Chapter: THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm
days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No
rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was
perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on
the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the
roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll
on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple,
high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor
July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in.
Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers
are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and
yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at
the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment
of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the
waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their
sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are
often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour
of red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their
innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows.
But it is a time of leisure on the farm--that pause between hay-and
corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton
thought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could
give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which
had been brewed the autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to be
tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the
ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made
haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be
time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.

The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no
blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at
herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had
in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging
glass she had fetched out of the next room--the room that had been
Dinah's--would show her nothing below her little chin; and that
beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into
another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she
thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this
evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy
yesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the
sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she
was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of "real" lace, which her
aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments
besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she wore
every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before
she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in
the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private
treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer
before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the
old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to
put the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she
has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in
a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking
out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason about
it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must
have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments
or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could not
possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the
essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced
on others; you will never understand women's natures if you are so
excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational
prejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary
bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she
turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings
nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the
person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to
the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she
have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that
she had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could
imagine.

"Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one
evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. "I wish I
had some pretty ear-rings!" she said in a moment, almost before she knew
what she was saying--the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter
past them at the slightest breath. And the next day--it was only last
week--Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That
little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of
childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had
wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty
unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back
their new delight into his.

No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the
ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them
to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one moment, to
see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against
the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a
listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings
as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be
made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the
tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps
water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little
round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty
must be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman,
with a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance a
light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and
press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once
her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human
anguish.

But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle
and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them
up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes,
and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes,
shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at the
Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on
her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But
she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day,
because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has
been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at
the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown
berries--her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was
not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was
a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a
beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown
slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings.
She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty
had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery,
and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in
her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter
her aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped
it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round
her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang
a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do
but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and
her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which
had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of
bitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new--everybody
would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon--and Mary
Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for
consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were very
nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them.
Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in
the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would
never care about looking at other people, but then those other people
didn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby
and insignificant in their eyes even for a short space.

The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down,
all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so
this morning in honour of the captain's twenty-first birthday, and the
work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite
easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going
to church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once
suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care
of itself; "for," said he, "there's no danger of anybody's breaking
in--everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house
up, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives."
But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left the house to
take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been
ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off
every ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together,
them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and
murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when
we'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the
tramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry
wants any work done, you may be sure he'll find the means."

"Nonsense about murdering us in our beds," said Mr. Poyser; "I've got a
gun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if a
mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick
can stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back
tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler
loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too,
ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink."

Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar
and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting,
Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place,
although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and
the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a
burglarious attempt.

The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole
family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat
on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and
children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting
would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an
excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more
than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as
possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and
remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking
the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits
of movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that
nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief
with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton
and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour
of "th' heir"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down
this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from
Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's
suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last tune,
before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the
festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard
approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing
Mr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the
Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--that is to say, in
bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with
the motto, "Let brotherly love continue," encircling a picture of a
stone-pit.

The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get
down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.

"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs. Poyser, as she got
down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks,
and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles
surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the
successful climbers. "I should ha' thought there wasna so many people
i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come
here, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They
might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I
shall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down."

"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin coming
wi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight as wonna come o'er again,
to see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You remember some on
'em i' their prime, eh, Father?"

"Aye, aye," said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge
porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I remember Jacob
Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back
from Stoniton."

He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he
saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon
and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two
sticks.

"Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his
voice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit
the propriety of a greeting--"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen
to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better."

"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a treble
tone, perceiving that he was in company.

The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and
grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house,
where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party
wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees,
but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and
flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn,
standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the
open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have
been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for
the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much
the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and
prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant
stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the
sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all
down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite
sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the
grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and
she should not see him for a long, long while--not till after dinner,
when they said he was to come up and make a speech.

But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was
come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early,
and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the
rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long
tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants.
A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a
bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode--his arm no longer in a sling.
So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets,
and secrets leave no lines in young faces.

"Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I think
the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful
dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine,
about the dinners--to let them be as orderly and comfortable as
possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited
sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he
couldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point."

"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said Mr.
Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding
liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so
many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked
to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an
enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity
of ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games
as the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much
towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than
drunkenness and daylight."

"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston
people away by having a feast for them in the town; and I've got Casson
and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of
ale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, let
us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants."

They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery
above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old
pictures had been banished for the last three generations--mouldy
portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye
knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius
Caesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his
Commentaries in his hand.

"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old
abbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the gallery
in first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a third as large
as this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs.
Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children
to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a
regular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those little
lads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much
finer young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women
and children below as well. But you will see them all--you will come up
with me after dinner, I hope?"

"Yes, to be sure," said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden speech
to the tenantry."

"And there will be something else you'll like to hear," said Arthur.
"Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about it while my
grandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will
surprise you," he continued, as they sat down. "My grandfather has come
round after all."

"What, about Adam?"

"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so
busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with
him--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning he asked me to
come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that
he had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence
of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to
employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week,
and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is,
he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some
particular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that I
propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There's
the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to
leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut
off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only
five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I
sometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believe
if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune
that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my
life a series of petty annoyances."

"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words
omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving love' in
the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted
the post? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his
present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time
on his own hands.

"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to
hesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be
able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour
to me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he
really liked the employment and would not be giving up anything that
was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all
things--it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it
would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working
for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little
business of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps
be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have
arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to
announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health.
It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my friend Adam. He's a fine
fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think
so."

"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part
to play," said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he
went on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy
who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit
that I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play
the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of
Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to
have a respectable man as steward?"

"Oh no," said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience
and walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. "He's got
some project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for
a supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about
it--it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the business
himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what
energy he has, though."

"Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr. Irwine, rising too. "I want
to tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her under
the marquee."

"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. "It must be
two o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants'
dinners."



WHEN Adam heard that he was to dine upstairs with the large tenants, he
felt rather uncomfortable at the idea of being exalted in this way above
his mother and Seth, who were to dine in the cloisters below. But
Mr. Mills, the butler, assured him that Captain Donnithorne had given
particular orders about it, and would be very angry if Adam was not
there.

Adam nodded and went up to Seth, who was standing a few yards off.
"Seth, lad," he said, "the captain has sent to say I'm to dine
upstairs--he wishes it particular, Mr. Mills says, so I suppose it 'ud
be behaving ill for me not to go. But I don't like sitting up above thee
and mother, as if I was better than my own flesh and blood. Thee't not
take it unkind, I hope?"

"Nay, nay, lad," said Seth, "thy honour's our honour; and if thee get'st
respect, thee'st won it by thy own deserts. The further I see thee
above me, the better, so long as thee feel'st like a brother to me.
It's because o' thy being appointed over the woods, and it's nothing but
what's right. That's a place o' trust, and thee't above a common workman
now."

"Aye," said Adam, "but nobody knows a word about it yet. I haven't given
notice to Mr. Burge about leaving him, and I don't like to tell anybody
else about it before he knows, for he'll be a good bit hurt, I doubt.
People 'ull be wondering to see me there, and they'll like enough be
guessing the reason and asking questions, for there's been so much talk
up and down about my having the place, this last three weeks."

"Well, thee canst say thee wast ordered to come without being told the
reason. That's the truth. And mother 'ull be fine and joyful about it.
Let's go and tell her."

Adam was not the only guest invited to come upstairs on other grounds
than the amount he contributed to the rent-roll. There were other people
in the two parishes who derived dignity from their functions rather than
from their pocket, and of these Bartle Massey was one. His lame walk was
rather slower than usual on this warm day, so Adam lingered behind when
the bell rang for dinner, that he might walk up with his old friend;
for he was a little too shy to join the Poyser party on this public
occasion. Opportunities of getting to Hetty's side would be sure to turn
up in the course of the day, and Adam contented himself with that for
he disliked any risk of being "joked" about Hetty--the big, outspoken,
fearless man was very shy and diffident as to his love-making.

"Well, Mester Massey," said Adam, as Bartle came up "I'm going to dine
upstairs with you to-day: the captain's sent me orders."

"Ah!" said Bartle, pausing, with one hand on his back. "Then there's
something in the wind--there's something in the wind. Have you heard
anything about what the old squire means to do?"

"Why, yes," said Adam; "I'll tell you what I know, because I believe you
can keep a still tongue in your head if you like, and I hope you'll
not let drop a word till it's common talk, for I've particular reasons
against its being known."

