but what they will—an'
the murrain was to come among the cattle again, an' everything went to
rack an' ruin, I say we might be glad to get sight o' Dinah's cap again,
wi' her own face under it, border or no border. For she's one o' them
things as looks the brightest on a rainy day, and loves you the best when
you're most i' need on't."</p>
<p>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 good-natured father, indulgent to all
weaknesses but those of negligent farmers, said to Hetty, "You'd better
take the things off again, my lass; it hurts your aunt to see 'em."</p>
<p>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 ale-jug refilled,
and Mr. Poyser's pipe alight she was once more in high good humour, and
ready, at Adam's request, to fetch the broken spinning-wheel for his
inspection.</p>
<p>"Ah," said Adam, looking at it carefully, "here's a nice bit o' turning
wanted. It's a pretty wheel. I must have it up at the turning-shop in the
village and do it there, for I've no convenence for turning at home. If
you'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' cabinet-making. I've always done a deal at such little things in
odd hours, and they're profitable, for there's more workmanship nor
material in 'em. I look for me and Seth to get a little business for
ourselves i' that way, for I know a man at Rosseter as 'ull take as many
things as we should make, besides what we could get orders for round
about."</p>
<p>Mr. Poyser entered with interest into a project which seemed a step
towards Adam's becoming a "master-man," 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 house-linen in the
utmost compactness without confusion. Hetty, once more in her own dress,
with her neckerchief pushed a little backwards on this warm evening, was
seated picking currants near the window, where Adam could see her quite
well. And so the time passed pleasantly till Adam got up to go. He was
pressed to come again soon, but not to stay longer, for at this busy time
sensible people would not run the risk of being sleepy at five o'clock in
the morning.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Aye," said Mr. Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's the
boys' hollodays now, so we can give you no account."</p>
<p>"But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' the night?" said
Mrs. Poyser, folding up her knitting.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I wouldna have him to live wi' me, then," said Mrs. Poyser, "a-dropping
candle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor the first
thing i' the morning."</p>
<p>"Aye, eleven o'clock's late—it's late," said old Martin. "I ne'er
sot up so i' MY life, not to say as it warna a marr'in', or a christenin',
or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late."</p>
<p>"Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, "but it
isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs. Poyser;
good-night, Hetty."</p>
<p>Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp
with currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to the large palm
that was held out to them, and said, "Come again, come again!"</p>
<p>"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' six-an' twenty as 'ull do to put i' the shafts wi' him. If you
can catch Adam for a husband, Hetty, you'll ride i' your own spring-cart
some day, I'll be your warrant."</p>
<p>Hetty was moving across the kitchen with the currants, so her uncle did
not see the little toss of the head with which she answered him. To ride
in a spring-cart seemed a very miserable lot indeed to her now.</p>
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