Adam Bede

by George Eliot

  Chapter XVIII

  Church

  "HETTY, Hetty, don't you know church begins at two, and it's gone halfafter one a'ready? Have you got nothing better to think on this goodSunday as poor old Thias Bede's to be put into the ground, and himdrownded i' th' dead o' the night, as it's enough to make one's backrun cold, but you must be 'dizening yourself as if there was a weddingi'stid of a funeral?"

  "Well, Aunt," said Hetty, "I can't be ready so soon as everybody else,when I've got Totty's things to put on. And I'd ever such work to makeher stand still."

  Hetty was coming downstairs, and Mrs. Poyser, in her plain bonnet andshawl, was standing below. If ever a girl looked as if she had been madeof roses, that girl was Hetty in her Sunday hat and frock. For her hatwas trimmed with pink, and her frock had pink spots, sprinkled on awhite ground. There was nothing but pink and white about her, exceptin her dark hair and eyes and her little buckled shoes. Mrs. Poyserwas provoked at herself, for she could hardly keep from smiling, as anymortal is inclined to do at the sight of pretty round things. So sheturned without speaking, and joined the group outside the house door,followed by Hetty, whose heart was fluttering so at the thought of someone she expected to see at church that she hardly felt the ground shetrod on.

  And now the little procession set off. Mr. Poyser was in his Sunday suitof drab, with a red-and-green waistcoat and a green watch-ribbon havinga large cornelian seal attached, pendant like a plumb-line from thatpromontory where his watch-pocket was situated; a silk handkerchief of ayellow tone round his neck; and excellent grey ribbed stockings, knittedby Mrs. Poyser's own hand, setting off the proportions of his leg. Mr.Poyser had no reason to be ashamed of his leg, and suspected that thegrowing abuse of top-boots and other fashions tending to disguise thenether limbs had their origin in a pitiable degeneracy of the humancalf. Still less had he reason to be ashamed of his round jolly face,which was good humour itself as he said, "Come, Hetty--come, littleuns!" and giving his arm to his wife, led the way through the causewaygate into the yard.

  The "little uns" addressed were Marty and Tommy, boys of nine and seven,in little fustian tailed coats and knee-breeches, relieved by rosycheeks and black eyes, looking as much like their father as a very smallelephant is like a very large one. Hetty walked between them, and behindcame patient Molly, whose task it was to carry Totty through the yardand over all the wet places on the road; for Totty, having speedilyrecovered from her threatened fever, had insisted on going to churchto-day, and especially on wearing her red-and-black necklace outside hertippet. And there were many wet places for her to be carried over thisafternoon, for there had been heavy showers in the morning, though nowthe clouds had rolled off and lay in towering silvery masses on thehorizon.

  You might have known it was Sunday if you had only waked up in thefarmyard. The cocks and hens seemed to know it, and made only crooningsubdued noises; the very bull-dog looked less savage, as if he wouldhave been satisfied with a smaller bite than usual. The sunshine seemedto call all things to rest and not to labour. It was asleep itself onthe moss-grown cow-shed; on the group of white ducks nestling togetherwith their bills tucked under their wings; on the old black sowstretched languidly on the straw, while her largest young one found anexcellent spring-bed on his mother's fat ribs; on Alick, the shepherd,in his new smock-frock, taking an uneasy siesta, half-sitting,half-standing on the granary steps. Alick was of opinion that church,like other luxuries, was not to be indulged in often by a foreman whohad the weather and the ewes on his mind. "Church! Nay--I'n gottensummat else to think on," was an answer which he often uttered in a toneof bitter significance that silenced further question. I feel sureAlick meant no irreverence; indeed, I know that his mind was not of aspeculative, negative cast, and he would on no account have missed goingto church on Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and "Whissuntide." But he hada general impression that public worship and religious ceremonies,like other non-productive employments, were intended for people who hadleisure.

  "There's Father a-standing at the yard-gate," said Martin Poyser. "Ireckon he wants to watch us down the field. It's wonderful what sight hehas, and him turned seventy-five."

  "Ah, I often think it's wi' th' old folks as it is wi' the babbies,"said Mrs. Poyser; "they're satisfied wi' looking, no matter what they'relooking at. It's God A'mighty's way o' quietening 'em, I reckon, aforethey go to sleep."

  Old Martin opened the gate as he saw the family procession approaching,and held it wide open, leaning on his stick--pleased to do this bitof work; for, like all old men whose life has been spent in labour, heliked to feel that he was still useful--that there was a better crop ofonions in the garden because he was by at the sowing--and that the cowswould be milked the better if he stayed at home on a Sunday afternoonto look on. He always went to church on Sacrament Sundays, but not veryregularly at other times; on wet Sundays, or whenever he had a touch ofrheumatism, he used to read the three first chapters of Genesis instead.

  "They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to thechurchyard," he said, as his son came up. "It 'ud ha' been better luckif they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin';there's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boatthere, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather--there's a many asis false but that's sure."

  "Aye, aye," said the son, "I'm in hopes it'll hold up now."

  "Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads," saidGrandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious ofa marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling,a little, secretly, during the sermon.

  "Dood-bye, Dandad," said Totty. "Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklaceon. Dive me a peppermint."

  Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench," slowlytransferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, andslowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty hadfixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation.