"Trust to me, my boy, trust to me. I've got no wife to worm it out of
me and then run out and cackle it in everybody's hearing. If you trust a
man, let him be a bachelor--let him be a bachelor."

"Well, then, it was so far settled yesterday that I'm to take the
management o' the woods. The captain sent for me t' offer it me, when
I was seeing to the poles and things here and I've agreed to't. But if
anybody asks any questions upstairs, just you take no notice, and turn
the talk to something else, and I'll be obliged to you. Now, let us go
on, for we're pretty nigh the last, I think."

"I know what to do, never fear," said Bartle, moving on. "The news will
be good sauce to my dinner. Aye, aye, my boy, you'll get on. I'll back
you for an eye at measuring and a head-piece for figures, against
any man in this county and you've had good teaching--you've had good
teaching."

When they got upstairs, the question which Arthur had left unsettled, as
to who was to be president, and who vice, was still under discussion, so
that Adam's entrance passed without remark.

"It stands to sense," Mr. Casson was saying, "as old Mr. Poyser, as is
th' oldest man i' the room, should sit at top o' the table. I wasn't
butler fifteen year without learning the rights and the wrongs about
dinner."

"Nay, nay," said old Martin, "I'n gi'en up to my son; I'm no tenant now:
let my son take my place. Th' ould foulks ha' had their turn: they mun
make way for the young uns."

"I should ha' thought the biggest tenant had the best right, more nor
th' oldest," said Luke Britton, who was not fond of the critical Mr.
Poyser; "there's Mester Holdsworth has more land nor anybody else on th'
estate."

"Well," said Mr. Poyser, "suppose we say the man wi' the foulest land
shall sit at top; then whoever gets th' honour, there'll be no envying
on him."

"Eh, here's Mester Massey," said Mr. Craig, who, being a neutral in the
dispute, had no interest but in conciliation; "the schoolmaster ought to
be able to tell you what's right. Who's to sit at top o' the table, Mr.
Massey?"

"Why, the broadest man," said Bartle; "and then he won't take up other
folks' room; and the next broadest must sit at bottom."

This happy mode of settling the dispute produced much laughter--a
smaller joke would have sufficed for that Mr. Casson, however, did not
feel it compatible with his dignity and superior knowledge to join
in the laugh, until it turned out that he was fixed on as the second
broadest man. Martin Poyser the younger, as the broadest, was to be
president, and Mr. Casson, as next broadest, was to be vice.

Owing to this arrangement, Adam, being, of course, at the bottom of the
table, fell under the immediate observation of Mr. Casson, who, too much
occupied with the question of precedence, had not hitherto noticed his
entrance. Mr. Casson, we have seen, considered Adam "rather lifted up
and peppery-like": he thought the gentry made more fuss about this
young carpenter than was necessary; they made no fuss about Mr. Casson,
although he had been an excellent butler for fifteen years.

"Well, Mr. Bede, you're one o' them as mounts hup'ards apace," he said,
when Adam sat down. "You've niver dined here before, as I remember."

"No, Mr. Casson," said Adam, in his strong voice, that could be heard
along the table; "I've never dined here before, but I come by Captain
Donnithorne's wish, and I hope it's not disagreeable to anybody here."

"Nay, nay," said several voices at once, "we're glad ye're come. Who's
got anything to say again' it?"

"And ye'll sing us 'Over the hills and far away,' after dinner, wonna
ye?" said Mr. Chowne. "That's a song I'm uncommon fond on."

"Peeh!" said Mr. Craig; "it's not to be named by side o' the Scotch
tunes. I've never cared about singing myself; I've had something better
to do. A man that's got the names and the natur o' plants in's head isna
likely to keep a hollow place t' hold tunes in. But a second cousin o'
mine, a drovier, was a rare hand at remembering the Scotch tunes. He'd
got nothing else to think on."

"The Scotch tunes!" said Bartle Massey, contemptuously; "I've heard
enough o' the Scotch tunes to last me while I live. They're fit for
nothing but to frighten the birds with--that's to say, the English
birds, for the Scotch birds may sing Scotch for what I know. Give the
lads a bagpipe instead of a rattle, and I'll answer for it the corn 'll
be safe."

"Yes, there's folks as find a pleasure in undervallying what they know
but little about," said Mr. Craig.

"Why, the Scotch tunes are just like a scolding, nagging woman," Bartle
went on, without deigning to notice Mr. Craig's remark. "They go on with
the same thing over and over again, and never come to a reasonable end.
Anybody 'ud think the Scotch tunes had always been asking a question of
somebody as deaf as old Taft, and had never got an answer yet."

Adam minded the less about sitting by Mr. Casson, because this position
enabled him to see Hetty, who was not far off him at the next table.
Hetty, however, had not even noticed his presence yet, for she was
giving angry attention to Totty, who insisted on drawing up her feet on
to the bench in antique fashion, and thereby threatened to make dusty
marks on Hetty's pink-and-white frock. No sooner were the little fat
legs pushed down than up they came again, for Totty's eyes were too busy
in staring at the large dishes to see where the plum pudding was for
her to retain any consciousness of her legs. Hetty got quite out of
patience, and at last, with a frown and pout, and gathering tears, she
said, "Oh dear, Aunt, I wish you'd speak to Totty; she keeps putting her
legs up so, and messing my frock."

"What's the matter wi' the child? She can niver please you," said the
mother. "Let her come by the side o' me, then. I can put up wi' her."

Adam was looking at Hetty, and saw the frown, and pout, and the dark
eyes seeming to grow larger with pettish half-gathered tears. Quiet Mary
Burge, who sat near enough to see that Hetty was cross and that Adam's
eyes were fixed on her, thought that so sensible a man as Adam must be
reflecting on the small value of beauty in a woman whose temper was bad.
Mary was a good girl, not given to indulge in evil feelings, but she
said to herself, that, since Hetty had a bad temper, it was better Adam
should know it. And it was quite true that if Hetty had been plain, she
would have looked very ugly and unamiable at that moment, and no one's
moral judgment upon her would have been in the least beguiled. But
really there was something quite charming in her pettishness: it looked
so much more like innocent distress than ill humour; and the severe Adam
felt no movement of disapprobation; he only felt a sort of amused pity,
as if he had seen a kitten setting up its back, or a little bird with
its feathers ruffled. He could not gather what was vexing her, but it
was impossible to him to feel otherwise than that she was the prettiest
thing in the world, and that if he could have his way, nothing should
ever vex her any more. And presently, when Totty was gone, she caught
his eye, and her face broke into one of its brightest smiles, as she
nodded to him. It was a bit of flirtation--she knew Mary Burge was
looking at them. But the smile was like wine to Adam.




WHEN the dinner was over, and the first draughts from the great cask of
birthday ale were brought up, room was made for the broad Mr. Poyser at
the side of the table, and two chairs were placed at the head. It had
been settled very definitely what Mr. Poyser was to do when the young
squire should appear, and for the last five minutes he had been in a
state of abstraction, with his eyes fixed on the dark picture opposite,
and his hands busy with the loose cash and other articles in his
breeches pockets.

When the young squire entered, with Mr. Irwine by his side, every one
stood up, and this moment of homage was very agreeable to Arthur. He
liked to feel his own importance, and besides that, he cared a great
deal for the good-will of these people: he was fond of thinking that
they had a hearty, special regard for him. The pleasure he felt was in
his face as he said, "My grandfather and I hope all our friends here
have enjoyed their dinner, and find my birthday ale good. Mr. Irwine
and I are come to taste it with you, and I am sure we shall all like
anything the better that the rector shares with us."

All eyes were now turned on Mr. Poyser, who, with his hands still busy
in his pockets, began with the deliberateness of a slow-striking clock.
"Captain, my neighbours have put it upo' me to speak for 'em to-day, for
where folks think pretty much alike, one spokesman's as good as a score.
And though we've mayhappen got contrairy ways o' thinking about a many
things--one man lays down his land one way an' another another--an' I'll
not take it upon me to speak to no man's farming, but my own--this I'll
say, as we're all o' one mind about our young squire. We've pretty nigh
all on us known you when you war a little un, an' we've niver known
anything on you but what was good an' honorable. You speak fair an'
y' act fair, an' we're joyful when we look forrard to your being our
landlord, for we b'lieve you mean to do right by everybody, an' 'ull
make no man's bread bitter to him if you can help it. That's what I
mean, an' that's what we all mean; and when a man's said what he means,
he'd better stop, for th' ale 'ull be none the better for stannin'. An'
I'll not say how we like th' ale yet, for we couldna well taste it till
we'd drunk your health in it; but the dinner was good, an' if there's
anybody hasna enjoyed it, it must be the fault of his own inside. An' as
for the rector's company, it's well known as that's welcome t' all the
parish wherever he may be; an' I hope, an' we all hope, as he'll live
to see us old folks, an' our children grown to men an' women an' Your
Honour a family man. I've no more to say as concerns the present time,
an' so we'll drink our young squire's health--three times three."

