Adam Bede
“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