  And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again,watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through thefar gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge. For thehedgerows in those days shut out one's view, even on the better-managedfarms; and this afternoon, the dog-roses were tossing out their pinkwreaths, the nightshade was in its yellow and purple glory, the palehoneysuckle grew out of reach, peeping high up out of a holly bush, andover all an ash or a sycamore every now and then threw its shadow acrossthe path.

  There were acquaintances at other gates who had to move aside and letthem pass: at the gate of the Home Close there was half the dairy ofcows standing one behind the other, extremely slow to understand thattheir large bodies might be in the way; at the far gate there was themare holding her head over the bars, and beside her the liver-colouredfoal with its head towards its mother's flank, apparently still muchembarrassed by its own straddling existence. The way lay entirelythrough Mr. Poyser's own fields till they reached the main road leadingto the village, and he turned a keen eye on the stock and the cropsas they went along, while Mrs. Poyser was ready to supply a runningcommentary on them all. The woman who manages a dairy has a large sharein making the rent, so she may well be allowed to have her opinion onstock and their "keep"--an exercise which strengthens her understandingso much that she finds herself able to give her husband advice on mostother subjects.

  "There's that shorthorned Sally," she said, as they entered the HomeClose, and she caught sight of the meek beast that lay chewing the cudand looking at her with a sleepy eye. "I begin to hate the sight o' thecow; and I say now what I said three weeks ago, the sooner we get rid ofher the better, for there's that little yallow cow as doesn't give halfthe milk, and yet I've twice as much butter from her."

  "Why, thee't not like the women in general," said Mr. Poyser; "they likethe shorthorns, as give such a lot o' milk. There's Chowne's wife wantshim to buy no other sort."

  "What's it sinnify what Chowne's wife likes? A poor soft thing, wi' nomore head-piece nor a s
parrow. She'd take a big cullender to strainher lard wi', and then wonder as the scratchin's run through. I'veseen enough of her to know as I'll niver take a servant from her houseagain--all hugger-mugger--and you'd niver know, when you went in,whether it was Monday or Friday, the wash draggin' on to th' end o' theweek; and as for her cheese, I know well enough it rose like a loaf ina tin last year. And then she talks o' the weather bein' i' fault, asthere's folks 'ud stand on their heads and then say the fault was i'their boots."

  "Well, Chowne's been wanting to buy Sally, so we can get rid of her ifthee lik'st," said Mr. Poyser, secretly proud of his wife's superiorpower of putting two and two together; indeed, on recent market-dayshe had more than once boasted of her discernment in this very matter ofshorthorns. "Aye, them as choose a soft for a wife may's well buy upthe shorthorns, for if you get your head stuck in a bog, your legs may'swell go after it. Eh! Talk o' legs, there's legs for you," Mrs. Poysercontinued, as Totty, who had been set down now the road was dry, toddledon in front of her father and mother. "There's shapes! An' she's gotsuch a long foot, she'll be her father's own child."

  "Aye, she'll be welly such a one as Hetty i' ten years' time, on'y she'sgot THY coloured eyes. I niver remember a blue eye i' my family; mymother had eyes as black as sloes, just like Hetty's."

  "The child 'ull be none the worse for having summat as isn't like Hetty.An' I'm none for having her so overpretty. Though for the matter o'that, there's people wi' light hair an' blue eyes as pretty as them wi'black. If Dinah had got a bit o' colour in her cheeks, an' didn't stickthat Methodist cap on her head, enough to frighten the cows, folks 'udthink her as pretty as Hetty."

  "Nay, nay," said Mr. Poyser, with rather a contemptuous emphasis, "theedostna know the pints of a woman. The men 'ud niver run after Dinah asthey would after Hetty."

  "What care I what the men 'ud run after? It's well seen what choice themost of 'em know how to make, by the poor draggle-tails o' wives yousee, like bits o' gauze ribbin, good for nothing when the colour'sgone."

  "Well, well, thee canstna say but what I knowed how to make a choicewhen I married thee," said Mr. Poyser, who usually settled littleconjugal disputes by a compliment of this sort; "and thee wast twice asbuxom as Dinah ten year ago."

  "I niver said as a woman had need to be ugly to make a good missis of ahouse. There's Chowne's wife ugly enough to turn the milk an' save therennet, but she'll niver save nothing any other way. But as for Dinah,poor child, she's niver likely to be buxom as long as she'll make herdinner o' cake and water, for the sake o' giving to them as want. Sheprovoked me past bearing sometimes; and, as I told her, she went cleanagain' the Scriptur', for that says, 'Love your neighbour as yourself';'but,' I said, 'if you loved your neighbour no better nor you doyourself, Dinah, it's little enough you'd do for him. You'd be thinkinghe might do well enough on a half-empty stomach.' Eh, I wonder where sheis this blessed Sunday! Sitting by that sick woman, I daresay, as she'dset her heart on going to all of a sudden."

  "Ah, it was a pity she should take such megrims into her head, whenshe might ha' stayed wi' us all summer, and eaten twice as much as shewanted, and it 'ud niver ha' been missed. She made no odds in th' houseat all, for she sat as still at her sewing as a bird on the nest, andwas uncommon nimble at running to fetch anything. If Hetty gets married,theed'st like to ha' Dinah wi' thee constant."