Hereupon a glorious shouting, a rapping, a jingling, a clattering, and a
shouting, with plentiful da capo, pleasanter than a strain of sublimest
music in the ears that receive such a tribute for the first time. Arthur
had felt a twinge of conscience during Mr. Poyser's speech, but it was
too feeble to nullify the pleasure he felt in being praised. Did he not
deserve what was said of him on the whole? If there was something in
his conduct that Poyser wouldn't have liked if he had known it, why,
no man's conduct will bear too close an inspection; and Poyser was not
likely to know it; and, after all, what had he done? Gone a little too
far, perhaps, in flirtation, but another man in his place would have
acted much worse; and no harm would come--no harm should come, for the
next time he was alone with Hetty, he would explain to her that she must
not think seriously of him or of what had passed. It was necessary
to Arthur, you perceive, to be satisfied with himself. Uncomfortable
thoughts must be got rid of by good intentions for the future, which can
be formed so rapidly that he had time to be uncomfortable and to become
easy again before Mr. Poyser's slow speech was finished, and when it was
time for him to speak he was quite light-hearted.

"I thank you all, my good friends and neighbours," Arthur said, "for the
good opinion of me, and the kind feelings towards me which Mr. Poyser
has been expressing on your behalf and on his own, and it will always be
my heartiest wish to deserve them. In the course of things we may expect
that, if I live, I shall one day or other be your landlord; indeed, it
is on the ground of that expectation that my grandfather has wished me
to celebrate this day and to come among you now; and I look forward to
this position, not merely as one of power and pleasure for myself, but
as a means of benefiting my neighbours. It hardly becomes so young a man
as I am to talk much about farming to you, who are most of you so much
older, and are men of experience; still, I have interested myself a good
deal in such matters, and learned as much about them as my opportunities
have allowed; and when the course of events shall place the estate in
my hands, it will be my first desire to afford my tenants all the
encouragement a landlord can give them, in improving their land and
trying to bring about a better practice of husbandry. It will be my wish
to be looked on by all my deserving tenants as their best friend, and
nothing would make me so happy as to be able to respect every man on
the estate, and to be respected by him in return. It is not my place
at present to enter into particulars; I only meet your good hopes
concerning me by telling you that my own hopes correspond to them--that
what you expect from me I desire to fulfil; and I am quite of Mr.
Poyser's opinion, that when a man has said what he means, he had better
stop. But the pleasure I feel in having my own health drunk by you would
not be perfect if we did not drink the health of my grandfather, who has
filled the place of both parents to me. I will say no more, until you
have joined me in drinking his health on a day when he has wished me to
appear among you as the future representative of his name and family."

Perhaps there was no one present except Mr. Irwine who thoroughly
understood and approved Arthur's graceful mode of proposing his
grandfather's health. The farmers thought the young squire knew well
enough that they hated the old squire, and Mrs. Poyser said, "he'd
better not ha' stirred a kettle o' sour broth." The bucolic mind does
not readily apprehend the refinements of good taste. But the toast could
not be rejected and when it had been drunk, Arthur said, "I thank you,
both for my grandfather and myself; and now there is one more thing I
wish to tell you, that you may share my pleasure about it, as I hope
and believe you will. I think there can be no man here who has not a
respect, and some of you, I am sure, have a very high regard, for my
friend Adam Bede. It is well known to every one in this neighbourhood
that there is no man whose word can be more depended on than his; that
whatever he undertakes to do, he does well, and is as careful for the
interests of those who employ him as for his own. I'm proud to say that
I was very fond of Adam when I was a little boy, and I have never lost
my old feeling for him--I think that shows that I know a good fellow
when I find him. It has long been my wish that he should have the
management of the woods on the estate, which happen to be very valuable,
not only because I think so highly of his character, but because he has
the knowledge and the skill which fit him for the place. And I am happy
to tell you that it is my grandfather's wish too, and it is now settled
that Adam shall manage the woods--a change which I am sure will be very
much for the advantage of the estate; and I hope you will by and by join
me in drinking his health, and in wishing him all the prosperity in life
that he deserves. But there is a still older friend of mine than Adam
Bede present, and I need not tell you that it is Mr. Irwine. I'm sure
you will agree with me that we must drink no other person's health until
we have drunk his. I know you have all reason to love him, but no one of
his parishioners has so much reason as I. Come, charge your glasses, and
let us drink to our excellent rector--three times three!"

This toast was drunk with all the enthusiasm that was wanting to the
last, and it certainly was the most picturesque moment in the scene when
Mr. Irwine got up to speak, and all the faces in the room were turned
towards him. The superior refinement of his face was much more striking
than that of Arthur's when seen in comparison with the people round
them. Arthur's was a much commoner British face, and the splendour of
his new-fashioned clothes was more akin to the young farmer's taste
in costume than Mr. Irwine's powder and the well-brushed but well-worn
black, which seemed to be his chosen suit for great occasions; for he
had the mysterious secret of never wearing a new-looking coat.

"This is not the first time, by a great many," he said, "that I have
had to thank my parishioners for giving me tokens of their goodwill, but
neighbourly kindness is among those things that are the more precious
the older they get. Indeed, our pleasant meeting to-day is a proof that
when what is good comes of age and is likely to live, there is reason
for rejoicing, and the relation between us as clergyman and parishioners
came of age two years ago, for it is three-and-twenty years since I
first came among you, and I see some tall fine-looking young men here,
as well as some blooming young women, that were far from looking as
pleasantly at me when I christened them as I am happy to see them
looking now. But I'm sure you will not wonder when I say that among all
those young men, the one in whom I have the strongest interest is my
friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne, for whom you have just expressed your
regard. I had the pleasure of being his tutor for several years, and
have naturally had opportunities of knowing him intimately which cannot
have occurred to any one else who is present; and I have some pride as
well as pleasure in assuring you that I share your high hopes concerning
him, and your confidence in his possession of those qualities which will
make him an excellent landlord when the time shall come for him to take
that important position among you. We feel alike on most matters on
which a man who is getting towards fifty can feel in common with a young
man of one-and-twenty, and he has just been expressing a feeling which
I share very heartily, and I would not willingly omit the opportunity of
saying so. That feeling is his value and respect for Adam Bede. People
in a high station are of course more thought of and talked about and
have their virtues more praised, than those whose lives are passed in
humble everyday work; but every sensible man knows how necessary that
humble everyday work is, and how important it is to us that it should be
done well. And I agree with my friend Mr. Arthur Donnithorne in feeling
that when a man whose duty lies in that sort of work shows a character
which would make him an example in any station, his merit should be
acknowledged. He is one of those to whom honour is due, and his friends
should delight to honour him. I know Adam Bede well--I know what he is
as a workman, and what he has been as a son and brother--and I am saying
the simplest truth when I say that I respect him as much as I respect
any man living. But I am not speaking to you about a stranger; some of
you are his intimate friends, and I believe there is not one here who
does not know enough of him to join heartily in drinking his health."

As Mr. Irwine paused, Arthur jumped up and, filling his glass, said, "A
bumper to Adam Bede, and may he live to have sons as faithful and clever
as himself!"

No hearer, not even Bartle Massey, was so delighted with this toast as
Mr. Poyser. "Tough work" as his first speech had been, he would have
started up to make another if he had not known the extreme irregularity
of such a course. As it was, he found an outlet for his feeling in
drinking his ale unusually fast, and setting down his glass with a swing
of his arm and a determined rap. If Jonathan Burge and a few others
felt less comfortable on the occasion, they tried their best to look
contented, and so the toast was drunk with a goodwill apparently
unanimous.

