Chapter XXXIV
The Betrothal
IT was a dry Sunday, and really a pleasant day for the 2d of
November. There was no sunshine, but the clouds were high, and
the wind was so still that the yellow leaves which fluttered down
from the hedgerow elms must have fallen from pure decay.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Poyser did not go to church, for she had taken
a cold too serious to be neglected; only two winters ago she had
been laid up for weeks with a cold; and since his wife did not go
to church, Mr. Poyser considered that on the whole it would be as
well for him to stay away too and "keep her company." He could
perhaps have given no precise form to the reasons that determined
this conclusion, but it is well known to all experienced minds
that our firmest convictions are often dependent on subtle
impressions for which words are quite too coarse a medium.
However it was, no one from the Poyser family went to church that
afternoon except Hetty and the boys; yet Adam was bold enough to
join them after church, and say that he would walk home with them,
though all the way through the village he appeared to be chiefly
occupied with Marty and Tommy, telling them about the squirrels in
Binton Coppice, and promising to take them there some day. But
when they came to the fields he said to the boys, "Now, then,
which is the stoutest walker? Him as gets to th' home-gate first
shall be the first to go with me to Binton Coppice on the donkey.
But Tommy must have the start up to the next stile, because he's
the smallest."
Adam had never behaved so much like a determined lover before. As
soon as the boys had both set off, he looked down at Hetty and
said, "Won't you hang on my arm, Hetty?" in a pleading tone, as if
he had already asked her and she had refused. Hetty looked up at
him smilingly and put her round arm through his in a moment. It
was nothing to her, putting her arm through Adam's, but she knew
he cared a great deal about having her arm through his, and she
wished him to care. Her heart beat no faster, and she looked at
the half-bare hedgerows and the ploughed field with the same sense
of oppressive dulness as before. But Adam scarcely felt that he
was walking. He thought Hetty must know that he was pressing her
arm a little--a very little. Words rushed to his lips that he
dared not utter--that he had made up his mind not to utter yet--
and so he was silent for the length of that field. The calm
patience with which he had once waited for Hetty's love, content
only with her presence and the thought of the future, had forsaken
him since that terrible shock nearly three months ago. The
agitations of jealousy had given a new restlessness to his
passion--had made fear and uncertainty too hard almost to bear.
But though he might not speak to Hetty of his love, he would tell
her about his new prospects and see if she would be pleased. So
when he was enough master of himself to talk, he said, "I'm going
to tell your uncle some news that'll surprise him, Hetty; and I
think he'll be glad to hear it too."
"What's that?" Hetty said indifferently.
"Why, Mr. Burge has offered me a share in his business, and I'm
going to take it."
There was a change in Hetty's face, certainly not produced by any
agreeable impression from this news. In fact she felt a momentary
annoyance and alarm, for she had so often heard it hinted by her
uncle that Adam might have Mary Burge and a share in the business
any day, if he liked, that she associated the two objects now, and
the thought immediately occurred that perhaps Adam had given her
up because of what had happened lately, and had turned towards
Mary Burge. With that thought, and before she had time to
remember any reasons why it could not be true, came a new sense of
forsakenness and disappointment. The one thing--the one person--
her mind had rested on in its dull weariness, had slipped away
from her, and peevish misery filled her eyes with tears. She was
looking on the ground, but Adam saw her face, saw the tears, and
before he had finished saying, "Hetty, dear Hetty, what are you
crying for?" his eager rapid thought had flown through all the
causes conceivable to him, and had at last alighted on half the
true one. Hetty thought he was going to marry Mary Burge--she
didn't like him to marry--perhaps she didn't like him to marry any
one but herself? All caution was swept away--all reason for it
was gone, and Adam could feel nothing but trembling joy. He
leaned towards her and took her hand, as he said:
"I could afford to be married now, Hetty--I could make a wife
comfortable; but I shall never want to be married if you won't
have me."
Hetty looked up at him and smiled through her tears, as she had
done to Arthur that first evening in the wood, when she had
thought he was not coming, and yet he came. It was a feebler
relief, a feebler triumph she felt now, but the great dark eyes
and the sweet lips were as beautiful as ever, perhaps more
beautiful, for there was a more luxuriant womanliness about Hetty
of late. Adam could hardly believe in the happiness of that
moment. His right hand held her left, and he pressed her arm
close against his heart as he leaned down towards her.