  "It's no use thinking o' that," said Mrs. Poyser. "You might aswell beckon to the flying swallow as ask Dinah to come an' live herecomfortable, like other folks. If anything could turn her, I should ha'turned her, for I've talked to her for a hour on end, and scolded hertoo; for she's my own sister's child, and it behoves me to do what I canfor her. But eh, poor thing, as soon as she'd said us 'good-bye' an'got into the cart, an' looked back at me with her pale face, as is wellylike her Aunt Judith come back from heaven, I begun to be frightened tothink o' the set-downs I'd given her; for it comes over you sometimesas if she'd a way o' knowing the rights o' things more nor other folkshave. But I'll niver give in as that's 'cause she's a Methodist, no morenor a white calf's white 'cause it eats out o' the same bucket wi' ablack un."

  "Nay," said Mr. Poyser, with as near an approach to a snarl as hisgood-nature would allow; "I'm no opinion o' the Methodists. It's on'ytradesfolks as turn Methodists; you nuver knew a farmer bitten wi' themmaggots. There's maybe a workman now an' then, as isn't overclever at'swork, takes to preachin' an' that, like Seth Bede. But you see Adam, ashas got one o' the best head-pieces hereabout, knows better; he's a goodChurchman, else I'd never encourage him for a sweetheart for Hetty."

  "Why, goodness me," said Mrs. Poyser, who had looked back while herhusband was speaking, "look where Molly is with them lads! They're thefield's length behind us. How COULD you let 'em do so, Hetty? Anybodymight as well set a pictur' to watch the children as you. Run back andtell 'em to come on."

  Mr. and Mrs. Poyser were now at the end of the second field, so they setTotty on the top of one of the large stones forming the true Loamshirestile, and awaited the loiterers Totty observing with complacency, "Deynaughty, naughty boys--me dood."

  The fact was that this Sunday walk through the fields was fraught withgreat excitement to Marty and Tommy, who saw a perpetual drama going onin the hedgerows, and could no more refrain from stopping and peepingthan if they had been a couple of spaniels or terriers. Marty was quitesure he saw a yellow-hammer on the boughs of the great ash, and whilehe was peeping, he missed the sight of a white-throated stoat, which hadrun across the path and was described with much fervour by the juniorTommy. Then there was a little greenfinch, just fledged, flutteringalong the ground, and it seemed quite possible to catch it, till itmanaged to flutter under the blackberry bush. Hetty could not be gotto give any heed to these things, so Molly was called on for her readysympathy, and peeped with open mouth wherever she was told, and said"Lawks!" whenever she was expected to wonder.

  Molly hastened on with some alarm when Hetty had come back and called tothem that her aunt was angry; but Marty ran on first, shouting,"We've found the speckled turkey's nest, Mother!" with the instinctiveconfidence that people who bring good news are never in fault.

  "Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, really forgetting all discipline in thispleasant surprise, "that's a good lad; why, where is it?"

  "Down in ever such a hole, under the hedge. I saw it first, lookingafter the greenfinch, and she sat on th' nest."

  "You didn't frighten her, I hope," said the mother, "else she'll forsakeit."

  "No, I went away as still as still, and whispered to Molly--didn't I,Molly?"

  "Well, well, now come on," said Mrs. Poyser, "and walk before Father andMother, and take your little sister by the hand. We must go straight onnow. Good boys don't look after the birds of a Sunday."

  "But, Mother," said Marty, "you said you'd give half-a-crown to findthe speckled turkey's nest. Mayn't I have the half-crown put into mymoney-box?"

  "We'll see about that, my lad, if you walk along now, like a good boy."

  The father and mother exchanged a significant glance of amusement attheir eldest-born's acuteness; but on Tommy's round face there was acloud.

  "Mother," he said, half-crying, "Marty's got ever so much more money inhis box nor I've got in mine."

  "Munny, me want half-a-toun in my bots," said Totty.

  "Hush, hush, hush," said Mrs. Poyser, "did ever anybody hear suchnaughty children? Nobody shall ever see their money-boxes any more, ifthey don't make haste and go on to church."

  This dreadful threat had the desired effect, and through the tworemaining fields the three pair of small legs trotted on without anyserious interruption, notwithstanding a small pond full of tadpoles,alias "bullheads," which the lads looked at wistfully.

  The damp hay that must be scattered and turned afresh to-morrow wasnot a cheering sight to Mr. Poyser, who during hay and corn harvest hadoften some mental struggles as to the benefits of a day of rest; but notemptation would have induced him to carry on any field-work, howeverearly in the morning, on a Sunda
y; for had not Michael Holdsworth had apair of oxen "sweltered" while he was ploughing on Good Friday? That wasa demonstration that work on sacred days was a wicked thing; and withwickedness of any sort Martin Poyser was quite clear that he would havenothing to do, since money got by such means would never prosper.

  "It a'most makes your fingers itch to be at the hay now the sun shinesso," he observed, as they passed through the "Big Meadow." "But it'spoor foolishness to think o' saving by going against your conscience.There's that Jim Wakefield, as they used to call 'Gentleman Wakefield,'used to do the same of a Sunday as o' weekdays, and took no heed toright or wrong, as if there was nayther God nor devil. An' what's hecome to? Why, I saw him myself last market-day a-carrying a basket wi'oranges in't."