Adam was rather paler than usual when he got up to thank his friends. He
was a good deal moved by this public tribute--very naturally, for he was
in the presence of all his little world, and it was uniting to do him
honour. But he felt no shyness about speaking, not being troubled
with small vanity or lack of words; he looked neither awkward nor
embarrassed, but stood in his usual firm upright attitude, with his head
thrown a little backward and his hands perfectly still, in that rough
dignity which is peculiar to intelligent, honest, well-built workmen,
who are never wondering what is their business in the world.

"I'm quite taken by surprise," he said. "I didn't expect anything o'
this sort, for it's a good deal more than my wages. But I've the more
reason to be grateful to you, Captain, and to you, Mr. Irwine, and to
all my friends here, who've drunk my health and wished me well. It 'ud
be nonsense for me to be saying, I don't at all deserve th' opinion you
have of me; that 'ud be poor thanks to you, to say that you've known me
all these years and yet haven't sense enough to find out a great deal o'
the truth about me. You think, if I undertake to do a bit o' work, I'll
do it well, be my pay big or little--and that's true. I'd be ashamed
to stand before you here if it wasna true. But it seems to me that's
a man's plain duty, and nothing to be conceited about, and it's pretty
clear to me as I've never done more than my duty; for let us do what we
will, it's only making use o' the sperrit and the powers that ha' been
given to us. And so this kindness o' yours, I'm sure, is no debt you owe
me, but a free gift, and as such I accept it and am thankful. And as to
this new employment I've taken in hand, I'll only say that I took it
at Captain Donnithorne's desire, and that I'll try to fulfil his
expectations. I'd wish for no better lot than to work under him, and
to know that while I was getting my own bread I was taking care of his
int'rests. For I believe he's one o those gentlemen as wishes to do the
right thing, and to leave the world a bit better than he found it, which
it's my belief every man may do, whether he's gentle or simple, whether
he sets a good bit o' work going and finds the money, or whether he does
the work with his own hands. There's no occasion for me to say any more
about what I feel towards him: I hope to show it through the rest o' my
life in my actions."

There were various opinions about Adam's speech: some of the women
whispered that he didn't show himself thankful enough, and seemed to
speak as proud as could be; but most of the men were of opinion that
nobody could speak more straightfor'ard, and that Adam was as fine a
chap as need to be. While such observations were being buzzed about,
mingled with wonderings as to what the old squire meant to do for a
bailiff, and whether he was going to have a steward, the two gentlemen
had risen, and were walking round to the table where the wives and
children sat. There was none of the strong ale here, of course, but
wine and dessert--sparkling gooseberry for the young ones, and some good
sherry for the mothers. Mrs. Poyser was at the head of this table, and
Totty was now seated in her lap, bending her small nose deep down into a
wine-glass in search of the nuts floating there.

"How do you do, Mrs. Poyser?" said Arthur. "Weren't you pleased to hear
your husband make such a good speech to-day?"

"Oh, sir, the men are mostly so tongue-tied--you're forced partly to
guess what they mean, as you do wi' the dumb creaturs."

"What! you think you could have made it better for him?" said Mr.
Irwine, laughing.

"Well, sir, when I want to say anything, I can mostly find words to say
it in, thank God. Not as I'm a-finding faut wi' my husband, for if he's
a man o' few words, what he says he'll stand to."

"I'm sure I never saw a prettier party than this," Arthur said, looking
round at the apple-cheeked children. "My aunt and the Miss Irwines will
come up and see you presently. They were afraid of the noise of the
toasts, but it would be a shame for them not to see you at table."

He walked on, speaking to the mothers and patting the children, while
Mr. Irwine satisfied himself with standing still and nodding at a
distance, that no one's attention might be disturbed from the young
squire, the hero of the day. Arthur did not venture to stop near Hetty,
but merely bowed to her as he passed along the opposite side. The
foolish child felt her heart swelling with discontent; for what woman
was ever satisfied with apparent neglect, even when she knows it to be
the mask of love? Hetty thought this was going to be the most miserable
day she had had for a long while, a moment of chill daylight and reality
came across her dream: Arthur, who had seemed so near to her only a few
hours before, was separated from her, as the hero of a great procession
is separated from a small outsider in the crowd.




THE great dance was not to begin until eight o'clock, but for any lads
and lasses who liked to dance on the shady grass before then, there was
music always at hand--for was not the band of the Benefit Club capable
of playing excellent jigs, reels, and hornpipes? And, besides this,
there was a grand band hired from Rosseter, who, with their wonderful
wind-instruments and puffed-out cheeks, were themselves a delightful
show to the small boys and girls. To say nothing of Joshua Rann's
fiddle, which, by an act of generous forethought, he had provided
himself with, in case any one should be of sufficiently pure taste to
prefer dancing to a solo on that instrument.

Meantime, when the sun had moved off the great open space in front of
the house, the games began. There were, of course, well-soaped poles
to be climbed by the boys and youths, races to be run by the old women,
races to be run in sacks, heavy weights to be lifted by the strong men,
and a long list of challenges to such ambitious attempts as that
of walking as many yards possible on one leg--feats in which it was
generally remarked that Wiry Ben, being "the lissom'st, springest fellow
i' the country," was sure to be pre-eminent. To crown all, there was to
be a donkey-race--that sublimest of all races, conducted on the grand
socialistic idea of everybody encouraging everybody else's donkey, and
the sorriest donkey winning.

And soon after four o'clock, splendid old Mrs. Irwine, in her damask
satin and jewels and black lace, was led out by Arthur, followed by the
whole family party, to her raised seat under the striped marquee, where
she was to give out the prizes to the victors. Staid, formal Miss Lydia
had requested to resign that queenly office to the royal old lady, and
Arthur was pleased with this opportunity of gratifying his godmother's
taste for stateliness. Old Mr. Donnithorne, the delicately clean,
finely scented, withered old man, led out Miss Irwine, with his air of
punctilious, acid politeness; Mr. Gawaine brought Miss Lydia, looking
neutral and stiff in an elegant peach-blossom silk; and Mr. Irwine came
last with his pale sister Anne. No other friend of the family, besides
Mr. Gawaine, was invited to-day; there was to be a grand dinner for
the neighbouring gentry on the morrow, but to-day all the forces were
required for the entertainment of the tenants.

There was a sunk fence in front of the marquee, dividing the lawn from
the park, but a temporary bridge had been made for the passage of the
victors, and the groups of people standing, or seated here and there
on benches, stretched on each side of the open space from the white
marquees up to the sunk fence.

"Upon my word it's a pretty sight," said the old lady, in her deep
voice, when she was seated, and looked round on the bright scene with
its dark-green background; "and it's the last fete-day I'm likely to
see, unless you make haste and get married, Arthur. But take care you
get a charming bride, else I would rather die without seeing her."

"You're so terribly fastidious, Godmother," said Arthur, "I'm afraid I
should never satisfy you with my choice."

"Well, I won't forgive you if she's not handsome. I can't be put off
with amiability, which is always the excuse people are making for the
existence of plain people. And she must not be silly; that will never
do, because you'll want managing, and a silly woman can't manage you.
Who is that tall young man, Dauphin, with the mild face? There, standing
without his hat, and taking such care of that tall old woman by the side
of him--his mother, of course. I like to see that."

"What, don't you know him, Mother?" said Mr. Irwine. "That is Seth
Bede, Adam's brother--a Methodist, but a very good fellow. Poor Seth
has looked rather down-hearted of late; I thought it was because of his
father's dying in that sad way, but Joshua Rann tells me he wanted to
marry that sweet little Methodist preacher who was here about a month
ago, and I suppose she refused him."

"Ah, I remember hearing about her. But there are no end of people here
that I don't know, for they're grown up and altered so since I used to
go about."

"What excellent sight you have!" said old Mr. Donnithorne, who was
holding a double glass up to his eyes, "to see the expression of that
young man's face so far off. His face is nothing but a pale blurred
spot to me. But I fancy I have the advantage of you when we come to look
close. I can read small print without spectacles."

"Ah, my dear sir, you began with being very near-sighted, and those
near-sighted eyes always wear the best. I want very strong spectacles to
read with, but then I think my eyes get better and better for things at
a distance. I suppose if I could live another fifty years, I should be
blind to everything that wasn't out of other people's sight, like a man
who stands in a well and sees nothing but the stars."

"See," said Arthur, "the old women are ready to set out on their race
now. Which do you bet on, Gawaine?"

"The long-legged one, unless they're going to have several heats, and
then the little wiry one may win."

"There are the Poysers, Mother, not far off on the right hand," said
Miss Irwine. "Mrs. Poyser is looking at you. Do take notice of her."