"Do you really love me, Hetty? Will you be my own wife, to love
and take care of as long as I live?"
Hetty did not speak, but Adam's face was very close to hers, and
she put up her round cheek against his, like a kitten. She wanted
to be caressed--she wanted to feel as if Arthur were with her
again.
Adam cared for no words after that, and they hardly spoke through
the rest of the walk. He only said, "I may tell your uncle and
aunt, mayn't I, Hetty?" and she said, "Yes."
The red fire-light on the hearth at the Hall Farm shone on joyful
faces that evening, when Hetty was gone upstairs and Adam took the
opportunity of telling Mr. and Mrs. Poyser and the grandfather
that he saw his way to maintaining a wife now, and that Hetty had
consented to have him.
"I hope you have no objections against me for her husband," said
Adam; "I'm a poor man as yet, but she shall want nothing as I can
work for."
"Objections?" said Mr. Poyser, while the grandfather leaned
forward and brought out his long "Nay, nay." "What objections can
we ha' to you, lad? Never mind your being poorish as yet; there's
money in your head-piece as there's money i' the sown field, but
it must ha' time. You'n got enough to begin on, and we can do a
deal tow'rt the bit o' furniture you'll want. Thee'st got
feathers and linen to spare--plenty, eh?"
This question was of course addressed to Mrs. Poyser, who was
wrapped up in a warm shawl and was too hoarse to speak with her
usual facility. At first she only nodded emphatically, but she
was presently unable to resist the temptation to be more explicit.
"It ud be a poor tale if I hadna feathers and linen," she said,
hoarsely, "when I never sell a fowl but what's plucked, and the
wheel's a-going every day o' the week."
"Come, my wench," said Mr. Poyser, when Hetty came down, "come and
kiss us, and let us wish you luck."
Hetty went very quietly and kissed the big good-natured man.
"There!" he said, patting her on the back, "go and kiss your aunt
and your grandfather. I'm as wishful t' have you settled well as
if you was my own daughter; and so's your aunt, I'll be bound, for
she's done by you this seven 'ear, Hetty, as if you'd been her
own. Come, come, now," he went on, becoming jocose, as soon as
Hetty had kissed her aunt and the old man, "Adam wants a kiss too,
I'll warrant, and he's a right to one now."
Hetty turned away, smiling, towards her empty chair.
"Come, Adam, then, take one," persisted Mr. Poyser, "else y' arena
half a man."
Adam got up, blushing like a small maiden--great strong fellow as
he was--and, putting his arm round Hetty stooped down and gently
kissed her lips.
It was a pretty scene in the red fire-light; for there were no
candles--why should there be, when the fire was so bright and was
reflected from all the pewter and the polished oak? No one wanted
to work on a Sunday evening. Even Hetty felt something like
contentment in the midst of all this love. Adam's attachment to
her, Adam's caress, stirred no passion in her, were no longer
enough to satisfy her vanity, but they were the best her life
offered her now--they promised her some change.
There was a great deal of discussion before Adam went away, about
the possibility of his finding a house that would do for him to
settle in. No house was empty except the one next to Will
Maskery's in the village, and that was too small for Adam now.
Mr. Poyser insisted that the best plan would be for Seth and his
mother to move and leave Adam in the old home, which might be
enlarged after a while, for there was plenty of space in the
woodyard and garden; but Adam objected to turning his mother out.
"Well, well," said Mr. Poyser at last, "we needna fix everything
to-night. We must take time to consider. You canna think o'
getting married afore Easter. I'm not for long courtships, but
there must be a bit o' time to make things comfortable."
"Aye, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, in a hoarse whisper;
"Christian folks can't be married like cuckoos, I reckon."
"I'm a bit daunted, though," said Mr. Poyser, "when I think as we
may have notice to quit, and belike be forced to take a farm
twenty mile off."
"Eh," said the old man, staring at the floor and lifting his hands
up and down, while his arms rested on the elbows of his chair,
"it's a poor tale if I mun leave th' ould spot an be buried in a
strange parish. An' you'll happen ha' double rates to pay," he
added, looking up at his son.
"Well, thee mustna fret beforehand, father," said Martin the
younger. "Happen the captain 'ull come home and make our peace
wi' th' old squire. I build upo' that, for I know the captain 'll
see folks righted if he can."