  "Ah, to be sure," said Mrs. Poyser, emphatically, "you make but a poortrap to catch luck if you go and bait it wi' wickedness. The money as isgot so's like to burn holes i' your pocket. I'd niver wish us to leaveour lads a sixpence but what was got i' the rightful way. And as forthe weather, there's One above makes it, and we must put up wi't: it'snothing of a plague to what the wenches are."

  Notwithstanding the interruption in their walk, the excellent habitwhich Mrs. Poyser's clock had of taking time by the forelock had securedtheir arrival at the village while it was still a quarter to two,though almost every one who meant to go to church was already within thechurchyard gates. Those who stayed at home were chiefly mothers, likeTimothy's Bess, who stood at her own door nursing her baby and feelingas women feel in that position--that nothing else can be expected ofthem.

  It was not entirely to see Thias Bede's funeral that the people werestanding about the churchyard so long before service began; that wastheir common practice. The women, indeed, usually entered the church atonce, and the farmers' wives talked in an undertone to each other, overthe tall pews, about their illnesses and the total failure of doctor'sstuff, recommending dandelion-tea, and other home-made specifics, asfar preferable--about the servants, and their growing exorbitance as towages, whereas the quality of their services declined from year to year,and there was no girl nowadays to be trusted any further than you couldsee her--about the bad price Mr. Dingall, the Treddleston grocer, wasgiving for butter, and the reasonable doubts that might be held as tohis solvency, notwithstanding that Mrs. Dingall was a sensible woman,and they were all sorry for HER, for she had very good kin. Meantime themen lingered outside, and hardly any of them except the singers, who hada humming and fragmentary rehearsal to go through, entered the churchuntil Mr. Irwine was in the desk. They saw no reason for that prematureentrance--what could they do in church if they were there before servicebegan?--and they did not conceive that any power in the universecould take it ill of them if they stayed out and talked a little about"bus'ness."

  Chad Cranage looks like quite a new acquaintance to-day, for he has gothis clean Sunday face, which always makes his little granddaughter cryat him as a stranger. But an experienced eye would have fixed on him atonce as the village blacksmith, after seeing the humble deference withwhich the big saucy fellow took off his hat and stroked his hair to thefarmers; for Chad was accustomed to say that a working-man must holda candle to a personage understood to be as black as he was himselfon weekdays; by which evil-sounding rule of conduct he meant what was,after all, rather virtuous than otherwise, namely, that men who hadhorses to be shod must be treated with respect. Chad and the roughersort of workmen kept aloof from the grave under the white thorn,where the burial was going forward; but Sandy Jim, and several of thefarm-labourers, made a group round it, and stood with their hats off, asfellow-mourners with the mother and sons. Others held a midway position,sometimes watching the group at the grave, sometimes listening to theconversation of the farmers, who stood in a knot near the church door,and were now joined by Martin Poyser, while his family passed into thechurch. On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord ofthe Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude--that is to say,with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of hiswaistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head verymuch on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only amono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audiencediscern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast withold Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward,coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness thatcould not be turned into cash. The talk was in rather a lower tone thanusual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine's voice readingthe final prayers of the burial-service. They had all had their wordof pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject oftheir own grievances against Satchell, the Squire's bailiff, whoplayed the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr.Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receivehis own rents and make bargains about his own timber. This subject ofconversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchellhimself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church door.And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine's voice had ceased,and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards thechurch.

  They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwinepassed. Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them;for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was notyet ready to follow the rector into the vestry. But there was a pausebefore the three mourners came on: Lisbeth had turned round to lookagain towards the grave! Ah! There was nothing now but the brown earthunder the white thorn. Yet she cried less to-day than she had done anyday since her husband's death. Along with all her grief there was mixedan unusual sense of her own importance in having a "burial," and in Mr.Irwine's reading a special service for her husband; and besides, sheknew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him. She felt thiscounter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked withher sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nodsof their fellow-parishioners.

  The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one theloiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr.Donnithorne's carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhapshelping to make them feel that there was no need for haste.

  But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth;the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and everyone must now enter and take his place.

  I cannot say that the interior of Hayslope Church was remarkable foranything except for the grey age of its oaken pews--great square pewsmostly, ranged on each side of a narrow aisle. It was free, indeed,from the modern blemish of galleries. The choir had two narrow pews tothemselves in the middle of the right-hand row, so that it was a shortprocess for Joshua Rann to take his place among them as principal bass,and return to his desk after the singing was over. The pulpit and desk,grey and old as the pews, stood on one side of the arch leading intothe chancel, which also had its grey square pews for Mr. Donnithorne'sfamily and servants. Yet I assure you these grey pews, with thebuff-washed walls, gave a very pleasing tone to this shabby interior,and agreed extremely well with the ruddy faces and bright waistcoats.And there were liberal touches of crimson toward the chancel, forthe pulpit and Mr. Donnithorne's own pew had handsome crimson clothcushions; and, to close the vista, there was a crimson altar-cloth,embroidered with golden rays by Miss Lydia's own hand.