"To be sure I will," said the old lady, giving a gracious bow to Mrs.
Poyser. "A woman who sends me such excellent cream-cheese is not to
be neglected. Bless me! What a fat child that is she is holding on her
knee! But who is that pretty girl with dark eyes?"

"That is Hetty Sorrel," said Miss Lydia Donnithorne, "Martin Poyser's
niece--a very likely young person, and well-looking too. My maid has
taught her fine needlework, and she has mended some lace of mine very
respectably indeed--very respectably."

"Why, she has lived with the Poysers six or seven years, Mother; you
must have seen her," said Miss Irwine.

"No, I've never seen her, child--at least not as she is now," said Mrs.
Irwine, continuing to look at Hetty. "Well-looking, indeed! She's a
perfect beauty! I've never seen anything so pretty since my young days.
What a pity such beauty as that should be thrown away among the farmers,
when it's wanted so terribly among the good families without fortune!
I daresay, now, she'll marry a man who would have thought her just as
pretty if she had had round eyes and red hair."

Arthur dared not turn his eyes towards Hetty while Mrs. Irwine was
speaking of her. He feigned not to hear, and to be occupied with
something on the opposite side. But he saw her plainly enough without
looking; saw her in heightened beauty, because he heard her beauty
praised--for other men's opinion, you know, was like a native climate
to Arthur's feelings: it was the air on which they thrived the best, and
grew strong. Yes! She was enough to turn any man's head: any man in his
place would have done and felt the same. And to give her up after all,
as he was determined to do, would be an act that he should always look
back upon with pride.

"No, Mother," and Mr. Irwine, replying to her last words; "I can't
agree with you there. The common people are not quite so stupid as you
imagine. The commonest man, who has his ounce of sense and feeling,
is conscious of the difference between a lovely, delicate woman and a
coarse one. Even a dog feels a difference in their presence. The man may
be no better able than the dog to explain the influence the more refined
beauty has on him, but he feels it."

"Bless me, Dauphin, what does an old bachelor like you know about it?"

"Oh, that is one of the matters in which old bachelors are wiser than
married men, because they have time for more general contemplation.
Your fine critic of woman must never shackle his judgment by calling
one woman his own. But, as an example of what I was saying, that pretty
Methodist preacher I mentioned just now told me that she had preached
to the roughest miners and had never been treated with anything but the
utmost respect and kindness by them. The reason is--though she doesn't
know it--that there's so much tenderness, refinement, and purity about
her. Such a woman as that brings with her 'airs from heaven' that the
coarsest fellow is not insensible to."

"Here's a delicate bit of womanhood, or girlhood, coming to receive a
prize, I suppose," said Mr. Gawaine. "She must be one of the racers in
the sacks, who had set off before we came."

The "bit of womanhood" was our old acquaintance Bessy Cranage, otherwise
Chad's Bess, whose large red cheeks and blowsy person had undergone
an exaggeration of colour, which, if she had happened to be a heavenly
body, would have made her sublime. Bessy, I am sorry to say, had taken
to her ear-rings again since Dinah's departure, and was otherwise decked
out in such small finery as she could muster. Any one who could have
looked into poor Bessy's heart would have seen a striking resemblance
between her little hopes and anxieties and Hetty's. The advantage,
perhaps, would have been on Bessy's side in the matter of feeling. But
then, you see, they were so very different outside! You would have been
inclined to box Bessy's ears, and you would have longed to kiss Hetty.

Bessy had been tempted to run the arduous race, partly from mere
hedonish gaiety, partly because of the prize. Some one had said there
were to be cloaks and other nice clothes for prizes, and she approached
the marquee, fanning herself with her handkerchief, but with exultation
sparkling in her round eyes.

"Here is the prize for the first sack-race," said Miss Lydia, taking a
large parcel from the table where the prizes were laid and giving it to
Mrs. Irwine before Bessy came up, "an excellent grogram gown and a piece
of flannel."

"You didn't think the winner was to be so young, I suppose, Aunt?" said
Arthur. "Couldn't you find something else for this girl, and save that
grim-looking gown for one of the older women?"

"I have bought nothing but what is useful and substantial," said Miss
Lydia, adjusting her own lace; "I should not think of encouraging a love
of finery in young women of that class. I have a scarlet cloak, but that
is for the old woman who wins."

This speech of Miss Lydia's produced rather a mocking expression in Mrs.
Irwine's face as she looked at Arthur, while Bessy came up and dropped a
series of curtsies.

"This is Bessy Cranage, mother," said Mr. Irwine, kindly, "Chad
Cranage's daughter. You remember Chad Cranage, the blacksmith?"

"Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Irwine. "Well, Bessy, here is your
prize--excellent warm things for winter. I'm sure you have had hard work
to win them this warm day."

Bessy's lip fell as she saw the ugly, heavy gown--which felt so hot and
disagreeable too, on this July day, and was such a great ugly thing to
carry. She dropped her curtsies again, without looking up, and with a
growing tremulousness about the corners of her mouth, and then turned
away.

"Poor girl," said Arthur; "I think she's disappointed. I wish it had
been something more to her taste."

"She's a bold-looking young person," observed Miss Lydia. "Not at all
one I should like to encourage."

Arthur silently resolved that he would make Bessy a present of money
before the day was over, that she might buy something more to her mind;
but she, not aware of the consolation in store for her, turned out of
the open space, where she was visible from the marquee, and throwing
down the odious bundle under a tree, began to cry--very much tittered at
the while by the small boys. In this situation she was descried by her
discreet matronly cousin, who lost no time in coming up, having just
given the baby into her husband's charge.

"What's the matter wi' ye?" said Bess the matron, taking up the bundle
and examining it. "Ye'n sweltered yoursen, I reckon, running that fool's
race. An' here, they'n gi'en you lots o' good grogram and flannel, as
should ha' been gi'en by good rights to them as had the sense to keep
away from such foolery. Ye might spare me a bit o' this grogram to make
clothes for the lad--ye war ne'er ill-natured, Bess; I ne'er said that
on ye."

"Ye may take it all, for what I care," said Bess the maiden, with a
pettish movement, beginning to wipe away her tears and recover herself.

"Well, I could do wi't, if so be ye want to get rid on't," said the
disinterested cousin, walking quickly away with the bundle, lest Chad's
Bess should change her mind.

But that bonny-cheeked lass was blessed with an elasticity of spirits
that secured her from any rankling grief; and by the time the grand
climax of the donkey-race came on, her disappointment was entirely lost
in the delightful excitement of attempting to stimulate the last donkey
by hisses, while the boys applied the argument of sticks. But the
strength of the donkey mind lies in adopting a course inversely as the
arguments urged, which, well considered, requires as great a mental
force as the direct sequence; and the present donkey proved the
first-rate order of his intelligence by coming to a dead standstill
just when the blows were thickest. Great was the shouting of the crowd,
radiant the grinning of Bill Downes the stone-sawyer and the fortunate
rider of this superior beast, which stood calm and stiff-legged in the
midst of its triumph.

Arthur himself had provided the prizes for the men, and Bill was made
happy with a splendid pocket-knife, supplied with blades and gimlets
enough to make a man at home on a desert island. He had hardly returned
from the marquee with the prize in his hand, when it began to be
understood that Wiry Ben proposed to amuse the company, before
the gentry went to dinner, with an impromptu and gratuitous
performance--namely, a hornpipe, the main idea of which was doubtless
borrowed; but this was to be developed by the dancer in so peculiar and
complex a manner that no one could deny him the praise of originality.
Wiry Ben's pride in his dancing--an accomplishment productive of great
effect at the yearly Wake--had needed only slightly elevating by an
extra quantity of good ale to convince him that the gentry would be
very much struck with his performance of his hornpipe; and he had been
decidedly encouraged in this idea by Joshua Rann, who observed that it
was nothing but right to do something to please the young squire, in
return for what he had done for them. You will be the less surprised
at this opinion in so grave a personage when you learn that Ben had
requested Mr. Rann to accompany him on the fiddle, and Joshua felt quite
sure that though there might not be much in the dancing, the music would
make up for it. Adam Bede, who was present in one of the large marquees,
where the plan was being discussed, told Ben he had better not make a
fool of himself--a remark which at once fixed Ben's determination: he
was not going to let anything alone because Adam Bede turned up his nose
at it.

