Chapter XX
Adam Visits the Hall Farm
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.
"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?"
"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."
"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."
"Good-bye, mother, I can't stay," said Adam, putting on his hat
and going out.
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?"
"Nay, nay, Mother," said Adam, gravely, and standing still while
he put his arm on her shoulder, "I'm not angered. But I wish, for
thy own sake, thee'dst be more contented to let me do what I've
made up my mind to do. I'll never be no other than a good son to
thee as long as we live. But a man has other feelings besides
what he owes to's father and mother, and thee oughtna to want to
rule over me body and soul. And thee must make up thy mind as
I'll not give way to thee where I've a right to do what I like.
So let us have no more words about it."
"Eh," said Lisbeth, not 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."
"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 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, a-marr'in' a-
that'n, afore her teeth's all come."
Adam walked so fast that he was at the yard-gate before seven.
Martin Poyser and the grandfather were not yet come in from the
meadow: every one was in the meadow, even to the black-and-tan
terrier--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?"
"Come in, Mr. Bede, come in," Mrs. Poyser called out from the
dairy. She always gave Adam this title when she received him in
her own house. "You may come into the dairy if you will, for I
canna justly leave the cheese."
Adam walked into the dairy, where Mrs. Poyser and Nancy were
crushing the first evening cheese.
"Why, you might think you war come to a dead-house," said Mrs.
Poyser, as he stood in the open doorway; "they're all i' the
meadow; but Martin's sure to be in afore long, for they're leaving
the hay 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."
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?"
"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."
"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."
"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.'"
"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."
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.
"Have a little more, Mr. Bede?" said Mrs. Poyser, as Adam set down
the basin.
"No, thank you; I'll go into the garden now, and send in the
little lass."
"Aye, do; and tell her to come to her mother in the dairy."
Adam walked round by the rick-yard, at present empty of ricks, to
the little wooden gate leading into the garden--once the well-
tended kitchen-garden of a manor-house; now, but for the handsome
brick 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.
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."
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."
He lifted her up in his strong arms and kissed her as he spoke, a
ceremony which Totty regarded as a tiresome interruption to
cherry-eating; and when he set her down she trotted off quite
silently towards the house, sucking her cherries as she went
along.
"Tommy, my lad, take care you're not shot for a little thieving
bird," said Adam, as he walked on towards the currant-trees.
He could see there was a large basket at the end of the row: Hetty
would not be far off, and Adam already felt as if she were looking
at him. Yet when he turned the corner she was standing with 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.
"I frightened you," he said, with a delicious sense that it didn't
signify what he said, since Hetty seemed to feel as much as he
did; "let ME pick the currants up."
That was soon done, for they had only fallen in a tangled mass on
the grass-plot, and Adam, as he rose and gave her the basin again,
looked straight into her eyes with the subdued tenderness that
belongs to the first moments of hopeful love.
Hetty did not turn away her eyes; her blush had subsided, and she
met his glance with a quiet sadness, which contented Adam because
it was so unlike anything he had seen in her before.
"There's not many more currants to get," she said; "I shall soon
ha' done now."
"I'll help you," said Adam; and he fetched the large basket, which
was nearly full of currants, and set it close to them.
Not a word more was spoken as they gathered the currants. Adam's
heart was too full to speak, and he thought Hetty knew all that
was in it. She was not indifferent to his presence after all; she
had 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.
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.
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.
Hetty, we know, was not the first woman that had behaved more
gently to the man who loved her in vain because she had herself
begun to love another. It was a very old story, but Adam knew
nothing about it, so he drank in the sweet delusion.
"That'll do," said Hetty, after a little while. "Aunt wants me to
leave some on the trees. I'll take 'em in now."
"It's very well I came to carry the basket," said Adam "for it 'ud
ha' been too heavy for your little arms."
"No; I could ha' carried it with both hands."
"Oh, I daresay," said Adam, 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 for little arms like yours to lean on."
Hetty smiled faintly and put her arm within his. Adam looked down
at her, but her eyes were turned dreamily towards another corner
of the garden.
"Have you ever been to Eagledale?" she said, as they walked slowly
along.
"Yes," said Adam, pleased to have her ask a 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."
"How long did it take to get there?"
"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."
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.
"How pretty the roses are now!" Adam continued, pausing to look at
them. "See! I stole the prettiest, but I didna mean to keep it
myself. I think these as are all pink, and have got a finer sort
o' green leaves, are prettier than the striped uns, don't you?"
He set down the basket and took the rose from his button-hole.
"It smells very sweet," he said; "those striped uns have no smell.
Stick it in your frock, and then you can put it in water after.
It 'ud be a pity to let it fade."
Hetty took the rose, smiling as she did so at the pleasant thought
that Arthur could so soon get back if he liked. There was a flash
of hope and happiness in her mind, and with a sudden impulse of
gaiety she did what she had very often done before--stuck the rose
in her hair a little above the left ear. The 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.
"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 'acorn-cup fits th' acorn, and I shouldn't like
to see her so well without it. But you've got another sort o'
face; I'd have you just as you are now, without anything t'
interfere with your own looks. It's like when a man's singing a
good tune--you don't want t' hear bells tinkling and interfering
wi' the sound."
He took her arm and put it within his again, 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.
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.
"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."
"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?"
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.
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.
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.
"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
it."
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.
"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...."
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.
"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."
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.
"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...."
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.
"Did ever anybody see the like?" she said, with a suddenly lowered
tone, after a moment's bewildered glance round the room. "The
jugs are bewitched, I think. It's them nasty glazed handles--they
slip o'er the finger like a snail."
"Why, thee'st let thy own whip fly i' thy face," said her husband,
who had now joined in the laugh of the young ones.
"It's all very fine to look on and grin," rejoined Mrs. Poyser;
"but there's times when the crockery seems alive an' flies out o'
your hand like a bird. It's like the glass, sometimes, 'ull crack
as it stands. What is to be broke WILL be broke, for I never
dropped a thing 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 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.
"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?"
"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."
"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."
"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."
"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."
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."
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.
"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."
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.
"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 you no account."
"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 candle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the
floor the first thing i' the morning."
"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."
"Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, "but
it isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night,
Mrs. Poyser; good-night, Hetty."
Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and
damp with currant-juice; but all the rest gave a hearty shake to
the large palm that was held out to them, and said, "Come again,
come again!"
"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."
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.