  But even without the crimson cloth, the effect must have been warm andcheering when Mr. Irwine was in the desk, looking benignly round onthat simple congregation--on the hardy old men, with bent knees andshoulders, perhaps, but with vigour left for much hedge-clipping andthatching; on the tall stalwart frames and roughly cut bronzed faces ofthe stone-cutters and carpenters; on the half-dozen well-to-do farmers,with their apple-cheeked families; and on the clean old women, mostlyfarm-labourers' wives, with their bit of snow-white cap-border undertheir black bonnets, and with their withered arms, bare from the elbow,folded passively over their chests. For none of t
he old people heldbooks--why should they? Not one of them could read. But they knew afew "good words" by heart, and their withered lips now and then movedsilently, following the service without any very clear comprehensionindeed, but with a simple faith in its efficacy to ward off harm andbring blessing. And now all faces were visible, for all were standingup--the little children on the seats peeping over the edge of the greypews, while good Bishop Ken's evening hymn was being sung to one ofthose lively psalm-tunes which died out with the last generation ofrectors and choral parish clerks. Melodies die out, like the pipe ofPan, with the ears that love them and listen for them. Adam was not inhis usual place among the singers to-day, for he sat with his motherand Seth, and he noticed with surprise that Bartle Massey was absenttoo--all the more agreeable for Mr. Joshua Rann, who gave out his bassnotes with unusual complacency and threw an extra ray of severity intothe glances he sent over his spectacles at the recusant Will Maskery.

  I beseech you to imagine Mr. Irwine looking round on this scene, in hisample white surplice that became him so well, with his powdered hairthrown back, his rich brown complexion, and his finely cut nostril andupper lip; for there was a certain virtue in that benignant yet keencountenance as there is in all human faces from which a generous soulbeams out. And over all streamed the delicious June sunshine through theold windows, with their desultory patches of yellow, red, and blue, thatthrew pleasant touches of colour on the opposite wall.

  I think, as Mr. Irwine looked round to-day, his eyes rested an instantlonger than usual on the square pew occupied by Martin Poyser and hisfamily. And there was another pair of dark eyes that found it impossiblenot to wander thither, and rest on that round pink-and-white figure. ButHetty was at that moment quite careless of any glances--she was absorbedin the thought that Arthur Donnithorne would soon be coming into church,for the carriage must surely be at the church-gate by this time. Shehad never seen him since she parted with him in the wood on Thursdayevening, and oh, how long the time had seemed! Things had gone on justthe same as ever since that evening; the wonders that had happened thenhad brought no changes after them; they were already like a dream. Whenshe heard the church door swinging, her heart beat so, she dared notlook up. She felt that her aunt was curtsying; she curtsied herself.That must be old Mr. Donnithorne--he always came first, the wrinkledsmall old man, peering round with short-sighted glances at the bowingand curtsying congregation then she knew Miss Lydia was passing,and though Hetty liked so much to look at her fashionable littlecoal-scuttle bonnet, with the wreath of small roses round it, she didn'tmind it to-day. But there were no more curtsies--no, he was not come;she felt sure there was nothing else passing the pew door but thehouse-keeper's black bonnet and the lady's maid's beautiful straw hatthat had once been Miss Lydia's, and then the powdered heads of thebutler and footman. No, he was not there; yet she would look now--shemight be mistaken--for, after all, she had not looked. So she liftedup her eyelids and glanced timidly at the cushioned pew in thechancel--there was no one but old Mr. Donnithorne rubbing his spectacleswith his white handkerchief, and Miss Lydia opening the large gilt-edgedprayer-book. The chill disappointment was too hard to bear. She feltherself turning pale, her lips trembling; she was ready to cry. Oh, whatSHOULD she do? Everybody would know the reason they would know she wascrying because Arthur was not there. And Mr. Craig, with the wonderfulhothouse plant in his button-hole, was staring at her, she knew. It wasdreadfully long before the General Confession began, so that she couldkneel down. Two great drops WOULD fall then, but no one saw them exceptgood-natured Molly, for her aunt and uncle knelt with their backstowards her. Molly, unable to imagine any cause for tears in churchexcept faintness, of which she had a vague traditional knowledge, drewout of her pocket a queer little flat blue smelling-bottle, and aftermuch labour in pulling the cork out, thrust the narrow neck againstHetty's nostrils. "It donna smell," she whispered, thinking this was agreat advantage which old salts had over fresh ones: they did you goodwithout biting your nose. Hetty pushed it away peevishly; but thislittle flash of temper did what the salts could not have done--it rousedher to wipe away the traces of her tears, and try with all her mightnot to shed any more. Hetty had a certain strength in her vain littlenature: she would have borne anything rather than be laughed at, orpointed at with any other feeling than admiration she would havepressed her own nails into her tender flesh rather than people shouldknow a secret she did not want them to know.

  What fluctuations there were in her busy thoughts and feelings, whileMr. Irwine was pronouncing the solemn "Absolution" in her deaf ears, andthrough all the tones of petition that followed! Anger lay very close todisappointment, and soon won the victory over the conjectures hersmall ingenuity could devise to account for Arthur's absence on thesupposition that he really wanted to come, really wanted to see heragain. And by the time she rose from her knees mechanically, because allthe rest were rising, the colour had returned to her cheeks even witha heightened glow, for she was framing little indignant speeches toherself, saying she hated Arthur for giving her this pain--she wouldlike him to suffer too. Yet while this selfish tumult was going on inher soul, her eyes were bent down on her prayer-book, and the eyelidswith their dark fringe looked as lovely as ever. Adam Bede thought so,as he glanced at her for a moment on rising from his knees.