"What's this, what's this?" said old Mr. Donnithorne. "Is it something
you've arranged, Arthur? Here's the clerk coming with his fiddle, and a
smart fellow with a nosegay in his button-hole."

"No," said Arthur; "I know nothing about it. By Jove, he's going to
dance! It's one of the carpenters--I forget his name at this moment."

"It's Ben Cranage--Wiry Ben, they call him," said Mr. Irwine; "rather
a loose fish, I think. Anne, my dear, I see that fiddle-scraping is too
much for you: you're getting tired. Let me take you in now, that you may
rest till dinner."

Miss Anne rose assentingly, and the good brother took her away, while
Joshua's preliminary scrapings burst into the "White Cockade," from
which he intended to pass to a variety of tunes, by a series of
transitions which his good ear really taught him to execute with some
skill. It would have been an exasperating fact to him, if he had known
it, that the general attention was too thoroughly absorbed by Ben's
dancing for any one to give much heed to the music.

Have you ever seen a real English rustic perform a solo dance? Perhaps
you have only seen a ballet rustic, smiling like a merry countryman in
crockery, with graceful turns of the haunch and insinuating movements
of the head. That is as much like the real thing as the "Bird Waltz" is
like the song of birds. Wiry Ben never smiled: he looked as serious as a
dancing monkey--as serious as if he had been an experimental philosopher
ascertaining in his own person the amount of shaking and the varieties
of angularity that could be given to the human limbs.

To make amends for the abundant laughter in the striped marquee, Arthur
clapped his hands continually and cried "Bravo!" But Ben had one admirer
whose eyes followed his movements with a fervid gravity that equalled
his own. It was Martin Poyser, who was seated on a bench, with Tommy
between his legs.

"What dost think o' that?" he said to his wife. "He goes as pat to the
music as if he was made o' clockwork. I used to be a pretty good un at
dancing myself when I was lighter, but I could niver ha' hit it just to
th' hair like that."

"It's little matter what his limbs are, to my thinking," re-turned
Mrs. Poyser. "He's empty enough i' the upper story, or he'd niver come
jigging an' stamping i' that way, like a mad grasshopper, for the gentry
to look at him. They're fit to die wi' laughing, I can see."

"Well, well, so much the better, it amuses 'em," said Mr. Poyser, who
did not easily take an irritable view of things. "But they're going away
now, t' have their dinner, I reckon. Well move about a bit, shall we,
and see what Adam Bede's doing. He's got to look after the drinking and
things: I doubt he hasna had much fun."




ARTHUR had chosen the entrance-hall for the ballroom: very wisely, for
no other room could have been so airy, or would have had the advantage
of the wide doors opening into the garden, as well as a ready entrance
into the other rooms. To be sure, a stone floor was not the pleasantest
to dance on, but then, most of the dancers had known what it was
to enjoy a Christmas dance on kitchen quarries. It was one of those
entrance-halls which make the surrounding rooms look like closets--with
stucco angels, trumpets, and flower-wreaths on the lofty ceiling, and
great medallions of miscellaneous heroes on the walls, alternating with
statues in niches. Just the sort of place to be ornamented well with
green boughs, and Mr. Craig had been proud to show his taste and his
hothouse plants on the occasion. The broad steps of the stone staircase
were covered with cushions to serve as seats for the children, who were
to stay till half-past nine with the servant-maids to see the dancing,
and as this dance was confined to the chief tenants, there was
abundant room for every one. The lights were charmingly disposed in
coloured-paper lamps, high up among green boughs, and the farmers'
wives and daughters, as they peeped in, believed no scene could be more
splendid; they knew now quite well in what sort of rooms the king and
queen lived, and their thoughts glanced with some pity towards cousins
and acquaintances who had not this fine opportunity of knowing how
things went on in the great world. The lamps were already lit, though
the sun had not long set, and there was that calm light out of doors in
which we seem to see all objects more distinctly than in the broad day.

It was a pretty scene outside the house: the farmers and their families
were moving about the lawn, among the flowers and shrubs, or along the
broad straight road leading from the east front, where a carpet of
mossy grass spread on each side, studded here and there with a dark
flat-boughed cedar, or a grand pyramidal fir sweeping the ground with
its branches, all tipped with a fringe of paler green. The groups of
cottagers in the park were gradually diminishing, the young ones being
attracted towards the lights that were beginning to gleam from the
windows of the gallery in the abbey, which was to be their dancing-room,
and some of the sober elder ones thinking it time to go home quietly.
One of these was Lisbeth Bede, and Seth went with her--not from filial
attention only, for his conscience would not let him join in dancing.
It had been rather a melancholy day to Seth: Dinah had never been more
constantly present with him than in this scene, where everything was
so unlike her. He saw her all the more vividly after looking at the
thoughtless faces and gay-coloured dresses of the young women--just as
one feels the beauty and the greatness of a pictured Madonna the more
when it has been for a moment screened from us by a vulgar head in a
bonnet. But this presence of Dinah in his mind only helped him to bear
the better with his mother's mood, which had been becoming more and more
querulous for the last hour. Poor Lisbeth was suffering from a strange
conflict of feelings. Her joy and pride in the honour paid to her
darling son Adam was beginning to be worsted in the conflict with the
jealousy and fretfulness which had revived when Adam came to tell her
that Captain Donnithorne desired him to join the dancers in the hall.
Adam was getting more and more out of her reach; she wished all the old
troubles back again, for then it mattered more to Adam what his mother
said and did.

"Eh, it's fine talkin' o' dancin'," she said, "an' thy father not a five
week in's grave. An' I wish I war there too, i'stid o' bein' left to
take up merrier folks's room above ground."

"Nay, don't look at it i' that way, Mother," said Adam, who was
determined to be gentle to her to-day. "I don't mean to dance--I shall
only look on. And since the captain wishes me to be there, it 'ud look
as if I thought I knew better than him to say as I'd rather not stay.
And thee know'st how he's behaved to me to-day."

"Eh, thee't do as thee lik'st, for thy old mother's got no right t'
hinder thee. She's nought but th' old husk, and thee'st slipped away
from her, like the ripe nut."

"Well, Mother," said Adam, "I'll go and tell the captain as it hurts thy
feelings for me to stay, and I'd rather go home upo' that account: he
won't take it ill then, I daresay, and I'm willing." He said this with
some effort, for he really longed to be near Hetty this evening.

"Nay, nay, I wonna ha' thee do that--the young squire 'ull be angered.
Go an' do what thee't ordered to do, an' me and Seth 'ull go whome. I
know it's a grit honour for thee to be so looked on--an' who's to be
prouder on it nor thy mother? Hadna she the cumber o' rearin' thee an'
doin' for thee all these 'ears?"

"Well, good-bye, then, Mother--good-bye, lad--remember Gyp when you get
home," said Adam, turning away towards the gate of the pleasure-grounds,
where he hoped he might be able to join the Poysers, for he had been so
occupied throughout the afternoon that he had had no time to speak to
Hetty. His eye soon detected a distant group, which he knew to be the
right one, returning to the house along the broad gravel road, and he
hastened on to meet them.

"Why, Adam, I'm glad to get sight on y' again," said Mr. Poyser, who was
carrying Totty on his arm. "You're going t' have a bit o' fun, I hope,
now your work's all done. And here's Hetty has promised no end o'
partners, an' I've just been askin' her if she'd agreed to dance wi'
you, an' she says no."

"Well, I didn't think o' dancing to-night," said Adam, already tempted
to change his mind, as he looked at Hetty.

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Poyser. "Why, everybody's goin' to dance to-night,
all but th' old squire and Mrs. Irwine. Mrs. Best's been tellin' us as
Miss Lyddy and Miss Irwine 'ull dance, an' the young squire 'ull pick
my wife for his first partner, t' open the ball: so she'll be forced to
dance, though she's laid by ever sin' the Christmas afore the little un
was born. You canna for shame stand still, Adam, an' you a fine young
fellow and can dance as well as anybody."

"Nay, nay," said Mrs. Poyser, "it 'ud be unbecomin'. I know the dancin's
nonsense, but if you stick at everything because it's nonsense, you
wonna go far i' this life. When your broth's ready-made for you, you mun
swallow the thickenin', or else let the broth alone."

"Then if Hetty 'ull dance with me," said Adam, yielding either to Mrs.
Poyser's argument or to something else, "I'll dance whichever dance
she's free."

"I've got no partner for the fourth dance," said Hetty; "I'll dance that
with you, if you like."