  But Adam's thoughts of Hetty did not deafen him to the service; theyrather blended with all the other deep feelings for which the churchservice was a channel to him this afternoon, as a certain consciousnessof our entire past and our imagined future blends itself with all ourmoments of keen sensibility. And to Adam the church service was thebest channel he could have found for his mingled regret, yearning, andresignation its interchange of beseeching cries for help with outburstsof faith and praise, its recurrent responses and the familiar rhythm ofits collects, seemed to speak for him as no other form of worship couldhave done; as, to those early Christians who had worshipped from theirchildhood upwards in catacombs, the torch-light and shadows must haveseemed nearer the Divine presence than the heathenish daylight of thestreets. The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, butin its subtle relations to our own past: no wonder the secret escapesthe unsympathizing observer, who might as well put on his spectacles todiscern odours.

  But there was one reason why even a chance comer would have found theservice in Hayslope Church more impressive than in most other villagenooks in the kingdom--a reason of which I am sure you have not theslightest suspicion. It was the reading of our friend Joshua Rann. Wherethat good shoemaker got his notion of reading from remained a mysteryeven to his most intimate acquaintances. I believe, after all, he got itchiefly from Nature, who had poured some of her music into this honestconceited soul, as she had been known to do into other narrow soulsbefore his. She had given him, at least, a fine bass voice and a musicalear; but I cannot positively say whether these alone had sufficed toinspire him with the rich chant in which he delivered the responses.The way he rolled from a rich deep forte into a melancholy cadence,subsiding, at the end of the last word, into a sort of faint resonance,like the lingering vibrations of a fine violoncello, I can compare tonothing for its strong calm melancholy but the rush and cadence of thewind among the autumn boughs. This may seem a strange mode of speakingabout the reading of a parish clerk--a man in rusty spectacles, withstubbly hair, a large occiput, and a prominent crown. But that isNature's way: she will allow a gentleman of splendid physiognomy andpoetic aspirations to sing woefully out of tune, and not give him theslightest hint of it; and takes care that some narrow-browed fellow,trolling a ballad in the corner of a pot-house, shall be as true to hisintervals as a bird.

  Joshua himself was less proud of his reading than of his singing, and itwas always with a sense of heightened importance that he passed from thedesk to the choir. Still more to-day: it was a special occasion, for anold man, familiar to all the parish, had died a sad death--not in hisbed, a circumstance the most painful to the mind of the peasant--andnow the funeral psalm was to be sung
in memory of his sudden departure.Moreover, Bartle Massey was not at church, and Joshua's importance inthe choir suffered no eclipse. It was a solemn minor strain they sang.The old psalm-tunes have many a wail among them, and the words--

  Thou sweep'st us off as with a flood; We vanish hence like dreams--

  seemed to have a closer application than usual in the death of poorThias. The mother and sons listened, each with peculiar feelings.Lisbeth had a vague belief that the psalm was doing her husband good; itwas part of that decent burial which she would have thought it a greaterwrong to withhold from him than to have caused him many unhappy dayswhile he was living. The more there was said about her husband, themore there was done for him, surely the safer he would be. It was poorLisbeth's blind way of feeling that human love and pity are a ground offaith in some other love. Seth, who was easily touched, shed tears, andtried to recall, as he had done continually since his father's death,all that he had heard of the possibility that a single moment ofconsciousness at the last might be a moment of pardon and reconcilement;for was it not written in the very psalm they were singing that theDivine dealings were not measured and circumscribed by time? Adam hadnever been unable to join in a psalm before. He had known plenty oftrouble and vexation since he had been a lad, but this was the firstsorrow that had hemmed in his voice, and strangely enough it was sorrowbecause the chief source of his past trouble and vexation was for evergone out of his reach. He had not been able to press his father'shand before their parting, and say, "Father, you know it was all rightbetween us; I never forgot what I owed you when I was a lad; you forgiveme if I have been too hot and hasty now and then!" Adam thought butlittle to-day of the hard work and the earnings he had spent on hisfather: his thoughts ran constantly on what the old man's feelings hadbeen in moments of humiliation, when he had held down his head beforethe rebukes of his son. When our indignation is borne in submissivesilence, we are apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our owngenerosity, if not justice; how much more when the object of our angerhas gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for thelast time in the meekness of death!

  "Ah! I was always too hard," Adam said to himself. "It's a sore fault inme as I'm so hot and out o' patience with people when they do wrong, andmy heart gets shut up against 'em, so as I can't bring myself to forgive'em. I see clear enough there's more pride nor love in my soul, for Icould sooner make a thousand strokes with th' hammer for my father thanbring myself to say a kind word to him. And there went plenty o' prideand temper to the strokes, as the devil WILL be having his finger inwhat we call our duties as well as our sins. Mayhap the best thing Iever did in my life was only doing what was easiest for myself. It'sallays been easier for me to work nor to sit still, but the real toughjob for me 'ud be to master my own will and temper and go right againstmy own pride. It seems to me now, if I was to find Father at hometo-night, I should behave different; but there's no knowing--perhapsnothing 'ud be a lesson to us if it didn't come too late. It's well weshould feel as life's a reckoning we can't make twice over; there'sno real making amends in this world, any more nor you can mend a wrongsubtraction by doing your addition right."

  This was the key-note to which Adam's thoughts had perpetually returnedsince his father's death, and the solemn wail of the funeral psalmwas only an influence that brought back the old thoughts with strongeremphasis. So was the sermon, which Mr. Irwine had chosen with referenceto Thias's funeral. It spoke briefly and simply of the words, "In themidst of life we are in death"--how the present moment is all we cancall our own for works of mercy, of righteous dealing, and of familytenderness. All very old truths--but what we thought the oldest truthbecomes the most startling to us in the week when we have looked on thedead face of one who has made a part of our own lives. For when men wantto impress us with the effect of a new and wonderfully vivid light, dothey not let it fall on the most familiar objects, that we may measureits intensity by remembering the former dimness?

  Then came the moment of the final blessing, when the forever sublimewords, "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding," seemed toblend with the calm afternoon sunshine that fell on the bowed heads ofthe congregation and then the quiet rising, the mothers tying on thebonnets of the little maidens who had slept through the sermon, thefathers collecting the prayer-books, until all streamed out through theold archway into the green churchyard and began their neighbourly talk,their simple civilities, and their invitations to tea; for on a Sundayevery one was ready to receive a guest--it was the day when all must bein their best clothes and their best humour.

  Mr. and Mrs. Poyser paused a minute at the church gate: they werewaiting for Adam to come up, not being contented to go away withoutsaying a kind word to the widow and her sons.

  "Well, Mrs. Bede," said Mrs. Poyser, as they walked on together, "youmust keep up your heart; husbands and wives must be content when they'velived to rear their children and see one another's hair grey."

  "Aye, aye," said Mr. Poyser; "they wonna have long to wait for oneanother then, anyhow. And ye've got two o' the strapping'st sons i'th' country; and well you may, for I remember poor Thias as fine abroad-shouldered fellow as need to be; and as for you, Mrs. Bede, whyyou're straighter i' the back nor half the young women now."

  "Eh," said Lisbeth, "it's poor luck for the platter to wear well whenit's broke i' two. The sooner I'm laid under the thorn the better. I'mno good to nobody now."

  Adam never took notice of his mother's little unjust plaints; but Sethsaid, "Nay, Mother, thee mustna say so. Thy sons 'ull never get anothermother."

  "That's true, lad, that's true," said Mr. Poyser; "and it's wrong on usto give way to grief, Mrs. Bede; for it's like the children cryin' whenthe fathers and mothers take things from 'em. There's One above knowsbetter nor us."

  "Ah," said Mrs. Poyser, "an' it's poor work allays settin' the deadabove the livin'. We shall all on us be dead some time, I reckon--it 'udbe better if folks 'ud make much on us beforehand, i'stid o' beginnin'when we're gone. It's but little good you'll do a-watering the lastyear's crop."

  "Well, Adam," said Mr. Poyser, feeling that his wife's words were,as usual, rather incisive than soothing, and that it would be well tochange the subject, "you'll come and see us again now, I hope. I hannahad a talk with you this long while, and the missis here wants you tosee what can be done with her best spinning-wheel, for it's got broke,and it'll be a nice job to mend it--there'll want a bit o' turning.You'll come as soon as you can now, will you?"

  Mr. Poyser paused and looked round while he was speaking, as if to seewhere Hetty was; for the children were running on before. Hetty was notwithout a companion, and she had, besides, more pink and white abouther than ever, for she held in her hand the wonderful pink-and-whitehot-house plant, with a very long name--a Scotch name, she supposed,since people said Mr. Craig the gardener was Scotch. Adam took theopportunity of looking round too; and I am sure you will not require ofhim that he should feel any vexation in observing a pouting expressionon Hetty's face as she listened to the gardener's small talk. Yet in hersecret heart she was glad to have him by her side, for she would perhapslearn from him how it was Arthur had not come to church. Not that shecared to ask him the question, but she hoped the information would begiven spontaneously; for Mr. Craig, like a superior man, was very fondof giving information.

  Mr. Craig was never aware that his conversation and advances werereceived coldly, for to shift one's point of view beyond certain limitsis impossible to the most liberal and expansive mind; we are none ofus aware of the impression we produce on Brazilian monkeys of feebleunderstanding--it is possible they see hardly anything in us. Moreover,Mr. Craig was a man of sober passions, and was already in his tenthyear of hesitation as to the relative advantages of matrimony andbachelorhood. It is true that, now and then, when he had been a littleheated by an extra glass of grog, he had been heard to say of Hettythat the "lass was well enough," and that "a man might do worse"; but onconvivial occasions men are apt to express themselv
es strongly.