"Ah," said Mr. Poyser, "but you mun dance the first dance, Adam, else
it'll look partic'ler. There's plenty o' nice partners to pick an'
choose from, an' it's hard for the gells when the men stan' by and don't
ask 'em."

Adam felt the justice of Mr. Poyser's observation: it would not do for
him to dance with no one besides Hetty; and remembering that Jonathan
Burge had some reason to feel hurt to-day, he resolved to ask Miss Mary
to dance with him the first dance, if she had no other partner.

"There's the big clock strikin' eight," said Mr. Poyser; "we must make
haste in now, else the squire and the ladies 'ull be in afore us, an'
that wouldna look well."

When they had entered the hall, and the three children under Molly's
charge had been seated on the stairs, the folding-doors of the
drawing-room were thrown open, and Arthur entered in his regimentals,
leading Mrs. Irwine to a carpet-covered dais ornamented with hot-house
plants, where she and Miss Anne were to be seated with old Mr.
Donnithorne, that they might look on at the dancing, like the kings
and queens in the plays. Arthur had put on his uniform to please the
tenants, he said, who thought as much of his militia dignity as if it
had been an elevation to the premiership. He had not the least objection
to gratify them in that way: his uniform was very advantageous to his
figure.

The old squire, before sitting down, walked round the hall to greet the
tenants and make polite speeches to the wives: he was always polite; but
the farmers had found out, after long puzzling, that this polish was
one of the signs of hardness. It was observed that he gave his most
elaborate civility to Mrs. Poyser to-night, inquiring particularly about
her health, recommending her to strengthen herself with cold water as
he did, and avoid all drugs. Mrs. Poyser curtsied and thanked him with
great self-command, but when he had passed on, she whispered to her
husband, "I'll lay my life he's brewin' some nasty turn against us. Old
Harry doesna wag his tail so for nothin'." Mr. Poyser had no time to
answer, for now Arthur came up and said, "Mrs. Poyser, I'm come to
request the favour of your hand for the first dance; and, Mr. Poyser,
you must let me take you to my aunt, for she claims you as her partner."

The wife's pale cheek flushed with a nervous sense of unwonted honour as
Arthur led her to the top of the room; but Mr. Poyser, to whom an extra
glass had restored his youthful confidence in his good looks and good
dancing, walked along with them quite proudly, secretly flattering
himself that Miss Lydia had never had a partner in HER life who could
lift her off the ground as he would. In order to balance the honours
given to the two parishes, Miss Irwine danced with Luke Britton, the
largest Broxton farmer, and Mr. Gawaine led out Mrs. Britton. Mr.
Irwine, after seating his sister Anne, had gone to the abbey gallery,
as he had agreed with Arthur beforehand, to see how the merriment of the
cottagers was prospering. Meanwhile, all the less distinguished couples
had taken their places: Hetty was led out by the inevitable Mr. Craig,
and Mary Burge by Adam; and now the music struck up, and the glorious
country-dance, best of all dances, began.

Pity it was not a boarded floor! Then the rhythmic stamping of the thick
shoes would have been better than any drums. That merry stamping, that
gracious nodding of the head, that waving bestowal of the hand--where
can we see them now? That simple dancing of well-covered matrons, laying
aside for an hour the cares of house and dairy, remembering but not
affecting youth, not jealous but proud of the young maidens by their
side--that holiday sprightliness of portly husbands paying little
compliments to their wives, as if their courting days were come
again--those lads and lasses a little confused and awkward with their
partners, having nothing to say--it would be a pleasant variety to
see all that sometimes, instead of low dresses and large skirts, and
scanning glances exploring costumes, and languid men in lacquered boots
smiling with double meaning.

There was but one thing to mar Martin Poyser's pleasure in this dance:
it was that he was always in close contact with Luke Britton, that
slovenly farmer. He thought of throwing a little glazed coldness into
his eye in the crossing of hands; but then, as Miss Irwine was opposite
to him instead of the offensive Luke, he might freeze the wrong person.
So he gave his face up to hilarity, unchilled by moral judgments.

How Hetty's heart beat as Arthur approached her! He had hardly looked at
her to-day: now he must take her hand. Would he press it? Would he look
at her? She thought she would cry if he gave her no sign of feeling.
Now he was there--he had taken her hand--yes, he was pressing it. Hetty
turned pale as she looked up at him for an instant and met his eyes,
before the dance carried him away. That pale look came upon Arthur like
the beginning of a dull pain, which clung to him, though he must dance
and smile and joke all the same. Hetty would look so, when he told her
what he had to tell her; and he should never be able to bear it--he
should be a fool and give way again. Hetty's look did not really mean
so much as he thought: it was only the sign of a struggle between the
desire for him to notice her and the dread lest she should betray the
desire to others. But Hetty's face had a language that transcended her
feelings. There are faces which nature charges with a meaning and pathos
not belonging to the single human soul that flutters beneath them, but
speaking the joys and sorrows of foregone generations--eyes that tell of
deep love which doubtless has been and is somewhere, but not paired with
these eyes--perhaps paired with pale eyes that can say nothing; just as
a national language may be instinct with poetry unfelt by the lips that
use it. That look of Hetty's oppressed Arthur with a dread which yet had
something of a terrible unconfessed delight in it, that she loved him
too well. There was a hard task before him, for at that moment he felt
he would have given up three years of his youth for the happiness of
abandoning himself without remorse to his passion for Hetty.

These were the incongruous thoughts in his mind as he led Mrs. Poyser,
who was panting with fatigue, and secretly resolving that neither judge
nor jury should force her to dance another dance, to take a quiet rest
in the dining-room, where supper was laid out for the guests to come and
take it as they chose.

"I've desired Hetty to remember as she's got to dance wi' you, sir,"
said the good innocent woman; "for she's so thoughtless, she'd be like
enough to go an' engage herself for ivery dance. So I told her not to
promise too many."

"Thank you, Mrs. Poyser," said Arthur, not without a twinge. "Now, sit
down in this comfortable chair, and here is Mills ready to give you what
you would like best."

He hurried away to seek another matronly partner, for due honour must be
paid to the married women before he asked any of the young ones; and
the country-dances, and the stamping, and the gracious nodding, and the
waving of the hands, went on joyously.

At last the time had come for the fourth dance--longed for by the
strong, grave Adam, as if he had been a delicate-handed youth of
eighteen; for we are all very much alike when we are in our first love;
and Adam had hardly ever touched Hetty's hand for more than a transient
greeting--had never danced with her but once before. His eyes had
followed her eagerly to-night in spite of himself, and had taken in
deeper draughts of love. He thought she behaved so prettily, so quietly;
she did not seem to be flirting at all she smiled less than usual; there
was almost a sweet sadness about her. "God bless her!" he said inwardly;
"I'd make her life a happy 'un, if a strong arm to work for her, and a
heart to love her, could do it."

And then there stole over him delicious thoughts of coming home from
work, and drawing Hetty to his side, and feeling her cheek softly
pressed against his, till he forgot where he was, and the music and the
tread of feet might have been the falling of rain and the roaring of the
wind, for what he knew.

But now the third dance was ended, and he might go up to her and
claim her hand. She was at the far end of the hall near the staircase,
whispering with Molly, who had just given the sleeping Totty into her
arms before running to fetch shawls and bonnets from the landing. Mrs.
Poyser had taken the two boys away into the dining-room to give them
some cake before they went home in the cart with Grandfather and Molly
was to follow as fast as possible.

"Let me hold her," said Adam, as Molly turned upstairs; "the children
are so heavy when they're asleep."

Hetty was glad of the relief, for to hold Totty in her arms, standing,
was not at all a pleasant variety to her. But this second transfer had
the unfortunate effect of rousing Totty, who was not behind any child
of her age in peevishness at an unseasonable awaking. While Hetty was
in the act of placing her in Adam's arms, and had not yet withdrawn her
own, Totty opened her eyes, and forthwith fought out with her left fist
at Adam's arm, and with her right caught at the string of brown beads
round Hetty's neck. The locket leaped out from her frock, and the next
moment the string was broken, and Hetty, helpless, saw beads and locket
scattered wide on the floor.

"My locket, my locket!" she said, in a loud frightened whisper to Adam;
"never mind the beads."

Adam had already seen where the locket fell, for it had attracted his
glance as it leaped out of her frock. It had fallen on the raised wooden
dais where the band sat, not on the stone floor; and as Adam picked it
up, he saw the glass with the dark and light locks of hair under it. It
had fallen that side upwards, so the glass was not broken. He turned it
over on his hand, and saw the enamelled gold back.