  Martin Poyser held Mr. Craig in honour, as a man who "knew his business"and who had great lights concerning soils and compost; but he wasless of a favourite with Mrs. Poyser, who had more than once said inconfidence to her husband, "You're mighty fond o' Craig, but for mypart, I think he's welly like a cock as thinks the sun's rose o' purposeto hear him crow." For the rest, Mr. Craig was an estimable gardener,and was not without reasons for having a high opinion of himself. Hehad also high shoulders and high cheek-bones and hung his head forwarda little, as he walked along with his hands in his breeches pockets. Ithink it was his pedigree only that had the advantage of being Scotch,and not his "bringing up"; for except that he had a stronger burr inhis accent, his speech differed little from that of the Loamshire peopleabout him. But a gardener is Scotch, as a French teacher is Parisian.

  "Well, Mr. Poyser," he said, before the good slow farmer had time tospeak, "ye'll not be carrying your hay to-morrow, I'm thinking. Theglass sticks at 'change,' and ye may rely upo' my word as we'll ha' moredownfall afore twenty-four hours is past. Ye see that darkish-blue cloudthere upo' the 'rizon--ye know what I mean by the 'rizon, where the landand sky seems to meet?"

  "Aye, aye, I see the cloud," said Mr. Poyser, "'rizon or no 'rizon. It'sright o'er Mike Holdsworth's fallow, and a foul fallow it is."

  "Well, you mark my words, as that cloud 'ull spread o'er the sky prettynigh as quick as you'd spread a tarpaulin over one o' your hay-ricks.It's a great thing to ha' studied the look o' the clouds. Lord blessyou! Th' met'orological almanecks can learn me nothing, but there's apretty sight o' things I could let THEM up to, if they'd just cometo me. And how are you, Mrs. Poyser?--thinking o' getherin' the redcurrants soon, I reckon. You'd a deal better gether 'em afore they'reo'erripe, wi' such weather as we've got to look forward to. How do yedo, Mistress Bede?" Mr. Craig continued, without a pause, nodding by theway to Adam and Seth. "I hope y' enjoyed them spinach and gooseberriesas I sent Chester with th' other day. If ye want vegetables while ye'rein trouble, ye know where to come to. It's well known I'm not givingother folks' things away, for when I've supplied the house, the garden'smy own spekilation, and it isna every man th' old squire could getas 'ud be equil to the undertaking, let alone asking whether he'd bewilling I've got to run my calkilation fine, I can tell you, to makesure o' getting back the money as I pay the squire. I should like to seesome o' them fellows as make the almanecks looking as far before theirnoses as I've got to do every year as comes."

  "They look pretty fur, though," said Mr. Poyser, turning his head on oneside and speaking in rather a subdued reverential tone. "Why, what couldcome truer nor that pictur o' the cock wi' the big spurs, as has got itshead knocked down wi' th' anchor, an' th' firin', an' the ships behind?Why, that pictur was made afore Christmas, and yit it's come as trueas th' Bible. Why, th' cock's France, an' th' anchor's Nelson--an' theytold us that beforehand."

  "Pee--ee-eh!" said Mr. Craig. "A man doesna want to see fur to know asth' English 'ull beat the French. Why, I know upo' good authority asit's a big Frenchman as reaches five foot high, an' they live upo'spoon-meat mostly. I knew a man as his father had a particular knowledgeo' the French. I should like to know what them grasshoppers are todo against such fine fellows as our young Captain Arthur. Why, it'ud astonish a Frenchman only to look at him; his arm's thicker nor aFrenchman's body, I'll be bound, for they pinch theirsells in wi' stays;and it's easy enough, for they've got nothing i' their insides."

  "Where IS the captain, as he wasna at church to-day?" said Adam. "I wastalking to him o' Friday, and he said nothing about his going away."

  "Oh, he's only gone to Eagledale for a bit o' fishing; I reckon he'll beback again afore many days are o'er, for he's to be at all th' arrangingand preparing o' things for the comin' o' age o' the 30th o' July.But he's fond o' getting away for a bit, now and then. Him and th' oldsquire fit one another like frost and flowers."

  Mr. Craig smiled and winked slowly as he made this last observation,but the subject was not developed farther, for now they had reached theturning in the road where Adam and his companions must say "good-bye."The gardener, too, would have had to turn off in the same direction ifhe had not accepted Mr. Poyser's invitation to tea. Mrs. Poyser dulyseconded the invitation, for she would have held it a deep disgrace notto make her neighbours welcome to her house: personal likes and dislikesmust not interfere with that sacred custom. Moreover, Mr. Craig hadalways been full of civilities to the family at the Hall Farm, and Mrs.Poyser was scrupulous in declaring that she had "nothing to say again'him, on'y it was a pity he couldna be hatched o'er again, an' hatcheddifferent."

  So Adam and Seth, with their mother between them, wound their way downto the valley and up again to the old house, where a saddened memory hadtaken the place of a long, long anxiety--where Adam would never have toask again as he entered, "Where's Father?"

  And the other family party, with Mr. Craig for company, went back tothe pleasant bright house-place at the Hall Farm--all with quiet minds,except Hetty, who knew now where Arthur was gone, but was only themore puzzled and uneasy. For it appeared that his absence was quitevoluntary; he need not have gone--he would not have gone if he hadwanted to see her. She had a sickening sense that no lot could everbe pleasant to her again if her Thursday night's vision was not to befulfilled; and in this moment of chill, bare, wintry disappointment anddoubt, she looked towards the possibility of being with Arthur again,of meeting his loving glance, and hearing his soft words with that eageryearning which one may call the "growing pain" of passion.