"It isn't hurt," he said, as he held it towards Hetty, who was unable to
take it because both her hands were occupied with Totty.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I don't mind about it," said Hetty, who had been
pale and was now red.

"Not matter?" said Adam, gravely. "You seemed very frightened about it.
I'll hold it till you're ready to take it," he added, quietly closing
his hand over it, that she might not think he wanted to look at it
again.

By this time Molly had come with bonnet and shawl, and as soon as she
had taken Totty, Adam placed the locket in Hetty's hand. She took it
with an air of indifference and put it in her pocket, in her heart vexed
and angry with Adam because he had seen it, but determined now that she
would show no more signs of agitation.

"See," she said, "they're taking their places to dance; let us go."

Adam assented silently. A puzzled alarm had taken possession of him. Had
Hetty a lover he didn't know of? For none of her relations, he was sure,
would give her a locket like that; and none of her admirers, with whom
he was acquainted, was in the position of an accepted lover, as the
giver of that locket must be. Adam was lost in the utter impossibility
of finding any person for his fears to alight on. He could only feel
with a terrible pang that there was something in Hetty's life unknown to
him; that while he had been rocking himself in the hope that she would
come to love him, she was already loving another. The pleasure of the
dance with Hetty was gone; his eyes, when they rested on her, had an
uneasy questioning expression in them; he could think of nothing to say
to her; and she too was out of temper and disinclined to speak. They
were both glad when the dance was ended.

Adam was determined to stay no longer; no one wanted him, and no one
would notice if he slipped away. As soon as he got out of doors, he
began to walk at his habitual rapid pace, hurrying along without knowing
why, busy with the painful thought that the memory of this day, so full
of honour and promise to him, was poisoned for ever. Suddenly, when
he was far on through the Chase, he stopped, startled by a flash of
reviving hope. After all, he might be a fool, making a great misery out
of a trifle. Hetty, fond of finery as she was, might have bought the
thing herself. It looked too expensive for that--it looked like the
things on white satin in the great jeweller's shop at Rosseter. But Adam
had very imperfect notions of the value of such things, and he thought
it could certainly not cost more than a guinea. Perhaps Hetty had had as
much as that in Christmas boxes, and there was no knowing but she might
have been childish enough to spend it in that way; she was such a young
thing, and she couldn't help loving finery! But then, why had she been
so frightened about it at first, and changed colour so, and afterwards
pretended not to care? Oh, that was because she was ashamed of his
seeing that she had such a smart thing--she was conscious that it
was wrong for her to spend her money on it, and she knew that Adam
disapproved of finery. It was a proof she cared about what he liked and
disliked. She must have thought from his silence and gravity afterwards
that he was very much displeased with her, that he was inclined to be
harsh and severe towards her foibles. And as he walked on more quietly,
chewing the cud of this new hope, his only uneasiness was that he had
behaved in a way which might chill Hetty's feeling towards him. For this
last view of the matter must be the true one. How could Hetty have
an accepted lover, quite unknown to him? She was never away from her
uncle's house for more than a day; she could have no acquaintances that
did not come there, and no intimacies unknown to her uncle and aunt. It
would be folly to believe that the locket was given to her by a lover.
The little ring of dark hair he felt sure was her own; he could form
no guess about the light hair under it, for he had not seen it very
distinctly. It might be a bit of her father's or mother's, who had died
when she was a child, and she would naturally put a bit of her own along
with it.

And so Adam went to bed comforted, having woven for himself an ingenious
web of probabilities--the surest screen a wise man can place between
himself and the truth. His last waking thoughts melted into a dream that
he was with Hetty again at the Hall Farm, and that he was asking her to
forgive him for being so cold and silent.

And while he was dreaming this, Arthur was leading Hetty to the dance
and saying to her in low hurried tones, "I shall be in the wood the day
after to-morrow at seven; come as early as you can." And Hetty's foolish
joys and hopes, which had flown away for a little space, scared by a
mere nothing, now all came fluttering back, unconscious of the real
peril. She was happy for the first time this long day, and wished
that dance would last for hours. Arthur wished it too; it was the
last weakness he meant to indulge in; and a man never lies with more
delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has
persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow.

But Mrs. Poyser's wishes were quite the reverse of this, for her mind
was filled with dreary forebodings as to the retardation of to-morrow
morning's cheese in consequence of these late hours. Now that Hetty had
done her duty and danced one dance with the young squire, Mr. Poyser
must go out and see if the cart was come back to fetch them, for it was
half-past ten o'clock, and notwithstanding a mild suggestion on his part
that it would be bad manners for them to be the first to go, Mrs. Poyser
was resolute on the point, "manners or no manners."

"What! Going already, Mrs. Poyser?" said old Mr. Donnithorne, as she
came to curtsy and take leave; "I thought we should not part with any of
our guests till eleven. Mrs. Irwine and I, who are elderly people, think
of sitting out the dance till then."

"Oh, Your Honour, it's all right and proper for gentlefolks to stay up
by candlelight--they've got no cheese on their minds. We're late enough
as it is, an' there's no lettin' the cows know as they mustn't want to
be milked so early to-morrow mornin'. So, if you'll please t' excuse us,
we'll take our leave."

"Eh!" she said to her husband, as they set off in the cart, "I'd sooner
ha' brewin' day and washin' day together than one o' these pleasurin'
days. There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not
rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i'
smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldna think
you civil enough. An' you've nothing to show for't when it's done, if it
isn't a yallow face wi' eatin' things as disagree."

"Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, who was in his merriest mood, and felt that
he had had a great day, "a bit o' pleasuring's good for thee sometimes.
An' thee danc'st as well as any of 'em, for I'll back thee against all
the wives i' the parish for a light foot an' ankle. An' it was a great
honour for the young squire to ask thee first--I reckon it was because
I sat at th' head o' the table an' made the speech. An' Hetty too--she
never had such a partner before--a fine young gentleman in reg'mentals.
It'll serve you to talk on, Hetty, when you're an old woman--how you
danced wi' th' young squire the day he come o' age."





Book Four

 About a month passes, Arthur's twenty-first birthday dawns clear and warm, and all the tenants of the estate prepare for a day of celebration: the heir has come of age. At the Hall Farm, Hetty is dressing for the party. We discover that she has received some pearl and garnet earrings from Arthur and that she thinks Arthur loves her. The whole family proceeds to the Chase, where the tenants from all over the estate are gathering. Arthur is walking about with Mr. Irwine, surveying the scene with obvious satisfaction; he is the hero of the day. He mentions some of his plans for making himself popular on the estate when he becomes the owner of it and adds that he has succeeded in persuading his grandfather to take Adam on as master of the Chase woods. Adam has accepted the position and Arthur is to announce the news today. Mr. Irwine teases Arthur about setting up the situation so as to draw favorable attention to himself, and Arthur blushes, tacitly admitting the charge. Adam has been asked to eat with the "large tenants" rather than with the village workmen, and he goes up with Bartle Massey. He is welcomed openly there, and some good-humored banter passes. Hetty is at the next table and smiles at him, a smile which to her is mere flirtation but to Adam is a sign of favor. In Chapter 24, Arthur and Mr. Irwine, who are making the rounds of all the guests, come in, and a number of impromptu speeches and toasts are made. Arthur feels uneasy about accepting the praise because of his secret affair with Hetty, but he suppresses his sense of guilt quickly. He announces Adam's appointment as master of the woods, and Adam makes an acceptance speech, expressing his gratitude and his resolution to handle the job responsibly. Chapter 25 describes the games held in the afternoon. The gentry, from whose viewpoint the chapter is mostly written, comment on the various guests and distribute prizes to the winners of the different events. We learn that Arthur plans to give Hetty up. At the ball that night, the romantic entanglements among Adam, Hetty, and Arthur become more confused. Arthur treats Hetty coldly at first, which frightens her. Adam goes to claim Hetty's hand for a dance, and as they talk, a locket which she has been wearing out of sight accidentally falls to the floor. It is clearly a lover's token, containing two entwined locks of hair. Adam is shocked that Hetty would have such a thing, and he leaves the dance feeling that she must be in love with another man. But he soon convinces himself that this could not be the case and forgets about it. Meanwhile, Arthur has made an appointment to meet Hetty in the wood in two days' time; he has definitely resolved to break off the romance.

